Work Text:
NEW YEAR'S EVE, London, 1963
Stop. Stop it, Paul. Just STOP.
That was all John Lennon could think while he watched his partner chat with the driver as they made their way to a New Year’s Eve gathering. Just stop with the lips and the fingers.
The limo’s back seat was roomy, and he and Paul had it all to themselves, and yet there they were, sitting practically in each other’s lap.
Paul, who liked to look out the window and also to use the armrest, had gotten in first and scooted all the way to the door. That left plenty of space for John to manspread himself about the bench, as was his habit, but tonight he had shoved right up against Paul. There was two feet of unoccupied space to John’s right yet no light to be found between the two young men, from shoulder to calves.
If he’d been traveling with Ritchie or George, John knew, they’d have shoved at him and demanded some distance between them, but Paul never did that. He never minded John pressed against him. Then again, to be fair, Paul wouldn’t have minded if any of his bandmates were squished up on him. They had been traveling together for so long – moving as almost a single unit together through enough tight cars, cold vans, and small rooms -- that Paul no longer seemed to have any sense of boundaries or personal space.
Anyway, he didn’t mind a nice smoosh between friends. Felt chummy, didn’t it? John’s limbs, aligned so perfectly against his, just felt familiar. Cozy-like. Safe, even. He felt warm, snug, and safe, with John right at his side.
It was only a little different for John, who also felt warm, snug, and safe being so near to Paul. The difference being that his notion of “safe” meant no one can get to Paul, now, without going through me. Paulie was safely his for the ride, and John hoped to keep it that way for the night, too.
They’d hired the limo in order to drink as freely as they wished, fully intending to hail 1964 with bellies full of whiskey and a good shag or two – bed partners as yet unidentified – and then ride home safely with a sober driver and, hopefully, no need to pull aside to vomit.
Altogether, a much classier outing than in years past.
“Heading for a party, then,” the driver had queried, watching the two young men in his rear view mirror.
“Aye, at least one,” Paul had smiled at him. “And this is a busy week for you, I guess, eh?”
“The busiest of the year,” the driver agreed. “Keeps me goin’ eight days the week, it does.”
“I like that,” Paul laughed, turning to John. “That’s a good notion for a song, yeah?” He rocked his head from left to right, approximating a pop beat. “Give me all of your love, babe…eight days the week!” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “D’ye like that,” he asked the driver. “Would you buy it?”
“Sure, for my daughter, I would,” the driver laughed. “You write ‘em fast as that, then?”
“As fast as they’ll pay me, mate, yeah? What’s your name, by the way?”
His name turned out to be Archie. He was ten years older than John, supporting a wife and three kids by working through traffic, and much more interested in talking about what life was like for Beatles than about any of that. John kept his own counsel as the ever-gregarious Paul (“Hi Archie, I’m Paul.” He’d actually said that!) shared a few amusing stories with the man at the wheel, all the while doing that thing he did.
That thing that drove John quietly mad.
With the fingers near the mouth.
Paul had an awful habit of chewing on his fingers, or slipping his fingertip into his mouth, like a ciggie substitute, as he chatted. It was worse than smoking, John thought, for all the bacteria the boy would be recklessly shoving toward his always-delicate immune system.
Had John been sitting on Paul’s left, he would have already drawn the lad’s hand down and away from his face several times, ostensibly to keep him from getting sick, but really because it was a faultless way to hold hands for a moment, and Paul never seemed to mind. In fact, often when John would move Paul’s hand away from his bow-shaped lips, Paul would simply turn to him and give him a wide smile that seemed full of electricity.
And John would lose his breath at the sight of it.
But tonight, as Paul and Archie chatted, John could do nothing about that hand, or those fingers slipping between Paul’s teeth, and his attention kept being drawn, over and over, to those plush, pink lips. Paul would smile and answer a question and John’s eyes would helplessly move down toward his partner’s lips and then linger there, as though fascinated.
Because he was fascinated. Those lips, surrounded by the five-o-clock shadow Paul could never quite keep at bay, were such a constant contrast between the masculine and feminine that they were an endless lure to the artist in John. Paul was gorgeous. Paul was funny. Paul was friendly and natural and he almost always seemed relaxed – nearly the exact opposite of what John thought about himself – and all of that made him entrancing to Lennon, in many ways.
But it was the fingers to the lips that would make him shiver, every time.
Does he know how that looks? John would wonder. It’s so boyish, but so bird-ish. It makes him look like some starlet trying to seduce the camera, but it only ends up seducing me.
More than once, John had pondered whether Paul did it on purpose, just for him, if the doe-eyed lad was, in fact, flirting with him, leading him on with the finger lift, the lip-touch, the small bite between teeth, and the smile, that heart-stopping smile that came John’s way, directed right at him like a dazzling white light -- all for me, all just for me -- whenever he managed to stay Paul’s hand.
And now there he was, unable to look away as Paul went through the maddening, intoxifyingly sexy routine: lifting, touching, biting, smiling-at-John, again and again as the holiday traffic kept them moving at a snail’s pace. Occasionally, Paul would urge John into the conversation with Archie. He would turn his head, lean into him slightly, nudging him with his knee, and John would have to raise his eyebrows and refocus his attention, which meant looking at Paul’s whole expressive face, and his dark eyes, those eyes so full of light. Those eyes are dangerous, John would think as he tried to get into the spirit of the conversation. I love those stupid fucking gorgeous eyes. Better off looking at his lips. Those…fucking perfectly formed bird lips that make me feel so…
He recognized a familiar tingle at the base of his abdomen and forcefully pushed the thought aside.
Fucking McCartney. Jesus, he loved him. He flat loved everything about him.
And now, there he goes, framing those lips with two fingers, the rat-bastard, and lowering his eyes, and lifting the one eyebrow like a bleedin' siren. Homeric, it is. He has to know the effect of it all. He has to be doing it all on purpose, right? Unconscionable flirt! Evil, wicked flirt!
John found himself shifting in his seat, and Paul seemed to notice as he shifted as well, pressing his shoulder forward, inclining his head and bringing down his hand, which he rested on one knee. Aha! Confirmation! Yes, this little bastard knows exactly what he’s doing! And he’s showing me a bit of mercy!
A very little bit, anyway, because as Paul kept his face turned toward him, leaning in just a smidge and making full eye contact -- which always thrilled John to his toes -- the sneaky boy had also slipped his hand between their closely-pressed thighs. No one could see as their palms gently pressed together, Paul’s thumb stroking against John’s.
Sonofabitch, he HAS been flirting with me, after all! John thought as Paul held his gaze a moment with a serious look and then laughed. “Do you like,” he asked in a low voice, his other hand making a move toward his own lips before he stayed it, again, smiling at John in complete understanding.
John licked his lips as he turned to him. “I knew it. Happy New Year, love.” He smiled broadly.
Paul’s eyes widened. Well, that’s it, I’m caught out now, he thought. But he didn't mind. His eyes dropped down for an instant, looking toward John’s lap, and then he smiled again.
1964 wasn’t even here yet, and things were already looking up. It was going to be a great new year.
