Chapter Text
The pale moonlight trickled from the window, bringing Paul out from his sleep. He fluttered his eyes, a bit of crust flaking off of his eyelashes. It was six in the morning when Paul stumbled out of his sleep. In his mind, he hadn’t slept a blink; but fortunately, Prellies would do just the trick. With a mighty yawn, his hands extended into the air. His fingers played in the moonlight, the beam of light intertwining in his fingers. Brinks of sunlight loomed overhead.
Paul despised mornings.
Delicately, he rose up from the bed. The crisp air burned against his skin, his hair raising up. It was a fresh, early start for Paul to begin his day. The boys had yet another concert that night in Hamburg. The cottage they rented was a half-hour’s distance from the club, meaning that they had to get up early for practice. With a hesitant grunt, he shoved the blankets aside.
As Paul moved, he elbowed someone beside him.
“What the-! aslkjsdf!”
Instinctively, Paul panicked. He jolted away and faced the person. The person beside him was huddled in a mountain of blankets, not a face in sight. Their whole body was wrapped in blankets, like a blanket burrito of some sorts. Paul sat there, puzzled. For the life of him, Paul couldn’t recall sleeping with anyone last night.
In fact, I’m sure I didn’t! Paul’s ears still rang from the late night at the pub, but he was sober for the entire night (sober enough, at least, to recall the concert). And it wasn’t normal for Paul to sleep with strangers, especially during a tour. Surely if he had met a hooker he would have remembered.
Paul chuckled to himself. Maybe she was so ugly that I forced myself to forget?
The air was frigid, a frosty bite hung in the air. As Paul placed his naked feet on the floor, he shivered. His toes clenched together and he rubbed his feet together for warmth. He wished he had worn socks. As he stood, the blanket around him slipped. Paul looked down.
God, he thought to himself, seeing that he was stark naked, maybe I did shag someone last night!
Paul quickly gathered the blanket around his waist. Very delicately, Paul leaned towards the huddled, mysterious figure in his bed.
Not quite sure what to say, Paul awkwardly murmured, “Hi there.”
The blanket burrito didn’t move.
Paul stammered, “We didn’t happen to… y’know, sleep together last night, did we?”
Silence.
Paul grew worried. With a gentle caress, he patted along the person’s body (as if that would give him any clue). His hands slowly made their way up the person’s legs, waist, and stomach. As he reached the person’s chest, he realized that it certainly wasn’t a woman.
“John?”
A heavy snore came from the blanket burrito. Nope, it couldn’t be. Normally John was a light sleeper.
Paul raised an eyebrow. Delicately, his hands slowly began to unveil the mysterious sleeper. The unveiling revealed a large head of curled, dark brown hair.
“George…?”
With a painful whine, the blanket burrito began to unfold. Sticking his head out of the peephole was George. His face was red, burning, and indented by the blankets around him. Squinting his eyes open, George glanced towards Paul. In a grumbling whisper, George muttered, “Why do you think John would have slept with y’last night?”
Paul blushed, but shouted back in self-defense, “Oi, why are you in my bed, mate?”
George didn’t reply to this. Closing his eyes once more, he began to slowly retreat back into his humble abode.
“Hey, I’m talking to yous!” Cross, Paul shook the blanket burrito. There was a distressed whimper from within the layers.
George moaned, “What is it now?”
“What the feck are you in my bed?”
George’s eyes fluttered open. As he did, it was very clear to Paul that George was ill. His cheeks were red, his nose stuffed, and his eyes watery. George complained about being unwell the first night of the tour. During the concert last night, he grumbled about running a fever, feeling faint and very drowsy. None of the other bandmates took it fairly seriously, except for Ringo who insisted that he ought to see a doctor. And as for Paul, he just supposed that it was hay fever.
Apparently not.
George’s eyes wandered downward. With a smirk on his face, George asked plainly, “Why do you sleep naked, Paul?”
Paul looked down. The blanket had slipped.
Completely.
“Because it’s my fecking bed?” scoffed Paul, very slowly reaching down to the blanket. Keeping a cool physique, Paul readjusting the blanket around his waist. Despite trying to remain calm and collected, his face was red from embarrassment. He folded his arms and interrogated, “I thought yous was bunking with Ringo.”
George shook his head and corrected him, “Well I was sharing a bed with John. Until I started spewing me guts out.”
“He kicked you out of bed?”
George nodded. For a moment, he scrunched up his nose. In a fast jolt, George coughed downward. Bits of spit and snot flew everywhere. He shivered, chattering his teeth.
Paul grimaced. Turning away, he muttered, “Thanks for getting me sick, George. Really appreciate that.”
“What does it matter?” asked George, burrowing himself deeper into the blanket burrito, “We’ll be stuck out here for days.”
“What d’you mean by that, George?”
“Take a look outside, will ya?”
It was then that Paul listened closely to the wind outside. It roared heavily, the air whistling through the window crack. It was no wonder why it was so cold in his bedroom. Paul was surprised he didn’t hear it before. He parted the curtains and took a look outside.
Nothing. Quite truly, as Paul looked outside, there was nothing to see. It was pure white outside. Paul squinted his eyes. And he thought John was the one with shitty eyesight!
It became clear that a snowstorm was brewing outside the window, blurring out everything in sight. Paul never saw anything like it, especially because Liverpool was too close to the sea to have a good snowfall. The wind continued to press against the window harshly, the panels creaking out in pain. Ice cemented itself onto the window panels, snow building up against it. It seemed as though the entire world had been hit by a new Ice Age, collapsing onto their secluded cottage.
A voice echoed from the hallway, “Shit!”
It was John. Immediately, Paul ran from the bedroom, following John’s voice as he continued to shout, “You have gotta be kidding me! For feck’s sake!”
Reaching the end of the hallway, Paul saw John hunched over the dining room table. He was wrapped tightly in a blanket, as well. His hands were frantically spinning the phone dial. Once dialing, he shouted into the phone, “Der Operator! Der Operator! Verbinde mich mit dem Fairmont Hotel!”
John’s German was far from perfect, but it was passable.
The air was silent. There wasn’t an answer from the other line. Furious, John slammed the phone onto the switchhook. He hit his fist against the wall.
From the otherside of the cottage, somewhere between the entryway and kitchen, came Ringo’s voice, “John, quit it already. You’re going to wake George up. Or worse, Paul.”
That was when Paul interrupted, “Bit too late for that, I’m afraid.”
At the sound of Paul’s voice, John abruptly turned around. He straightened his posture and cleared his voice. His face quickly switched. From what began as scrunched up anger became a soft smile. John asked, “Macca, have you seen the weather outside?”
“Yeah, it’s shit alright.” Paul walked towards John, fixing his hair into place. When in front of John, he nodded towards the window, “Suppose our gig is cancelled tonight?”
In a matter-of-fact tone, John muttered, “At this rate, our whole tour is cancelled.”
“Ye whot?”
“Phone lines are dead,” explained John, leaning a bit against the table. His eyes cascaded down Paul’s body. Paul noticed it, a smirk growing on his face. Almost immediately, John averted his eyes. Glancing elsewhere, John continued, “I can’t get to an operator, police, anything. Let alone Brian.”
The boys had six more shows in Hamburg, each of them consecutive. There wasn’t time to sit around and wait out for a snowstorm to die off! Paul threw his hands down.
Becoming cross, Paul scowled. He exclaimed, “Then what are we supposed to do?”
Ringo shortly emerged from the kitchen. He wore a large, long shirt that hung low to his knees. In his hands were three mugs, one at his left and two balanced in his right. Each mug had tea fixed in it, exactly as each boy liked it. The third was for George.
With a gentle shrug, Ringo said, “I suppose we’ll just stay here until the phone works again. Unless any yous fancy a twenty mile walk.”
“G’wed, Ringo. I don’t think this storm’ll lighten up for a while,” uttered Paul, facing towards the window. John turned towards the window as well and sighed heavily.
“I reckon,” John said, “If the weather keeps up like this, the phone lines won’t work for a few days.”
Paul glanced over to John. John’s face was content, his eyes settled on the snow. There was even a smile on his face! Paul was a bit shocked. How was John not panicking over this? The Beatles rarely, if ever, cancelled a gig. And for the very few times they did, John was the first to protest against it. To John, cancelling a gig was a major loss in reputation. It didn’t matter if it was storming or one of the members was sick. ‘ The show goes on whether any yous live or die ’ John often said.
Yet nothing on John’s face revealed any anger and discontent. His face was pleasant, happy almost, as he gazed out into the blizzard.
Reaching Paul and John, Ringo began to hand out the cuppas. The lightest tea, swirling of warm milk and sugar, was handed to Paul. The darker tea, a bit too bitter for Ringo’s taste, was handed to John. Ringo asked, “Do you the police will come rescue us by then?”
John muttered, “We’re thirty minutes out from Hamburg in the middle of a snowstorm. I’m thinking that the fans have a better chance of finding us than the bizzies.”
The boys laughed together. At last, with George’s cup at hand, Ringo nodded to the others, “Right. I’ll check on George.”
With a sharp turn, Ringo made his way down the hall and into the small bedroom. With a quick turn, Ringo was out of sight. Once putting his mug down, John fumbled in his pockets. He pulled out a cigarette and with his lighter, he lit it. His eyes still rested onto the skies.
“You don’t seem so broken up over this,” muttered Paul, then taking a sip of his tea. It was perfect. Out of every person in the World, only his dad and Ringo knew how to make Paul’s tea to perfection. Licking his lips, he savored the taste.
“Brian knows where we are. Once it gets safe to drive, I’m sure he’ll pick us up. Anyhow, I think a few days off will be good for us.”
“For us?” Paul glanced over to John, whose eyes were still fixated on the outdoors. There was a gentle flutter in Paul’s chest, as he anxiously waited for John’s explanation. Paul questioned, a gentle blush over his face, “Whose us?”
Yet John remained silent, inhaling on his ciggie.
Paul continued to press him, “Do you mean the whole band?”
John was silent still.
Rather irritated, Paul protested, “Aren’t you the one whose always obsessed with maintaining nonstop publicity? Aren’t you the one who’d rather shoot himself than take a holiday?”
Paul watched as John glanced down for a moment, only to grab his mug. He glanced up once more and sipped on his tea.
“Johnny,” interrogated Paul, his voice heightening in anger, “George is sick, Ringo doesn’t have his drums, and our week-long tour might be cancelled. How on Earth is this good for anyone?”
At last, John sighed heavily. He glanced over to Paul, fluttering his lashes just a bit. A rosey blush swirled on John’s cheeks. He spoke softly, “I think this will be good for us. You and I.”
John’s eyes glanced up, checking for Ringo. Yet seeing that the hallway was empty, he moved closer to Paul. With a gentle touch, John’s hand grazed across Paul’s waist. Paul jolted back. Yet very sweetly, John wrapped around Paul, enveloping him in a warm embrace. John chuckled lowly.
John leaned in towards Paul’s ear. With a bit of a nervous laugh, he whispered delicately, “I can’t recall a time in recent that we’ve had a real conversation. And I mean a real conversation, none of this bullshit about frivolous lyrics and girls.”
Paul hadn’t a clue what was happening until fully embraced in John’s arms. With his head resting onto John’s shoulder, Paul looked at him in amazement. His arms wrapped around John’s waist, ever-so-gently. His breathing grew heavy as he said, “I’d like that very much, Johnny.”
The two remained in that embrace for what seemed an hour long. Paul inhaled. There was a sweet scent to John, especially in the morning. The tea breath made the scent even more alluring. It was John’s morning hair that Paul loved the most, when it was shaggy and fuzzy on the ends. It was rare to catch him without his hair done, so Paul treasured the moment. Gradually, as they held each other, John’s hand slowly gazed up Paul’s back. As his hand reached his neck, Paul let out a soft giggle.
Both men blushed. I never knew Paulie was ticklish there, though John to himself, a meek smile swirling onto his face. He would have to save that trick for later.
Inch by inch, John’s hand moved its way up until reaching the top of his head. John’s finger then swirled around his hair. He took a clump of it and clutched it, a bit rougher than he had intended. With a gentle push, John moved Paul in front him. Their eyes locked. John’s eyes were the first to glance downward, his pupils fixated on Paul’s lips.
John smirked and leaned in.
“Uh, guys?”
Like thin air, Ringo appeared next to them.
In a swift and sudden motion, John thrusted Paul away from him. Paul stumbled back, but caught himself on the table. After double checking to make sure Paul was okay, John turned around. Ringo stood beside them with his head tilted. How long had he been there?!
With a cheeky smirk, Ringo asked, “Was I interrupting something?”
“Oi, Ringo,” hollered John, crossing his arms, “Mind to do something for me, mate?”
“What?”
“Fuck off,” John snarled, with a sharp smirk, “Cheers mate, that’d be class.”