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“John?”
Paul’s voice is soft, as always, but John likes it best when he sounds like this; just shy of it’s usual perfect pitch, slightly gravelled from a long, heavy sleep, half muffled by the silky pillow his face is currently burrowed into. From his position behind, John can only see the outline of his upper back, pale and slender and utterly enticing in the early morning sun. He has no eye on Paul’s face, only the back of his head, one jet black shaggy, slept-in mop-top, shining through his blurry, cracked vision. Even with his terrible eyesight, Paul seems so still, so ethereal, and his voice is so soft and quiet that, for a moment, John wonders if he only dreamt it, rather than heard.
“John?” Paul breathes again, and this time, he’s certain of what he hears. John knows he’s awake, but briefly considers the possibility of Paul being asleep, calling not for the body settled behind his own but for another John Lennon, a John all of his own, living inside a dream playing out in his head.
(Adorably so, this would not be the first time John had heard Paul calling out his name in his sleep.)
“John?” He hears a third time, and (when he’s too slow to respond) a fourth, but slightly shorter, Paul’s patience running thin. So, John breathes out a sigh in acknowledgement, shuffling closer to Paul’s side of the bed. he reaches out with one hand to touch Paul’s hip gently, rubbing nine tiny circles with his thumb before replying, “Yes, love?” on the tail end of a yawn.
“Will you scratch my back?” Paul asks without turning around, and John laughs through his nose at the request, just once. More of a breath than a laugh, but he’s sure Paul can picture his face; his tired smile, even if he doesn’t bother to turn and look. No more words pass between them, only silence, silence eventually filled by the sound of John’s fingers dancing over Paul’s skin, the occasional satisfied hum, the rustling of bedsheets.
When he’s sure Paul’s request is fulfilled, John leans over and drops a kiss on his pale shoulder. Only then does Paul turn over, settling down on his back, eyes still closed, stubble sprinkled around his perfect pout. John sits up, leaning over him, staring down at his lover, rife with fascination. Paul is quite interesting to watch, especially this close up. He supposes it was only a matter of time before he became the most famous man on the planet with a face like that.
“You’re staring at me.” Paul says, without opening his eyes, because he just knows. John smiles.
“Because, you’re beautiful.”
One eye cracks open, the other still at rest. The hazel colour of Paul’s iris sparkles in the morning sun, and John is just as captivated with it as he is with the rest of him. He leans close, kisses the other eye, and Paul’s nose wrinkles, just a little startled, still half asleep.
“Who are you and what have you done with John Lennon?” he asks, and John laughs.
“I’m nobody.” He replies, dipping down to rest his forehead in the crook of Paul’s neck, feeling an arm reach up and wrap around him. “I’m nobody and you’re beautiful. Don’t we make a perfect pair?”
Still half asleep, Paul huffs what could be a laugh in response, and closes his eyes again, settling against the pillows. For a few minutes, there is a silence only filled by steady breathing, and John wonders if he’s lost Paul again, had him stolen away by his better half, dream John, Sandman John who can do no wrong. But, he is quickly mistaken, because Paul’s lips curl into a tired smile, and he rolls onto his side so that they are face to face, eyes closed, before mumbling:
“I don’t see why you find me so impressive, s’all. I’m only sleeping.”
-and then, later that day, John writes a song he really likes.