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He’s walking through a cemetery, or rather, floating--but not in the literal sense. His body is absolutely weightless as his feet carry him along the shabby ruins on their own accord. As if through a hazy fog, he looks down to realize he is barefoot and his feet are moving; but he can’t seem to process this information. They’re heading towards a destination unbeknownst to him. He has no other choice but to follow.
Averting his attention away from the feet he can’t control and the ground he can’t feel, he assesses his surroundings: a tombstone here, a tombstone there, and, oh look! another tombstone. They are all blank--no names, no endearing words of departure. Even if there were inscriptions, he’s sure they’d be utterly illegible in this thick fog coating his vision. He’s still “floating”, passing the headstones at a snail’s pace, but no longer paying them mind. There’s no thrill in staring at concrete slabs. Death is boring when it isn't given a name.
He’s only just noticed the lack of decorum. Atop these graves, there are no elaborate centerpieces to mask the decay below. The occasional rose that he passes appears wilted as if it has cried its last tear for the bodies that are not here. Surely, if he touched one, it’d turn to dust.
He begins to pass rows of empty graves. The dirt is dug and the tombstones remain nameless but in place; however, no coffins claim the holes that have been painstakingly vacated. His feet lead him forward still….
He looks down, yet again, to make sure he’s at least dressed for the occasion; of what said occasion may be, he is uncertain. Logically, a funeral. His mind is too congested to deduce whom’s it could be. His feet remain bare, but he wears a white collared shirt and black slacks. Appropriate enough.
He reaches a hand to his hair and pats the usually fluffy locks. Now, however, they lay matted to his forehead in a similar fashion as being soaked from a downpour, yet he is dry as a bone. He can’t help but feel like an absolute nutter, and he must look like an abandoned orphan with his flattened hair and missing shoes, all while wearing his Sunday best.
Well off in the distance, there’s a very small funeral procession happening. Three figures stand as clear as day amidst the fog, all blissfully unaware of his existence (though how blissful can you be at a funeral?). A steady amount of rain pours over these huddled people--whom he now vaguely recognizes as two men and a younger boy--but all else remains bleak and dry outside of the confines of their gathering. The one he assumes to be the priest steadies his umbrella as he attempts to read scriptures that will go unheard to the lone boy roaming the grounds. With their heads bowed in solemn grief, the eldest of the only two guests keeps a firm grip on his younger companion’s shoulder.
He doesn’t call out to them, isn’t even sure if he can. What good can they do him, anyway? His feet have a predestined goal, so there’s no point in interrupting their grievances.
He faces forward once more and there’s an ominous pull at his gut. Up ahead, he sees a tombstone. Nothing unusual there considering he’s walking down a row of them with the empty graves facing him on either side. But therein lies the anomaly.
This particular grave is blocking his path down the aisle, demanding to be seen. The ones running parallel to one another end where the foreboding one begins, and as his feet draw him nearer, he can see that this one has inscriptions. There is no fog clouding the slab--an almost yellow light illuminates it, but he is still too far away to decipher its words. His eyes never leave the concrete that have decided some unfortunate soul’s fate. His neck is stuck stiff and body tense.
His feet bring him to a stop. At the foot of the grave, he stands and stares in bafflement at the writing before him. He shakes his head to clear his mind of the fog that has undoubtedly seeped into his ears from the outside...but the name is still all too clear.
James Paul McCartney.
The name lies tauntingly against the cold slab and looks foreign, as if written in another language. The blood that he thought for sure was in his body has run cold, and only now does he realize he’s not breathing. No steady inflation of his lungs; no familiar sting of cold air passing through his nose.
Dead.
The evidence is too strikingly factual for the excuse of a coincidence. Yes, that is his date of birth (he remembers just turning sixteen). However, there is no date of death; the stone itself is as uncertain about his death as he is.
The epitaph transcribed for him openly mocks him with its elegant font and bittersweet farewell. He’d scoff if he had the breath to do so. Gone too soon but forever with us. What a laugh! I’m right here, he wants to scream. Right fuckin’ here! I’m not fuckin’ dead!
Daringly, he casts his eyes downward to the abyss at the tips of his toes. Out of spite, he wiggles them, just for some semblance of control--to prove that headstone wrong. Beyond his toes, at his inevitable place of rest, there is nothingness. Where he should see dirt at the six-foot mark, there is utter darkness. He is a penny about to fall into a never-ending well.
For fear of suffering from a bout of spontaneous vertigo, he wrenches his eyes away from the looming depth. He clenches his eyes shut and wants so desperately to hyperventilate, just to focus on something besides the cannonball in his stomach. Alas, he cannot breathe.
Remembering the mourning folks in the distance, he snaps his head around to seek them out. Now they stand with a casket between them, black and polished to perfection. The casket is closed, but for all he knows, it could be as empty as the graves around him.
He no longer thinks twice before opening his mouth to shout at the ignorant bystanders. The thing more infuriating than their lack of awareness, is his lack of speech. He screams the words at the top of his lungs, can feel the clench of his diaphragm with the effort--but the words get stuck in his throat and die on his lips. With his luck, they probably wouldn’t even come out in English. He wishes the words would just choke him and put an end to the insanity itching at his nerves. It would certainly speed this whole “dying” process up.
“Paul.”
His silent struggle comes to a halt. That’s the first sound he’s heard since he appeared here out of thin air. More importantly, it’s his name. Someone here knows him…
“Paul.”
There it is again! It’s coming from behind him, and it’s eerily close. Breathing down his back, invading his personal space.
“Paul."
More insistent this time; not so much like a whisper as before. Wait…. He knows that voice. Hell, he loves that voice--and why the fuck hasn’t he acknowledged it yet?
He spins on his heels, momentarily glad he at least has some control over that again. But all thoughts soon fade away, because there he is. That familiar face in all its teddy-boy glory.
Of course, John wouldn’t dress up for his own best mate’s funeral, he thinks fleetingly. Even though he’s not even sure if that’s what this is himself.
“Paul."
He says his name insistently again, even though Paul is standing right there, looking at him. They’re locked in that eye contact that is usually so comforting for Paul, but is uncharacteristically spine-chilling now. Because John isn’t looking at him, connecting with him like he does--he’s looking through him. His eyes are seeing past Paul like he’s made of glass, and Paul has never doubted his own existence more.
Just minutes ago (if time is even a concept in this parallel universe), Paul wanted desperately to cling to John like he was a lifeline, just to feel something--something to assure him this is all a bad dream. Now, however, his arms just hang uselessly at his sides, as broken as the rest of him.
Suddenly, there is a weight on his shoulder. God, a crushing weight! It’s like a ton of bricks dropped onto his left shoulder, bearing him with an impossible load. He belatedly registers that it’s John’s hand, firm and strong--and bloody hell, when did he get so strong?! He curls his toes at the pressure, trying to stay planted and digging into the dirt that he knows is still beneath him, but he still can’t feel. He’s afraid John might start pressing him into the ground.
“Paul!” Louder, now. And more forceful.
“What! ” Paul wants to scream back. “I’m right fuckin’ here, you prick! ”
“ Paul! ”
Fuckin’ hell, ye got one more fuckin’ time, Lennon.
Another weight hits his other shoulder, and he wishes John would just do something already. The calls of his name are getting more ear-piercing and pleading. He honestly thinks he’ll go mad and just take the plunge into the abyss at his own will.
“PAUL!”
For half a second, their eyes lock before the bricks on his shoulders are lifted and he’s falling.
Down. Down. Down. The darkness he fears blankets around him. His eyes are open, but he can’t see.
Down. Down. Down. He’s almost at the bottom--it’s one of those things he can just sense.
Almost there and--
Paul jolts awake. He’s covered in a thin film of sweat--a concoction from the dreadful nightmare and July heat--and hits his head on something solid when jerking out of his free-falling experience.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, ye nutter!” It’s a familiar voice, but not one he wanted to hear so soon after a nightmare like that.
Still stuck in his wide-eyed expression from his rather violent rousing, Paul stares blankly at his noisy intruder. John sits straddling Paul’s thighs and clutching at his throbbing forehead. Paul sighs and flops back down on his pillow, ignoring the dull ache in his own head to run a shaky hand through his sweaty hair.
“Wh-what a way to treat a fuckin’ guest, eh?” John says, shaking his head to jar his brain back into position.
“Yeah, well, guests are usually wanted...and invited.”
“Well, ye make it all too temptin’ when ye leave yer bloody window open, mate. Ye gotta be more careful, son--there’s bloody loonies out there,” John says, getting off of Paul to emphasize his point by shutting said window he himself so mindlessly left open after the climb into the younger lad’s room. Truth be told, John had been too taken aback by the frantic thrashing of his sleeping mate to bother closing the window that was already open before he’d even stumbled his way in.
“I think one already got in,” Paul mumbles under his breath, throwing his forearm over his eyes.
If he had closed his window before falling asleep last night, he wouldn’t be pestered by a babbling Lennon. But no, he just had to feel that cool summer breeze. He scoffed bitterly. On the other hand, he can’t entirely blame his friend. He did pull him out of that literal hell hole, after all.
Right before pushing me into it, the bastard. Okay, so he’s mainly pissed at Dream John.
He uncovers his eyes to look at John, who’s standing with his forehead pressed against the now closed window, his quiff pressing flat against his head from the pressure of the glass. Sitting up against the headboard, Paul assumes he won’t have the privilege of going back to sleep anytime soon (not that he’s eager to return to the graveyard). The blankets pool around his lap as he looks over at his bedside clock: three a.m.
Great timing, Lennon.
“What’re you doin’ ‘ere, John?” he asks. There’s a silence for longer than necessary before Paul hears a faint sniffle and sees John roughly run a hand over his face, turning away from the window.
He takes a deep breath and attempts to sound casual, “Oh, I’s jus’ out swimmin’ the ole pool. Liddypool, that is.” He giggles childishly at his own response like it’s the funniest joke he’s come up with to date.
Paul shakes his head and suppresses a grin threatening to crack his stony features. “Ye’ve been drinkin’, ain’t ye, Johnny?”
Bypassing his friend’s question, John continues snickering to himself and leans against the wall for support--but it was more of a rhetorical question, anyway. Paul has seen John drunk enough times to know he’s well past tipsy now.
“She’s gone, Paulie,” John snorts out through bouts of giggles Paul is now immune to, unlike moments before when he almost caved.
“Mhm, sure she is, mate,” Paul comments, paying more attention to the hangnail on his finger than the cackling maniac in the corner. He never paid much mind to John when he spoke out of his head like this, finding it much easier to agree rather than try to understand.
There’s a dull thump against the wall when John hits it from throwing his head back with a laugh.
The bloke’s gonna leave here with a concussion if he keeps it up, Paul thinks.
“No, no--ha ha--she-she’s really gone!” he gasps, clutching his stomach with tears threatening to spill over. Paul thanks his lucky stars for the fact that neither Jim nor Mike are home for this none-too-rare form of Late Night Lennon.
“Oh yeah, sure is. Gone with the wind, Johnny.” He’s not sure whom “she” is, or where, exactly, she went. For all he knows, it’s just another fictional character in Lennonland, or some bird who wouldn’t have it off with him at the pub.
“Oi!” Paul jerks his head up at the sudden forcefulness of John’s tone, taking the hangnail he had been gnawing at with it. “Ye don’t get it, do ye?! She’s gone, alright? Dead. Deceased. Fucked off.”
Everything goes still after that. Paul is sure time stopped just from fear of this suddenly disgruntled teenager’s voice, but he can still hear the hands of the clock ticking...that and John’s choppy breathing. In this moment, he finally understands why people fear silence. It makes his head stuffy, like he’s submerged in the deepest depths of the ocean where the ringing in his ears is the only thing keeping him sane. It’s a brutal silence.
John glares at him, throwing the sharpest daggers in his arsenal. Jaws clenched, lips tight, and eyes narrowed. He looks ready for a fight, like the that’s the only reason he crawled into this room at three in the morning.
Never the fighter, Paul supposes now would be a good time to stop looking like a deer in headlights and offers a lighthearted chuckle.
“John, love, yer drunk.”
John scoffs and pushes himself from the wall, suddenly too sober for his liking.
“Yeah, an’ yer an arsehole. We can sit ‘ere an’ spill facts all night, won’t change nothin’.” He hopes the words have some kind of sting to them--just so someone else can feel his pain--but his confidence isn’t necessarily at its peak. Before finding his footing, he sways slightly on his feet then grabs something leaning below the window.
Paul frowns but decides to ignore John’s insult, following him with his eyes instead. He watches him bend down to pick up a stringed instrument Paul has just now noticed, assuming it’s John’s guitar. When John holds it up, and the dim glow from a street lamp hits it, he can see that it’s not a guitar...but a banjo?
When have we ever played the banjo together?
Curiously, he observes as John sits at the foot of his bed, cradling the instrument in his lap. He feels like a spectator at a zoo, staring in something akin to wonder as the tiger behaves out of character. But that’s exactly what this is--John acting so peculiar that he can’t help but patiently wait for his next move.
Stiff as a board, John sits with his feet firmly planted on the floor, like he could bolt at any minute. Paul hopes he doesn’t.
He can only stare at the side of John’s face that he can see from this angle, scrutinizing his stiff features and slumped shoulders. Suddenly, Paul feels out of place; the room is only big enough for John and his banjo. No matter that it’s his home--he should just scurry back through the window like the intruder he is.
John plucks a string, killing the silence swallowing them whole. It’s harsh and out of tune from years of neglect--hissing at John because it was much better off being left in the corner of his room to gather dust rather than producing a sound so shrill it puts crying babies to shame. John folded those banjo-playing cards when he laid his hands on his first guitar. The chords sure did come in handy, though.
Harder this time, he plucks the same string, taking small pleasure in the way it vibrates against the head of the instrument. In his peripheral, he sees Paul wince at the sharp sound. But he can’t hear it himself. His ears are stuffy and full of water. His whole body is full of water--a dam about to burst.
With a third and final pluck, the string snaps, whipping a red streak across his palm. He welcomes the pain gratefully; it fuels him. He grips the neck of the instrument tighter, knuckles as white as the fury within him.
One down, four to go, he thinks bitterly.
The breaking of the metal startles Paul even though he should have seen it coming with the forcefulness of John’s plucking. However, he doesn’t fail to notice the death grip his friend has on the poor instrument’s neck. If it were a person, they’d be taking their last breaths right now. It seems that’s also what the banjo is doing….
“‘Ey, careful there, Johnny,” he says, subtly scooting closer. He carries caution in his tone, not wanting John to snap him in the same way he has the string. He’d probably make the same sound, too.
John ignores the advice and moves on to his next victim--the D string. With every deliberate pluck, his thoughts run wild.
Fuckin’ gone. Pluck. Fuck you, Paul. Pluck. Fuck you for not knowin’. Pluck. Came here cause I thought ye’d know. Pluck. Thought ye’d understand.
Snap!
Next victim.
“Hey, Johnny, ye alright mate? That’s two strings, not gonna ‘ave nothin’ to strum soon,” Paul says with a nervous chuckle.
John doesn’t laugh--doesn’t even blink. Just keeps his head bowed over the instrument like it’s telling him a secret, and Paul can’t stand it. There’s a tangible distance between them that trembles like the strings beneath John’s fingers. He wishes it’d snap, as well. Paul shifts closer yet, a touch away.
Pluck. Ran straight here. Pluck. Wanted to see you so bad. Pluck. Nobody else. Pluck. Want you to help me. Pluck. Need you to fuckin’ help me!
Snap!
Next vic--there’s a hand over his. Momentarily bemused, he blinks and stares at it before realizing its intent.
“Move,” he says, low and warningly. It’s a tone he doesn’t think he’s ever used before. But today is just full of surprises, isn’t it?
“No.” To reinstate his own ground, Paul clasps John’s hand that much tighter.
“Paul. Move.”
John needs this. He wants to see the destruction he can cause with his own two hands. It gives him control. It helps. At least it feels like it’s helping. God knows no one else is. He fucking needs this, and Paul is just being an interfering prick.
“Why?” Paul presses. He’s thrown caution to the wind in favor of the irritation creeping up his spine.
“Because I fuckin’ said so, tha’s why.”
“No, John. ‘M not gonna sit here an’ let ye break yer bloody banjo.”
Throughout Paul’s scolding, John’s blood boils, and his lungs pound against his ribcage to accommodate for the rapid intakes of breath. His heart sags in his chest to the point that it’ll burst from the weight of emotions it carries. He craves the release that would bring.
“Fucking hell, Paul!” Snatching the banjo, John’s up on his feet in a flash.
Here comes the bolting, Paul thinks.
He gapes stupidly as John rears the instrument over his head and brings it down to the hard floor with a powerful swing. BAM! The resonating clash of wood on wood startles Paul out of his momentary coma. He snaps to his feet to intervene with the mayhem happening in the middle of his bedroom.
John gets one more good hit in on the helpless instrument in his hands before Paul is there, hindering the healing process yet again. He grabs for the lower neck when, unheeded, John rears back for another hit. John’s face is beat red, and his fringe flops loosely across his forehead, finally free from the prison of grease restraining it.
“Oi, stop it! What the bleedin’ fuck’s wrong with you?!” Paul shouts.
He tugs at the now battered instrument weeping in John’s grasp. The boy himself is a statue, standing stiff with his arms behind his head, ready to strike again at any minute. If it weren’t for the heaving of his chest from his labored breathing, Paul would be convinced he actually is a statue.
Finally, the dam breaks. Tears trickle down John’s face and drop to their death on the floor at his feet. He thinks he can hear their cries before the splatter. How ironic. With a frustrated growl, he pushes the banjo away and into Paul’s hands--disgusted to the core by its touch, when moments before it harnessed all of his attention. Shielding his face from the judgement of the outside world with his hands, he collapses into a heap in the middle of the floor.
Paul--his bafflement seemingly endless tonight--abandons the object he fought so hard for by dropping it at his side and crouches next to his friend. Broken sobs echo in the quiet room, piling on top of all the other heartbreaking sounds of the night.
“Talk to me, love. Please. What’s wrong?” Paul says, laying a tentative hand on his mate’s hunched form. A choked sob fights its way past John’s lips at the tenderness of Paul’s voice.
“It’s Julia. She--she’s dead . She’s dead, an’ I haf’ta fuckin’ spell it out for you.” His words are muffled and choked from the hands blocking his face and the tears clogging his throat. But Paul hears them loud and clear, as if they were shouted down his ear. Nonetheless, it takes his cluttered brain a few seconds to process the information.
Chronologically, he recounts the evening’s happenings: Trippy dream. Intrusive John. Drunk Intrusive John (red flag). Maniacally Laughing John. Angry John (brighter red flag). Aggressive Banjo-strumming John (bright red flag with flashing lights). Furious Banjo- bashing John (bright red flag the size of Russia flown by an airplane with flashing lights...that also happens to be on fire).
It’s all too fucked up to be true.
But suddenly, the burning plane comes crashing down and explodes in the sea of all the other red flags, because everything makes sense now. A part of him wishes it didn’t make sense. It certainly didn’t make sense when it happened to him two years ago. How can someone be here one second and gone the next, anyway? What kind of sense does that make?
The innocence of his own questions was enough to infuriate him. The death of his own mother left him confused--among a plethora of other emotions--and questioning everything except his own existence. No, no matter how dead he was inside, he was the epitome of life. Basic bodily functions wouldn’t even let him forget that.
More agonized mumbles pull him from his daze. “Christ, she’s gone, Paul, and I don’t know what to do,” John says, begging to be comforted but still too prideful to ask for it.
“John, I...I had no idea, love. Fuck, Johnny, I’m so sorry,” he offers uselessly. He feels like an utter twat for not seeing the signs sooner. An utter blind twat. Guilt rides ceaselessly on his shoulders.
The heart-wrenching sobs turn to soft sniffles and silently flowing tears as John gains enough composure to crawl to the lap of his knelt friend; he lays his head on the thighs that were just too inviting. Pressing his face into Paul’s firm, t-shirt-clad stomach, he clings to the dark fabric that is now his personal tissue. Paul’s comforting scent is almost enough to make him cry harder.
In this slightly awkward position, the younger boy can only bury a hand in John’s hair and wrap another around his shoulders. Running fingers through his disheveled locks and rubbing circles on his back, Paul hangs his head over John’s vulnerable form. He’s more than happy to show his hardcore band leader some affection, though he wishes the circumstances were different.
Any other day, John would cut someone’s hand off for touching his perfected do. Now, however, he holds in his lap the broken shell of a young boy who lost his mother twice. The older boy’s agony has sliced open an old wound, and a few empathetic tears seep through Paul’s closed eyes, landing on the boy himself.
John looks up at the feel of the foreign liquid hitting his temple. With hazy vision, he catches Paul’s eye before screwing his face up with newfound emotion and nuzzling back into Paul’s warmth. Maybe it’s the understanding he knows is there that gets to him when he sees Paul’s tears, but the sight of Paul crying does something to John.
With his bloodshot eyes and mussed up hair, John looks as broken as the instrument lying in the corner. Paul doesn’t doubt he certainly feels more broken. No matter how much John tried to rip that banjo to shreds, it wouldn’t repair the irreplaceable: broken childhood, broken innocence, broken heart.
Tossing his head back with a sharp inhale, Paul wills away the pain. Maybe if he breathes deep enough, he can suck up some of John’s pain, too. Brushing the hair from John’s forehead, Paul notices his sniffles have stopped.
“Johnny,” he whispers, knowing that his voice will crack should he try any louder, “l-let’s get some rest, yeah?” His legs have started to ache, but he daren’t say so. It’s a small price to pay, honestly.
“Don’t think I can sleep,” John says, tilting his head just enough for his words to be less muffled.
“Well, we could at least get a little more comfy, eh?”
John nods and briefly tightens his grip around Paul’s waist before relenting completely. He staggers to his feet then helps Paul do the same.
Ignoring the scattered strings that litter the floor, Paul shuffles to his bed and holds the blankets up for John, gesturing for him to get in first. John sheds his leather jacket and boots, dropping the jacket on the floor by the bed with the boots carelessly following after. While silently removing his trousers, he is thankful that Paul is not nagging him about his slovenliness like he would any other time.
He climbs in the small twin-sized bed without comment and faces the wall. Paul clambers in after him, pulling the covers over both of them. He faces John, but only stares at the back of his head. Paul knows he’s not sleeping--he told Paul he couldn’t do so himself.
John feels hollow. Hollow but heavy; like someone scooped out all of his innards with the rustiest spoon available and filled him with concrete. That’s how shitty he feels.
He can also feel Paul burning holes in the back of his skull. With a sigh, he decides to turn over and put both of their minds at rest. Well, as much as he can.
When Paul’s eyes immediately lock with his, there’s a crack in the concrete within his gut. Those doe eyes are doleful--probably reliving suppressed memories never meant to resurface.
John places a hand on Paul’s cheek, and Paul shuffles closer. John craves the contact and proximity; it lets him know Paul is here, he’s alive--not an illusion that will wisp away. He finds the nerve to speak.
“Do you miss her?” His voice is barely above a whisper and as cracked as the concrete within him. His thumb maps out the smooth skin of Paul’s cheek. He’s never touched Paul like this, never found an appropriate reason to do so. Maybe he never actually needed one….
“All the time,” comes his reply, equally as hushed. But the answer is instantaneous, like he’s been waiting for that question since the tragic loss.
Paul places a hand on John’s waist and closes the gap between them some more. He hopes it’s okay; he doesn’t know where boundaries lie right now. But the hand on his cheek must be blocking some of the oxygen flowing to his brain.
“I don’t know how to move on, Paul,” he takes a shuddery breath. “I…I feel fuckin’ sick, and I don’t know what to do with meself.” He moves his hand to play with the neck of Paul’s t-shirt. “I must be a bleedin’ jinx or somethin’. Ev’ryone dyin’ off when they get too close. John the Jinx, eh?”
As he listens to his words, Paul runs his fingers through John’s hair with a small frown.
“Hey, no, Johnny. Don’t say that. None of this is yer fault, okay? None of it. We never want these things to happen, but we have to accept it when they do. And it’s not fair, I know that. But I’m gonna help ye, ye know? I-I’ll do whatever I can for ye.”
Nodding, John places his forehead against Paul’s. They share the same air for that moment…the same pain.
It’s quiet while they breathe each other in, until John decides to add, “I wish I hadn’t broken me banjo.”
It’s such an innocent confession that Paul’s heart swells with affection. It’s like the kid who’s devoured the beautiful cake over which his mother slaved. Paul gives a small chuckle, his warm breath gusting over John’s face.
“Yeah, not yer brightest idea.”
John doesn’t answer, just bathes in the warmth and closeness Paul radiates. Paul is his sun. The center of his universe. John’s heliocentric being.
Wanting to be all the more closer, he worms his foot between Paul’s legs. Their noses touch, and John nuzzles Paul’s--loving how different it is from his own, all small and round. He catches the coy grin that creeps on his friend’s lips Those are fab, too, John thinks. So pouty and full, driving him mad when they wrap around a cig or sing the latest Lennon/McCartney original.
“If you ever die on me, I’ll fuckin’ kill ye,” John says suddenly, choosing his words precisely. Though he’s not as abrasive as before, he shows no hint of humor at the irony of his threat.
At first, Paul is unnerved. There’s no way in hell John could know about his dream, but the warning of his words is just too coincidental.
Staying true to his dream, Paul responds, “I’m not leavin’ you unless you push me in my grave yourself.” The promise is too sincere for John to laugh at. Somehow, Paul told John exactly what he wanted to hear.
He’s already helping, John muses.
John’s eyes flicker down to Paul’s lips, and Paul finds his own eyes seeking out John’s thin pair, as well. Without a doubt, they both know what they want. The hand that subconsciously tightens in John’s hair and the increased pulse thumping in his veins are enough silent encouragement. But their eyes really do the talking.
“Would you care if I--” John’s begin.
“Not a bit.” Paul’s don’t miss a beat.
“Then, is it okay if I--”
“More than okay.”
“I don’t know--”
“Knowing is overrated.”
“This’ll mean you’re mine.”
“I was yours from day one.”
“Please,” Paul breaks their silent chatter with his voice barely a whisper.
But he begs no more because John is there in a heartbeat. His lips touch Paul’s, and it’s soft and real and everything John needs right now. His eyes open up a new world behind his closed lids; a world where people can fly and flowers grow out of the concrete. His heart is beating out of his chest, and he hopes Paul can’t hear the effect this simple act has on John.
Our lips are touching. We’re kissing. I’m kissing Paul.
Paul is glad they’re drawing this out--that this isn’t some chaste experimentation. At least, it isn’t to him. When their lips separate, the sound is so innocently sinful. With his eyes still closed, Paul licks his lips, cherishing the feel of lips he barely got to taste.
John moves his hand back to Paul’s cheek and traces with his thumb, the place his lips just touched. A spark of arousal shoots through him from feeling the wetness on Paul’s lips from where he just licked them.
“Again?” John asks, making no effort to clear his voice of its raspiness or elaborate on his question. He doesn’t think he could, anyway. He's pretty much lost all basic thought processes that don’t involve the feeling of Paul’s lips against his.
“Mhm,” Paul mumbles, not appearing to be in much better of a state than John.
So John plunges back in like a dehydrated man. This time, they’re a little more confident--wanting to get other body parts involved, as well. John’s foot strokes a line up and down Paul’s naked calves. Paul sneaks the hand that isn’t tangled in John’s hair down to the hem of the older boy’s shirt. It rests there while Paul focuses on more important things like tracing John’s bottom lip with his tongue.
John eagerly accepts the request and opens his mouth to give Paul all the freedom of searching he wants. He finds the feeling of Paul’s tongue against his own one of the most erotic things he’s ever experienced: the way it glides along the roof of his mouth or submits to John for a fleeting second before asserting its own dominance. He puts more force into the kiss, chasing after the mouth beneath his own like it could turn to air and vanish at any second.
A few moans slip through any gap provided between their mouths. Paul welcomes the weight of John beginning to lean more possessively over him. Showing his approval of John’s lust, he shifts onto his back and keeps John’s lips on his by guiding him with hands at his waist.
He sneaks a hand under John’s shirt and runs his slender fingers over the skin of his muscular lower back, familiarizing himself with every inch of the boy on top of him. The weight of John resting on top of him, no gaps in between, is a weight unlike one Paul’s ever felt before. It’s solid and masculine...but most importantly, it’s John.
The feel of Paul’s hands on his bare skin causes John to pull his lips away. He’s already the hardest he’s ever been in his life, and--for some inexplicable reason--he doesn’t want to rush this, which is odd considering his whole life is one huge adrenaline rush. But their relationship has taken a turn tonight, and it could end in a lot of heartbreak if they don’t handle it with the delicacy it deserves. Not to mention, his own emotions are a little haywire at the moment.
When Paul feels John’s lips disappear, he follows them with his own. “S’okay,” he whispers, assuming he’s spooked John with his experimental touches. John keeps Paul’s worries at bay with a chaste kiss before pulling away again.
“No, no, it’s fine. I…I just wanna take things slow, ye know?” He runs his hand through Paul’s dark locks, and hears his faint sigh--can practically feel his goosebumps, as well. John hopes he doesn’t sound too daft; he feels like a right bird. Nonetheless, Paul clears his throat and nods.
“Yeah, no. That--that’s fine, Johnny.” He gives him a smile for reassurance that is immediately returned.
From this angle, John is absolutely stunning. His lips are cherry red with some help from Paul, his eyes are heavy as he scans them over Paul’s face, and the way he shelters him with his own body is utterly addictive. Before rolling them both back onto their sides, Paul gives John a tight hug.
He’s mildly disappointed that he’ll have to suffer the rest of the night with a hard-on (hell, maybe even the next day with the way John got him going), but he’s not willing to ruin this for John…for them.
John’s full-wattage grin could light up the dark night outside. At the feeling of a protective arm wrapping around his waist, he forgets everything. Forgets the tear streaks he’s left on his friend’s window some time after his arrival. Forgets the smashed banjo lying on the floor. Forgets the shitty cards he’s been dealt in life. Because right now, John feels invincible--invincible because he kissed the sun and didn’t get burned.