Work Text:
The Cavern, as usual, was the hottest, busiest, sweatiest smoke-filled spot on the whole of Merseyside.
Saturday nights seemed to repeat themselves endlessly, this winter. Someone would mention a gig- a band they’d hardly heard of or a disc jockey who actually played real music in one of the dingy basement clubs, less than a quid to enter and a three-for-two deal on pints all night. John and Paul, along with the rest of their gang, found themselves amongst the mix more weekends than not, planted firmly in the centre of the dancefloor, sweating through their leather jackets as they danced and drank and took weird pills until the early hours of the morning. John enjoyed clubbing more so now than he ever had before he was with Paul. For John, there was nothing hotter than his Omega, tipsy and sometimes a little high with a lit fag between his pretty lips, narrow hips swaying in perfect rhythm, eyes teasing and wild.
Liverpool was a small enough place. Most of the people who frequented the rock and roll scene knew about them by now, so they didn’t really look twice at the two boys twirling each other around the dancefloor, John’s hands all over Paul’s body, strong and possessive. Occasionally, every once in a while, a newcomer who wasn’t aware of Paul nor his status might shoot a look or even pass comment, but John always seemed to set them straight quickly enough. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. In a packed-out venue like this, it was hard to tell who was who and what was what, all kinds of scents mixing in the air with the sweat and the cigarette smoke into one dizzying cocktail of musk. At first glance, maybe they did seem like a right pair of queens, not that he gave a toss. Anyone who got close enough quickly realised the truth, and kept their thoughts to themselves accordingly.
Paul wasn’t drunk, not yet, only two pints down as he’d met them at the club a little later than usual, caught up in a silly spat with his brother. By the time he did arrive, George flanked at his side, John was already well past tipsy, stumbling over into his arms, pressing kisses across the side of his face and crooning about just how much he’d missed him, regardless of the fact that they’d seen each other only hours before. Paul didn’t mind it so much when John was drunk like this, all wobbly and affectionate, but he knew by now that the soft side of John never lasted for long, and a few hits of Benzedrine from the inside of some bird’s inhaler later his mouth would set into that mean, thin line, eyes dark, searching for someone or something to provoke.
Usually, Paul did his best to keep John as occupied as possible to avoid such confrontations. He couldn’t stand the constant stream of scrapping John had fallen into. The routine was always the same- John got drunk, John got into a fight, John got a black eye and a raging headache for his trouble. What worried Paul wasn’t even the potential physical damage, it was more so the effect this all was having on John mentally. Since Julia’s passing, he couldn’t go five days without poking a bear, more often than not picking fights that he knew he couldn’t possibly win. Paul wished he could understand why, but there was no use. This was just John’s way of dealing with his emotions, and despite how hard Paul tried to keep him in check, he didn’t have eyes in the back of his fucking head. He couldn’t watch John every single second.
(but he could try)
Entering the bathroom halfway through a night out sometimes felt like stepping into another universe altogether. The lights were always too harsh, sketchy people lingered around the cubicles swapping stimulants for sixpence as lads relieved themselves and tried to fix their sweated-out quiffs in the mirror.
George was keeping a watchful eye out as Paul took a piss, and the thought of little Georgie Harrison being his sole protection made Paul smirk. Since presenting as a beta, his best-friend stroke little-brother had signed up to the full-time role of Paul’s protector, ensuring he didn’t wander anywhere unaccompanied where someone might’ve tried something unsavoury.
He usually brushed off George’s concern, but, deep down, Paul was thankful. He didn’t suspect many Alphas expected an Omega to wander into the boy’s bathroom after midnight on a Saturday, and a deadly enough concoction of pills and alcohol loosened their so-called-morals significantly. He was stick-thin and barely five-foot-six, but, Paul had to admit, sometimes he felt just a little bit safer with George by his side.
He relieved himself slowly, body aching from dancing and jiving, voice thick and hoarse from the cigarette smoke that hung in the warm, sweat-soaked air. George wasn’t really paying much attention at all, fixing his almighty head of hair in the cracked mirror, but Paul could feel unfamiliar eyes on him. With a sigh, he stepped back from the urinal, and rinsed his hands under the filthy tap.
Seemed as if their time was up.
“Come on George.” He nudged his friend, and George followed along loyally, trailing Paul back through the thick crowd in search of John and his cronies who- last they’d seen- were parked by the bar. Paul supposed he probably could do with another drink or something stronger if he was going to last the night. Partying so nonstop was more tiring than he liked to admit and sometimes, he just wanted to fast-forward to the morning after, crammed into a single bed with Lennon’s beery breath and a shared headache.
“Where is he?” George squinted, eyes scanning the dark room but coming up short.
“I’ve got no idea.” Paul muttered, lingering sense of dread lighting up his insides. He didn’t know if it was maybe because he and John truly were soulmates or if he just had some kind of sixth sense, but sometimes, it felt as if he could taste trouble in the air whenever John was involved. Eyes still searching the room, his heart sunk to his stomach long before the record scratched and the music stopped, crowd roaring as they separated in the middle, leaving one tight circle; two Alphas circling each other in the centre- one snarling, one swaying on his feet.
Fuck, Paul glared at the ceiling, doing his absolute best not to punch something in frustration. Not again-
“Shit, there he is.” George pointed, just as the first punch was thrown, a surprisingly good hit from someone as sloshed as John, and the bigger boy hit the floor.
But that wasn’t enough for John. It never was. Paul saw the white-hot rage in his eyes as he pounced on the boy, landing one more good hit before their positions were reversed, and large, ring-covered hands were beating into his face, blood splattering across the dance-floor as birds screamed and lads pushed forwards, trying to pull the two apart so they wouldn’t have to stand witness to some kind of murder.
“John, stop!” Paul heard Stu yell, nearly earning a smack himself as he dived into the brawl, trying to separate the two, to no avail. Paul had to give it to him- he and Stu weren’t the best of friends, but he had never shied away from defending John, whether he deserved it or not. Even if he was almost as scrawny as George, and couldn’t knock down a bird, let alone a lad.
“Paul wait!” George tried to grab him by the back of his jacket, but Paul was too quick, snaking his way through the crowd and almost tripping over John’s bleeding body. His presence as an Omega was enough to startle the other Alpha, who held back from swinging another punch, giving Paul just enough time to haul John up by the collar, lifting him to his shaky feet.
“Let me a’him!” John slurred, trying to swing around Paul and land another blow, but in his state, it was little more trouble than holding back a sack of potatoes. Paul gave him a rough little shove until he stumbled away from the circle, abuse hurled at the pair of them as they retreated through the crowd and out into the fresh air. Paul did his best to tune it out, grip on John’s shirt impossibly tight and bite clamped down hard on the inside of his cheek. No, he wouldn’t cry, not for an audience. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
Bleeding fairly heavily from his lip and staggering along the pavement, John leant his head down on Paul’s shoulder and Paul bit back an annoyed sigh, wrapping an arm around John’s back, steering him down the street. Thankfully, they weren’t too far from Mendips, and this sort of thing happened so often that Paul could probably walk it backwards in the dark, by now. He knew Mimi wouldn’t be pleased if the creaking floorboards woke her up (or worse, the sound of John retching into the bog) but there was no way he could take John home like this. If he dragged John back to Forthlin road one more time pissed and injured, his dad really would have both their heads.
“’M sorry.” John mumbled into his shoulder as they walked through the cold, the slightest, spitting rain beginning to drizzle from the sky. Paul did his best to ignore him, which was hard, having him almost wrapped around his neck. He just tugged on his arm slightly and kept them moving, winding their way through the streets of Liverpool, a thousand apologies falling from John’s lips and into the road, washing away down the drain, Paul not answering a single one.
After ten minutes of silence, John started getting irate. It seemed the cuddly, affectionate drunk-John was long gone, replaced with the brooding, sharp-tongued prick Paul had grown accustom to shepherding.
“Are you listening to me?” his grip on Paul’s side tightened slightly, and Paul looked away, looked off towards the silent houses and the street signs and blinked furiously, hoping that it was only rainwater in his eyes. “Paul-” John was a fuckin’ persistent drunk, shaking his shoulder in a desperate bid for attention. “Paulie- are ya… are ya listenin’? I said I’m sorry.”
John was sorry, Paul knew he was. But the problem here was that John was always sorry, after he’d had a few and caused a scene. John was always so fuckin’ sorry, but it never stopped him from doing the very same thing the following weekend, and the one after that, and the one after that. The whole routine was starting to get a little tiring, and no matter how head-over-arse in love he was, Paul wasn’t sure quite how much longer he could stand it.
“Paul-”
But then, what did that mean? Paul’s thoughts frightened even himself. What if John just didn’t change? What if he kept poking the bear, enticing a fight, getting too drunk to defend himself? What if this was just who he was, who he’d always be?
Paul didn’t think he had it in him to leave John now- but what was the alternative? Give up their dreams because Lennon couldn’t hold his temper? Miss his chance at the big time and get his heartbroken too?
“Paul, fuckin’ listen to me!” John suddenly snapped, jerking Paul backwards by the shoulder, halting him mid step. John’s grip was tight and aching around his upper arm, eyes dark and hair dripping, matted by the rain. “Who the fuck d’you think you are, anyway?” John snarled, glaring down at him. there was hardly two inches between them in height these days, but, no matter what, John always knew exactly how to make Paul feel small thanks to his stupid, primal instincts. “I’m your Alpha and you’ll treat me with some fuckin’ respect.” John shoved him, only lightly, but Paul stumbled backwards anyway. For a second, he was too shocked even to react.
Because no matter how drunk John got- how sad- how angry- he’d never dared lay a hand on Paul. And Paul didn’t think he ever would.
(would he?)
“John.” He reached up to pull the hand from his shoulder, entwining their fingers in hope of bringing back the John he knew, the pathetic, drunken softie who just wanted a warm body next to his so he could sleep at night, but John used this move to his advantage, twisting Paul’s arm and pulling him close to his chest so that they were nose to nose.
Paul couldn’t help it. John’s grip wasn’t particularly menacing, but it still hurt, and his Alpha had never, ever hurt him before.
“Fuckin’ listening to me now?”
“John-” his voice choked, eyes flooding with tears instantly. Paul bit his lip and refused to cry, but the tears over-spilt anyway, two fat balls rolling down his cheeks, voice thickening. “John, please- you’re hurting me.”
“I’m wha’?”
“You’re hurtin’ me-” Paul all but leapt out of John’s grip as soon as his fingers loosened, a strange, baffled expression crossing his face. Paul took one, two, three steps back from John, and they stood opposite each other in the street, staring like two strangers in a Mexican stand-off, John’s scent mixing with the rain and turning sour. “You’re hurtin’ me, John.”
“Paul-”
“-Let’s just go home.” Paul shook his head, wiping his face with the back of his sodden jacket. When he looked up to meet John’s eyes again, his breath caught in his throat.
John looked… well- for lack of a better word, John looked terrified.
“I… alright.” He nodded, voice so quiet it almost seemed like a whisper. “Let’s go.”
John was silent for the rest of the walk home, trailing behind Paul like a miserable shadow, hands stuffed into his pockets, head down, boot-steps heavy. He almost seemed to have shocked himself sober, but Paul caught the slight sway in his walk and the wobble as he leant against the porch door, looking away as Paul fumbled with the keys, opening the door and helping him shrug out of his wet jacket and boots, which were left on the wooden rack to dry, God forbid they trek rainwater into Mimi’s carpets.
“Paul-” he finally whispered when the front door closed behind them, but Paul just sniffed, outside chill already creeping past his skin and into his bones, before shaking his head.
“Don’t.” he whispered back. “Let’s just go to bed, John.”
John didn’t say anything then. He was silent when Paul lead him up the creaking stairs and he was silent as they both undressed down to their boxers, Paul pulling on one of his soft, woollen jumpers (he liked to wear them to sleep, he’d said before, because they smelt like John and they made him feel safe, which was probably why John kept insisting Mimi buy them for him) before sitting cross-legged above the sheets, nodding for John to join him. John didn’t say anything as Paul left the room, returning with a glass of water and some loose cotton to clean his battle wounds, and he didn’t say anything when they laid down to sleep.
However, if the way his arms snaked around Paul’s middle and held onto him just a fraction tighter than usual meant anything, Paul supposed that, like always, he was sorry.
Paul barely slept a wink, John snoring behind him, their bodies never once not intertwined. His heart hammered in his chest as the sun crept over the horizon, filling the room from where they’d neglected to close the thick, wool curtains, and silently, he wondered if John could feel it.
He wondered if John would say anything at all. For all his luck, John wouldn’t even remember what had occurred between them, and maybe they’d never have to speak about it again.
Sadly, Paul was met with no such luck twenty minutes later, when John’s grip finally loosened around his middle and he began to stir, rolling on his back and stretching his arms above his head, face pulled into an aching grimace. Paul couldn’t imagine how much of a headache he’d have, let alone how much his face probably burned, fresh red cut gleaming in the early morning sun.
“Paul,” was the first thing he breathed, cracking open one eye to look at his Omega, who was turned away from him. for a second, Paul wondered just how long he could play up being asleep, but John’s hesitant hands brushing against his back told him that there was an unavoidable conversation they needed to have, and they needed to have it quickly. “Paul? Are you awake, love?”
“Yeah.” Paul sighed, rolling over to face him, eyes still bleary from sleep as he leant up on one elbow. Still, he was certainly in no worse state than John, who looked more like a corpse than a living, breathing human being. “How’s your face?”
“Aches like a cunt, but it’s fine.” John huffed, chest rising and falling rhythmically, one hand reaching up to touch the side of Paul’s cheek before he second guessed himself, dropping his arm back by his side. “I fucking deserve it anyway.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I hurt you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did, there’s no use lying about it.” John snapped, face shifting from apologetic to irate to guilty all over again in a matter of seconds. Paul didn’t say anything. He just looked down at John’s bare shoulder, avoiding his eye in any way feasible. “Paul- wait. I’m sorry. I really am.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“You always mean it, John.” Paul sighed. It was quite simple, really, he supposed. They couldn’t just go on like this, John making a mess and thinking a few choice words could clean it all up. He had to know just what kind of turmoil he was putting them both through, if there was going to be any hope at some change. “You always mean it, but you still do it again.”
“I know.” It was John’s turn to look away now, and, if he didn’t know any better, Paul was sure he could see small tears clinging to the corner of his eyes.
“You’re just so angry, John.” Paul breathed, reaching down to touch his Alpha’s face gently. “Why are ya so angry all the time?”
“I don’t know.” John shrugged, looking up at him, wet and wilted. “I just burn. Always have.”
“You can’t keep doin’ this you know-”
“I’ll never lay my hand on you again, Paul. I promise-”
“-not that,” Paul shook his head, stroking the single tear that escaped John’s eye away with the pad of his thumb. “The fighting and the getting blind drunk and the fuckin’ remorse. You can’t keep picking fights just to feel something. It’s never gonna work how you want it to.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s who I am, Paul.” John said, biting back a glare. “I get fuckin’ sad and I can’t control what happens next. I don’t know why you even bother with me- I’m broken- damaged goods. You can’t fix me. I’m past the point of repair- this is usually when you chuck something out and buy a replacement-”
“-don’t talk like that!” Paul snapped, sitting up straight. “Don’t ever talk like that again, d’you understand me?”
At this, John blinked. Slowly, he sat up too, back pressed against the headboard with a peculiar expression on his face. Instinctively, Paul shrank underneath his gaze. He supposed that maybe, this was the first time he’d ever put John in his place, and fuck if it wasn’t well deserved.
Still, it frightened him just a little. Deep down, Paul knew there was always going to be that tiny, minuscule chance that John could fly off the handle and smack him silly for even daring open his mouth.
“Okay.” John said instead, and Paul let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Alright, look- I’m sorry Paul. Don’t cry-”
“I’m not cry-” Paul started to say, but when John gathered him in his strong arms he realised that, yeah, his cheeks were kind of wet, salty tears wiped across John’s skin as he melted into the embrace. John’s hands held him tightly by the waist, pulling Paull into his lap in handfuls and in return, Paul buried his face into John’s neck, the scent of his mate comforting him, calming the storm inside his head. He only hoped that he could do the same for John, and maybe, they wouldn’t have to have this conversation again.
“I’ll try Paul. I really will,” John was saying, rocking him back and forth like a child. “I love ya, alright? More than anything in the whole fuckin’ world, and I am sorry. I don’t know why I’m such a horrible twat. I really don’t.”
“You might be angry,” Paul leant back with a wet laugh, wiping his eyes with the back of John’s jumper, the familiar scent of the two intertwined surrounding them both. “But you’re not horrible. And not a twat- not all the time.”
“Alright. We can agree on that.” John smiled at him, before leaning up, and sealing his promise with a sweet, chaste kiss.
But this was John, kissing Paul, and they could never really keep it chaste for long. Paul didn’t pull back when John moved to deepen the kiss, and John followed his lead when Paul pushed him back down towards the bed, setting on his back so that Paul could creep between his legs, laying them flush against each other, hands over skin and bedsheets abandoned.
“What time is it?” John managed to mumble between kisses, and Paul relented for a few seconds long enough to grab his watch, squinting at the face before telling John that it was little past half five in the morning with a stomach-ticking, devious little smirk.
“We’ve got an hour or so before the wicked witch of the west rises.” John said, and Paul quirked one perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” John grinned. “Fancy making the most of it?”
“Everything goes back to sex with you eventually, doesn’t it?”
“Of course,” John smirked, hands sliding down Paul’s back to settle over the neat little swell of his arse, thumbs rubbing over the soft cotton of his underwear. “What else is falling out for, if not making it up-” before Paul could respond, he’d flipped them over completely, Paul landing with an oof on his back and John suddenly looming over him, pushing his thighs apart so he could settle between, brushing against him intimately. “-besides,” John said, leaning down to kiss and tease the shell of his ear, long having marked the spots that made Paul giggle and blush like a virgin, despite being nothing of the sort, “Seems as if I’ve got quite a lot of making up to do. That is… unless you don’t want me to ravish ya within an inch of your life?”
“I love you Johnny.” Paul laughed, wrapping his arms around John’s broad shoulders and pulling him close. “You can ravish me any time.”
“That’s what I was hoping to hear.” John replied, and from there, there was no more words- only quiet moans and sharp breaths, skin against skin, and the birds gathered in the trees outside, chirping in the morning sun.