Chapter Text
Hamburg, April 1961
Stu was the first to leave for Hamburg the second time around, quickly followed by John and George a few days later. Paul and Pete were held back because of the whole arson thing. It was their second time in Hamburg, bound to be more successful than their first. Pretty much anything would be better than their first, right? Wrong. 28 hours after leaving Liverpool they arrived in Hamburg, and not a single fucker was awake. No amount of shouting or banging or stone-throwing at random windows was going to roll them out of bed, and they had no choice but to kip in the doorway.
"This better not be an omen," Pete said, putting his bag against the wall of the alcove, propping himself up, "I'm not sleeping on another doorstep again after this."
"Where we going boys?" Paul said, in a shitty impersonation of John.
"To the toppermost of the poppermost," Pete retorted sarcastically. "Now shut up, I'm sleeping."
---
God knows where the others were, because it was Tony Sheridan who finally let them in the next morning - and fuck Pete and his fucking omens because their new room wasn't any better than their last hole at the Kaiserkeller, and it was even more cramped. Instead of three beds to a room there were six, two bunk beds and two singles, all currently covered with clothes and guitars.
"Christ, even the Jews had better than this," came Pete's whine from behind him.
And not that Paul often agreed with Pete, but well, he was right. The walls had massive clumps of plaster missing from god knows what sort of mould or damp, and it was dark, with only a small, grimy window above the back wall that had bars across it. What little slime-tinged light that managed to shine through was blocked by the buildings next door anyway, which Paul supposed would be good for sleeping when they tried. The beds were probably old prison bunks, thin steel structures, with mattresses as thick as the springs underneath and no sheets or blankets on top.
The only two beds left were a bottom bunk and a top bunk, and determined to do better for himself this time around, Paul leapt to the top bunk, realising too late that there was, in fact, a very good reason that no one else had claimed it. Namely the very disturbing multi-coloured stain covering the entire middle of the mattress and patches of damp spreading from the bottom right corner.
"For fucks sake," he grumbled, jumping back down. "Where are the rest of them, anyway?"
Pete looked around from his bunk and shrugged, typically nonplussed. Paul could have pointed to John's corpse on the floor and said, "Gee look Pete, a rotten old corpse with maggots in the eyes," and he probably would have had the same reaction.
"I need to find the bathroom," Pete announced, unfolding himself slowly.
"Fuck I don't even want to know - if this is where we sleep, imagine where we shit."
"It can't be worse than Kosch's communal bogs really can it," he reasoned.
"Don't say that, you've already jinxed us."
---
Turns out the boys had been at Astrid's for the evening, her mum. 'Mutti' as they all knew her, had invited them round for dinner to welcome them back to Hamburg, and she'd insisted they stay the night, knowing, perhaps too well for a woman of her age, the state of the clubs in St. Pauli.
They soon fell back into their old ways, Astrid, Klaus, and Jürgen turning up for their first show, and even that was worse than the 'keller. Although it was bigger, and definitely a step up in popularity, more people meant more people to please, and the drunken sailors and gangsters aren't the easiest to musically satiate. Paul's version of What'd I Say seemed to be the only thing that calmed them down, so he'd managed to lengthen it to a solid half an hour, forty-five minutes if he'd had a prellie.
It always got dangerously hairy was when one of the big lads from the gangs decided he wanted to sing. Paul always let them, putting on a big smile and giving it, "What do you want? Anything you'd like, come on boys!" But John was the problem. It was a fifty-fifty chance whether or not he'd let them take the mic, and there was a fifty-fifty chance again that when he said no they'd try and thump him. Then followed a hundred percent chance that at least Paul and George would be required to fulfil their friendly duties and help him out by taking their share of the beating.
Thankfully the security at the Top Ten was a bit more up to scratch that it had been at the Kaiserkeller. Their main bouncer was a big guy called Horst, who was about eight feet tall and four feet wide. Such was the strength of Horst's work ethic that after a day or two of no trouble he'd start the fights himself, just to have something to interrupt. The boys were scared of him like Paul didn't think they were scared of anyone else, even the gangsters. Word was Horst had killed guys for no reason, and they didn't fancy joining the ranks, so Horst's word was law.
Not only were they working more, they were earning less for it as well. Eckhorn, who had seemed all sweetness and light when persuading them to sign with his club, was in fact, doing more damage to their wages that old Bruno had, the saint. They'd all been expecting about 245DM each per week, and after some bullshit church tax and income tax they'd ended up with around 200DM. Not that he let on to his Dad either, he sent home the same amount as he would have on his full wages, leaving him a little more short than the other fellas most of the time.
So, the shifts were longer and the wages shorter. The only redeemable feature John seemed keen to remind him of was, "the invaluable practice Paul m'lad".
And, well, for John it was - Paul's not entirely sure he wanted several thousand hours experience on a fucking out of tune piano, or a handful of hours on a fucking bass guitar, taking over from Stu on nights he didn't bother turning up. Admittedly, George's guitar really was second to none now, definitely the best in St. Pauli and no doubt among the best in Liverpool when they'd get back. It seemed, as usual in Hamburg, that Paul, Pete, and Stu were lagging behind.
But at least Stu had Astrid and her family, and Pete the consummate hermit seemed perfectly happy not socialising with the band at all. Paul was the only one left on the outside and if he'd felt it the first time they'd come to Hamburg all those months ago, then he was feeling it double now.
---
John had interrupted Paul talking to Rosa a few times, and at the time he'd just written it off as Paul and his irrepressible Paul-ness. He couldn't stand going more than half an hour without charming someone: good-looking bird or sixty year old toilet attendant, it didn't matter.
With hindsight though it was probably more than that. John sat on the damp edge of the dock, only a few dull street lamps behind him illuminating the walkways, his feet hanging over the edge, occasionally swinging out and back in time with the waves.
Paul couldn't even speak German, certainly not enough to keep up with a native, so what did he talk to her about? Nietzsche? He probably fucking would the pretentious twat. The whole thing wouldn't have bothered John at all, had he not interrupted their last chat. Earlier that evening he'd overheard them, stopping just out of sight before the doorway. Paul seemed to be talking more at Rosa than anything, occasionally translating a sentence to keep her vaguely in the loop.
John was prepared to overhear some choice words against himself, it's not like him and Stu hadn't spent many a late night having a go at Paul, but it was worse than that. Paul was talking about Liverpool, about Jim and Mike. He doesn't know what kept him stuck the wall around the corner, but he sat through one particularly arduous story about Paul and Mike when they were younger, some tripe about being on a beach and Mike nearly drowning and Jim having to save him. John snorts internally at the ever-present image of Jim as a hero in Paul's mind. The story probably wasn't even true.
Rosa makes small approving and sympathetic noises, obviously responding more to Paul's expressions and body language than his words. Paul could have called her and her firstborn whores and krauts and got away with it with his big eyes and puppy dog expression.
He'd basically started drifting off against the mouldy wall when he heard, "I don't know what the fuck to do with John," and shot bolt upright. John couldn't remember doing anything that would have provoked such a declaration from Paul. He'd barely said two words to Paul all day. He closed his eyes and inched closer to the door, afraid to miss what would come next. There was only a long pause which Rosa filled by asking, "John?"
"Yeah. John. I..."
The thing that's thrown John is Paul didn't even sound angry. If anything he sounded sad. Or confused. Waiting for him to finish his sentence made John feel like he was about to explode, a feeling that still lingers even now, hours later.
Paul had let out a frustrated grunt, then a sigh, and told Rosa, "Forget it, forget about it."
Since then, John's spent the rest of his evening being haunted by the cartoon-ish image of him cracking open Paul's head in a bid to let all of the words out.
---
It wasn't until Astrid brought it up that John started paying any attention. They'd been gathered round a table in one of the Top Ten's booths, Paul sitting at the far end, next to Pete, neither of them talking to each other or making any decent attempt at having a good time.
"Is Paul okay?" Came Astrid's voice from beside him, she'd made a proper effort tonight, black skirt rucked up higher than usual and about twice as much make-up, drawing attention to her eyes and lips. John didn't know why she bothered, Stu was always a sure thing, he was the closest John had met to a male slut. Paul could probably match him he thought, it was just less slut-ish when he did it, made a customary effort to get to know the bird first at least, remembered which name to shout in bed, a true gent.
His eyes found their way to Paul in his thoughts, who was now looking at him with a deep frown and the curve of an aggravated "what?" on his lips. Mardy git.
Which reminded him, "Paul? Oh aye, I dunno why he's such a miserable sod tonight, maybe he's not had a shag all day."
"No, I mean, this time, this time you've visited, he's not been the same," she prodded, though John had a drunken suspicion that she already had her answer and was only trying to make John say it.
"Not been the same how?"
"He's not been trying as hard to...impress us this time. Is this what he's really like?"
"I dunno, love, I hadn't noticed," and he hadn't, so Paul was in a mood tonight, big deal, John was in a mood the other week and beat that American sailor up down by the docks, who gives a shit.
Thankfully, just as Astrid was about to pipe up again, Stu arrived, roughly setting their pints on the table.
"What've I missed then?" He asked, plonking himself down on the other side of John, throwing an arm around his shoulders and licking the beer off his fingers.
"Nothing," John said, as Astrid simultaneously replied, "Paul."
"Oh? What about Paul?" He smirked, lowering his voice as if there was a chance in hell Paul could hear over the racket.
"He's miserable, apparently," John scoffed.
"Oh, right, yeah," he shrugged, "he's always miserable in Hamburg."
Hold on, "What? No he's not," John's fucking blind, but he's not that fucking blind, between their last trip in December and now this trip they'd spent months in Hamburg, if Paul was miserable he'd have said something. And even if he hadn't, John would have noticed, Paul was a fucking drama queen.
"Yeah he is," Stu asserted, "he hates it here."
"He fucking loves it, have you seen him on stage?" John protested.
"He's not in Hamburg when he's on stage though is he, really? He's playing the Palladium as Sir Paul McCartney, MBE, OBE, C-U-N-T."
Astrid reached over John to nip at Stu's ribs. Everyone knew Paul wasn't her favourite by any means, but even she seemed to have reached her limit. She'd attempted to ask John about it a few times. Had thought initially that their rivalry had originated back in Liverpool, that something had happened to provoke it, one of them stole a girl from the other or something, but John set her straight. No birds, no nothing. They'd just always hated each other. When she'd attempted to ask again, John gave her a succinct, "Fucked if I know, love," and sent her on her way.
John was squinting at Paul across the table, who was now using his hand as a face rest. He'd slipped down enough that his chin was almost hitting his pint. He didn't hate Hamburg did he? What was there to hate really? Sure their beds were shit and the wages could be better, but they were playing rock'n'roll for a living, it was their job, John's fucking passport said "musician", it didn't get any better than that. They came out, played, had fights and started fights, fucked girls and drank German beer, it's everything an eighteen year old could fucking want.
Okay, alright, so maybe Paul had been quiet the last few days now he really thought about it, but they all got tired sometimes, the long hours took it out of you, you couldn't be chipper all the time unless you were on some serious drugs, and not just prellies.
Suddenly, Pete turned to talk to Paul, who smiled softly around a laugh. He leant closer to him, obviously to return the joke, because Pete started laughing as well, making a face and gesturing with his hands balled into fists, whatever the fuck that meant. John doesn't think he's ever had one fucking joke with Pete, and he's absolutely sure Pete doesn't actually know what a joke is.
Stu suddenly interrupted his train of thought with a mumbled, "You not want that?" and a hand already reaching over for his neglected pint.
John just slapped his hand away and swallowed half of it in three big gulps. He kept his eyes fixed on Paul and Pete, the two of them carrying on like they were the fucking Marx Brothers, exchanging increasingly hilarious jokes until they eventually just collapsed forward onto the table laughing, causing George and Jürgen to look at them confusedly. Were they best pals now or something? What the fuck had John missed?
---
It came to a head, or rather, John brought it to a head a few nights later, after a particularly long set, a fight with some fella over his girlfriend, and several prellies between the pair of them.
"Do you have any idea how fucking shit this is?" Paul was pacing up and down in the six-by-three feet space between their beds, one hand tangled in his hair, pulling, the other waving about angrily by his side.
"What, you mean sleeping on rusty springs? Having a bath in the communal sinks? Playing eight hours a night six days a fucking week and getting five minutes kip a night? No, hadn't noticed at all Paul to be honest, passed me by such was the fun I was having," he spat, while pulling his leather jacket off and flinging it on George's bottom bunk.
"That's not what I meant," Paul retorted sharply.
"Well it's not my fucking fault mate," he ploughed on, "we all wanted to come you know, we all sat round that table." Where were his fucking fags? He needed a fucking smoke.
"I left my life for this. You and George and Pete and Stu, what'd you lot leave eh? An apprenticeship you didn't even want and a college you can just pick up where you left off at. I left my fucking career, I missed exams, I missed applications, this it for me now, all or fucking nothing," and he sat down stiffly on Tony's single below the window as though he might spring up again to shout at any moment. He probably would, he was a walk-y shouter was Paul, not that he shouted often.
John was still bent over his jacket, rummaging in its seemingly endless collection of pockets for some smokes when he heard a muttered, "Just like you fucking wanted."
"What the fuck do you mean like I wanted? I didn't force you into this, you're free to fucking go as far as I'm concerned, might actually fucking enjoy ourselves without old miserable McCartney about."
And sure enough he was up again, standing toe to toe with John, an unreadable look on his face, "Didn't force me? What happened to, "turn up today or you're out"? That's pretty fucking forceful."
What had that got to do with anything? That was fucking months ago. "You turned up because you fucking wanted to, you hated that fucking job and you know it." He did know it, and more importantly John knew it. Paul wasn't supposed to be coiling wires in some workhouse for tuppence, all the fellas there called him Mantovi for fuck's sake. He turned up too late and bunked off too easily. No matter how much of an empty threat John's ultimatum was, part of Paul knew it was just the excuse he was waiting for to pack it all in.
Still, John knew Paul wasn't about to let the truth get in his way, "I could have been a manager!" he protested, and it sounded laughably weak.
"Yeah, or you could play fuckin' rock'n'roll for a living," John pointed out, while striking a match to light the fag he'd found, "you made the choice mate, the right one. If anything I just helped it along. You're welcome," he said, and puffed.
Paul fumed for a few seconds breathing deeply through his nostrils, obviously trying not to lose complete control, even when pushed to the end of his rope. He sat back down on the bunk across from John this time, below his own, and opened his mouth wordlessly a couple of times, brushing his eyebrows with his thumb in a soothing gesture. John reclined to finish his fag, propping his shoulders against the cold wall behind him, part of him knowing Paul wasn't done with whatever point he was trying to make.
"What-" he fumbled, clearly not knowing where he was trying to go with it and not particularly confident in it either.
"Oh come the fuck on Paul, it's only me," he prompted.
Paul strengthened his nerve and said, "What about "it's me or your dad"?"
John's felt his own eyes widen and his eyebrows raise, giving away the surprise he'd rather not have shown.
"I never said that," he replied firmly. He was pretty fucking sure he wouldn't have let that petty jealousy slip, he didn't like Jim at all, hated him in fact, but he never let on as much to Paul. Let him think it was just the usual teenage rebellion against parents and authority, that it was nothing personal.
"You made it blatantly fucking obvious what the choice was. You knew too right I was stood between," he cuts himself off. "You knew what you were doing. You still told me."
"And you still chose. You had a choice, and you made a decision. Toughen the fuck up and deal with it."
"Fine. Fucking fine, but maybe I just wanted some fucking acknowledgement for it. I've let my fucking dad down for," he paused, "this. Who've you let down? Mimi? Like you give a fuck. If anything it spurred you on, I know how you are. And George and Pete, their mams love it, they're fucking proud. Stu's got a bloody home here now, little school, little wife. I'm a disappointment. And all for this," he trailed off, gesturing grandly with his hand to their scabby little room. "So, yes, pretty pissed off. But I'm still here, still singin' and dancin' so don't worry none, I'm not breaking up the band."
This was probably the most serious conversation they'd ever had and John was drunk, and tired, and about half a dozen prellies deep in preparation for a night out, he didn't know what the fuck to say.
Paul gave a sigh and then stood up, "I'm just gonna sleep tonight, I can't be arsed with any more prellies," he said, before climbing up to his bunk and flipping around to face the wall.
"Paul," John said, ducking out from under the bunk and standing an inch away from the frame of the bed by Paul's head.
He got no reply, no movement, so he tried again, fumbling, "It's your own fault you know." That wasn't exactly what he was getting at and he rubbed his hand across his face in drunken frustration, taking a step back in case Paul got up to fight again.
He didn't though, he just sighed deeply, not rising to the bait, "Yeah, yeah, I get it, clear off."
"We wouldn't be here without you." That was more like what he meant, god he needed fresh air.
Paul didn't take it the way it was meant though, and turned around angrily, rising up on his elbow, "Don't give me that shit, of course you would, you'd have replaced me like we're trying to replace Pete and Stu and you know it. You'd have come here on your fucking own if you needed to."
John just stared at him, floundering. He wanted to fix this, he really fucking did, but he'd never fallen out like this before. He hadn't a fucking clue. So he left, he grabbed his jacket and threw it on, swinging the door open and thundering down the stairs.
---
Things didn't go back to usual after their falling out. Paul put on a happier façade around the band but John still wasn't talking to him. Well, he was talking to him, but not how they used to, he was being almost polite, talking to Paul like you would an auntie, and never really directing questions at him.
It all changed one mid-week evening when Paul was grabbed roughly on the arm and shoved into an alcove by the side of the stage. He clenched his fists and went to pull away before realising it was Horst and freezing. The very idea of Horst pulling him anywhere secluded was terrifying enough on its own, the man had arms as thick as thighs and the scars to prove he'd used them, but it got even worse when he brusquely asked, "Are you a homosexual?"
Paul spluttered and very nearly choked on his own spit, "I – I'm – I -", but before he could reply with a definitive and vitriolic "No!" a more sober part of his brain intercepted his mouth to consider that Horst probably had more of a reason for asking than just beating up a queer, (he probably wouldn't ask for clarification of that before he beat you up anyway.) Like, for instance, what if Horst was queer? What if this was a proposition? How the fuck do you say no to a man twice your size, who's killed people for less? Fuck, fuck, Paul was going to be in serious shit, fuck. Thankfully, before his thoughts sent him to an early grave, Horst ploughed on.
"You need to be safe. Because of your looks. I have had people ask."
Just as Paul's breathing was returning to normal it stopped completely and his eyes shot up to meet Horst's, "...What?"
"Men, they want to know if you will have sex with them," he replied, clearly unfazed.
"No! I'm not a queer!"
Horst stared at him with calculating eyes for what seemed like a decade before he finally let go of his arm and nodded, "Ja, okay." And that was it. He just walked off wringing his big, shovel-hands together, while Paul was left standing red-faced and reeling.
By the time he'd gone to the toilet and splashed some water on his face the others had cleared off. Typical. Paul could still count on one hand the number of nights out he'd been on with the lads since they'd got here however many weeks ago.
Fuckin' fuck 'em, he thought, trudging up to bed for an early night. Or whatever constituted an early night in Hamburg. He hadn't had any prellies again so sleeping shouldn't be too hard. He didn't bother undressing, the less time his skin spent exposed to the spreading mattress stain the better quite frankly. He just threw himself on his bunk, grabbing the complimentary ragged red blanket and rolling himself as tightly as he could into it.
He was asleep for what he was sure was about five minutes when he heard a massive thud, and John's unmistakable voice bellowing, "Yeah, baby!" right next to his head. He groaned and shuffled further to the wall, always careful not to touch it.
"Macca! You're safe!" He shouted again, thumping a hand down on his upper arm, "We thought Horst had gotten you and thrown you in the canal."
Paul still refused to budge in the hope that John would get bored, but really, it was John, who was he kidding. "Macca! Come on mate!"
"John, shut up!" Came George's voice from somewhere below.
"Fuck off George. Paul."
Poke.
"Paul."
Poke.
"Paul!"
Then, after failing to roll Paul over to face him, he climbed onto the bunk, which creaked in a very foreboding manner, and flopped himself down on top of him. "You're such a bird, Paul, you never come out with us, you know what we did tonight, eh? You know where we went? Strip club. You missed it ya poof."
Paul's eyes squinted open and he pushed at John, trying to dislodge him and groaning, "Not again."
"Huh?" John said, a puff of stinking breath cascading across Paul's face.
Paul braced himself before telling him, "Horst called me a poof earlier."
In no surprise to anyone, John burst out laughing, rolling off onto his side next to Paul, dangerously close to falling off the tiny bunk.
Paul let out a small laugh as well before slapping a hand to John's chest, "It's not fucking funny, I thought he was going to pimp me out to all sorts."
John's laughter only got louder, causing George to stop snoring and mutter a croaky, "fuck off" before snuffling to sleep again.
"You should have went for it mate, you'd have made a fortune."
Paul snorted, "You're not joking, he said men had been asking. Could do with the boost to me wages and all, think I should speak to him again?" He said, turning to face John with a smirk.
But apparently it wasn't as funny to John anymore, who shifted abruptly next to him, propping himself up on one elbow, hand under his face to support his drunken head. "What men?"
"I dunno, Horst just said men had been asking if they could fuck me, I told him I wasn't interested. He left it at that, I thought I was gonna have a fight on my hands."
"Men from the club?"
"I suppose so, I didn't really ask specifics."
"Fuckin' hell," John replied quietly, dropping his head back down on the mattress, "No more flirting on the stage for you then mate, could end up attracting the wrong sort."
"Nah, Horst seemed good about it, he'll fend em off."
John huffed before resting his hand on Paul's face and replying, "I'll knock em out Paulie don't worry, I'll be your knight in shi-"
Paul pushed him off the bunk, John groaning on the floor in pain, "You're a cold hearted queer, McCartney."
---
Apparently the threat of queers on Paul's virtue was enough to bring John around to being his friend again, and even more so. They'd spent the next few days stuck to each other, closer than they'd ever been in Hamburg. Twice they'd gone to the seaman's mission for an English breakfast, and they'd even gone into the centre of Hamburg to buy some postcards and small trinkets to send back to the girls.
Paul knew John kept in pretty good contact with Cyn, but he wasn't nearly half as good with Dot, had only sent her one proper letter since he'd arrived weeks ago. They'd decided to write and invite them over for a few days, show 'em the sights and sounds of post-war Germany, and keep them out of St. Pauli as much as possible. John was even asking around for ideas for days out, any beaches or fairs or the like, asking if there were any cinemas showing English films. Playing the diligent boyfriend like Paul probably should be doing. Like Paul used to do. He wished he could blame his indifference on Hamburg, but him and Dot had been on the ropes for a while. There were no thrills between them anymore. Everything was by rote, and the distance certainly wasn't helping. Paul barely thought about her unless he was writing a letter to her, too consumed with thoughts of the band, and John, and his pathetic fucking life.
---
"John! Where'd you go? We're going to Klaus's mates house, big art do happening apparently."
"Great."
"You seen Paul? He's not fucked off with that leggy bird again has he?"
"Dunno, we going or not?"
Thankfully George couldn't care less about corralling any more people into attending, so he dropped it and led John out of the club to the street where the others were waiting.
Klaus's mate’s art do turned out to be a lot of early twenty-somethings in an abandoned house on a clearly unloved and undeveloped street not far from the Reeperbahn. Turns out he's quite the talker in his native language, flitting from group to group telling what appeared to be hilarious stories and John amuses himself by laughing loudly and sarcastically at all the wrong points.
Not that John gave a shit what Pete and Paul did, but he hadn't a fucker here to talk to. George fucked off with Jürgen the minute he stepped through the door, and Stu may as well have not turned up at all, the only party he was having was with Astrid, on the end of the fucking settee John was on. John was about to prise Stu off her, when Jürgen interrupted with a retching sound and gestured from his beer bottle to John and then to the door to what he presumed was the kitchen.
"One of the students stole the beer."
And by "stole the beer", he didn't mean a couple of bottles, he meant "the beer of a small brewery", because there were several crates all piled up in the corner with one particularly intimidating man standing guard and handing them out.
Jürgen introduced him to some of his friends, one of whom, Dieter, (or Peter?) could speak fluent English, which made for much easier conversation, especially when John started cracking Nazi jokes and Dieter laughed along. They talked about art and photography and women and music - Dieter was a rock'n'roll fan, so John didn't have to lecture him.
It was at least two hours later when John set about finding his long lost friends, having no luck finding George or Stu, who'd probably taken off with Astrid, he asked around for Jürgen.
"Where is Jürgen?" he asked a group of girls standing in the hallways, all of whom looked at him with furrowed brows. How fucking hard was "Where is" to understand, how do you not know "where" in English?
He heaved a breath and tried again, "Wo ist Jürgen?"
"Wer ist Jürgen?" A dark haired girl replied.
Ah, so it was the Jürgen part that was the problem. "Jürgen, you know, Klaus's friend. Freund."
It seemed to finally click and one of them pointed upstairs. It probably should have occurred to him what "upstairs" meant, but he was several bottles deep and it didn't hit him until he slammed open one of the doors and found Jürgen on top of some girl on the floor with her coat underneath her. Jürgen looked up in anger, about to shout, until he realised it was John and his tone seemed to change, "What?"
"Uh, I was just about to head back, was wondering if you're coming with or not?"
"Well no, no, I'm-"
"Bit busy, yeah, I see. Sorry love," he said, tilting his head to get a better look at her, which without his glasses amounted to seeing a flesh coloured blob. He raised his hand apologetically about to back out of the room when Jürgen spoke again.
"John I think - " Jürgen cut himself off, and John may have been drunk but he knew when something was up, and it all became blatantly obvious when an assuredly masculine voice asked, "Was ist los?"
"Oh. Fuck." He quickly reached for his glasses in his pocket and shoved them on, seeing Jürgen's "girlfriend" properly for the first time, and though she made a second rate bird, she made a first rate bloke, proper handsome, even John had to admit. He became aware probably far too late into his deductions that he was just standing there gawping, and that he should probably leave.
"Uh, entschuldigung bitte. Sorry Jürgen mate, catch you later," he said, stomping down the stairs with an inexplicable smirk on his face.
---
So John was a pervert. He'd always known it. Every girl he'd ever fucked he wanted to fuck harder, wanted to fuck them outside, in a park, or tied up, or tied up in a park. He'd been to drag clubs on the strip the first time they came out here. Even let one of the queens give him a lap dance, and maybe he'd gotten a little bit hard, but that's all to be expected when you're a perv. The other lads knew of course, but John being John, they'd written it off as a joke. When John mentions tying Brigitte Bardot up and slapping her while fucking her in their group wanking sessions they all groan and laugh and tell him to shut up. He doesn't help his case when he follows that image up with "Winston Churchill" and "Mimi", but he's brought it up enough that if they'd wanted to, they could have taken the hint.
That's all it is. Just a pervert. When he's having a wank in the dead of night as the others sleep around him, and his mind conjures up the image of Jürgen holding that random bloke down and fucking him up the arse it’s just perversion. That’s all it is.
He's not a queer, he doesn't want to fuck a fella. Okay, so sometimes he looks at Stu or Paul and pictures them giving him a blowjob, but that's not sexual, not really, John knows it's about control and dominance. He needs to dominate, and sometimes that’s the image that springs to mind, he doesn't get off to them.
Maybe he was thinking about it a bit, and maybe he couldn't shake the image, but in his defence he'd never met a queer before. He knows a couple of them, sure - he studies art for fucks sake - but he's never been friends with one, and it's interesting. Because it's perverse, not because it's attractive.
---
"You fancy George," was the revelation two nights later when Jürgen was back at the Top Ten. After the party it had all very abruptly clicked into place - George and Jürgen's fast friendship, the day trip Jürgen had insisted on taking George on, Jürgen buying George’s drinks.
"Uh, what?"
"You think George ist sehr schön, ja?"
Jürgen looks at John for a long minute. Probably weighing up the likelihood that he'll get a smack for his response. Eventually he releases a small smile and says, quietly, "Ja, yes, George is, ah, very...handsome," all while shuffling his pint from hand to hand on the table, looking around as if willing Astrid or Klaus to appear from the shadows. "Do you have, uh, a problem with that?"
John was in a bit of a forgiving mood about it all, and to be honest, he was kind of enjoying it. "Me? Nah mate, couldn't give a fuck, less competition for the birds," and he plastered what he hoped was a friendly, un-mocking smile on his face, clinking his pint with Jürgen's.
He let them sit in a companionable silence for a few minutes, maybe waiting to see if Jürgen would scarper, and when he didn't he ploughed on.
"Besides, we're all a bit queer aren't we? I'd suck Elvis's dick."
Jürgen laughed before replying, "Ah, ja, me too," and finishing his drink. There was a long pause as Jürgen seemingly stared into space, and then at John, before adding, "Paul is like Elvis, I think. He looks like Elvis."
John's pint jolts slightly on the way to his mouth as the implication of the words hit him. Jürgen had been so obvious in his pursuit of George that it hadn't really occurred to John to look further afield as well, but it all makes sense. He doesn't even have to think about it, of course he fancies Paul, everyone fancies Paul. He was by far the best looking of the group, with only Pete as any sort of competition. And John's not putting himself down, he gets his fair share of girls with a fair bit of ease, but Paul's on a different level and always has been. John's known that from the minute he first saw him. He didn't know the fucking talent he was about to unearth, but he knew Paul was going to be usefully attractive. They all take the mick about him looking like a girl (because he does), but it's still a bit of a surprise to hear another bloke telling you he wants to fuck your mate.
John eventually gathers his thoughts enough to ask, "So, you wanna fuck him as well then?"
"Wer? Elvis or Paul?"
"Paul."
"Uh, I would not say no?"
John doesn't really know what to do with that confession, for some reason it unsettles him more than Jürgen being attracted to George. Maybe because George was more like a little brother to him, so it was just funny, but Paul's his best mate, and another bloke wanting to fuck your best mate just isn't on. Any bloke wanting to fuck another bloke isn't on really, John supposes, but when it's your mate it's even less on.
"Would you?" Jürgen asks, and it takes John a while to catch on, his brain still stuck on the last thought.
"Fuck Paul? I don't fucking think so mate, I'll leave that to you. I'd stick it up Elvis if he asked, who am I to deny the King?"
"I thought maybe you would," Jürgen says casually, rolling a fag between his fingers.
The atmosphere changed in a split second, Jürgen couldn't have seen it coming, and John's eyes caught his with a hawk-like intensity, "What the fuck do you think you're saying?" Who the fuck did he think he was talking to? John isn't one of his fucking faggot friends.
Jürgen quickly realises he's overstepped an unspoken line and holds his hands up in surrender, "Nothing, nothing, I didn't-"
He leans even closer across the table, hand letting go of his pint and curling into a hovering fist as he speaks, "You think I'm a fuckin fag? I fuckin look like a fag?"
"Nein, nein, ich- I - You and he are just such good friends, ja? You're cool guys, you're like us, ich de - I thought you would have, what is the word, tested? Try? With each other? Like the artists do."
"Yeah well you thought fucking wrong mate, we don't do any of that queer shit, we ain't those kind of "artists", alright? Keep your fucking mouth shut, kraut."
"Ja, yes, I know," Jürgen muttered as he slunk back in his seat, clearly wanting to leave but not wanting to make any sudden movements. Good. He should be fucking scared. They sat in a tense silence for a few seconds before John slammed a hand down on the table, kicked his chair back, and stormed off.
---
"You know Jürgen's gay?" John declares as he saunters into their room the next day, plonking himself down next to Paul who’s sat on his bed. Paul spends as little time as possible on his own bed, and John's has the thickest mattress. Technically Tony's had the thickest mattress, until one tragic Sunday night when he didn't anymore, and John suddenly had.
Paul looked up confusedly from the letter he was writing, "What? For real?" Before turning back to it, scrawling messily on a piece of paper the size of a postcard. Paper was surprisingly hard to come by once you’d run out of notebooks. They all usually resorted to nicking some from the main office when Kosch was out.
"Yeah. You know that art party Klaus took us to a few weeks ago?"
"Yeah," Paul shrugged, chewing the pen between his teeth.
"Caught him shagging some bloke."
Paul's mouth dropped a bit in surprise, "Huh. I didn't – I didn't see that coming."
"I don't think the bloke did either," John said, with a lecherous smile.
Paul snorted, but didn't pick up the conversation again, turning back to his letter. Fucking Dot and her never-ending letters. The poor German postmen probably pulled them out of their bags like magicians pulling handkerchiefs from their sleeves. John tried to look at what Paul was writing back, something to give him grief over later, but he’d left his glasses somewhere earlier and hadn’t bothered getting someone to find them for him.
Realising it was probably a long stretch to expect Paul to piece it together, John went ahead and prompted him, "He fancies George."
Paul's head shot up and his eyebrows climbed even further, "No way, fuck off."
"No, honest he does, why do you think he's always hanging round him? For all the guitar talk?"
Paul just exhaled loudly, slumping back against the wall and slowly rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip, smirking a bit, "Kinda makes sense though doesn't it? I mean – him and George, or well, just him. He's always, y'know, hanging about."
"Aye, I thought as much myself when I found out he was a poof, so I just out and asked him."
There was a brief moment of silence as Paul chewed on his pen and exhaled, "Fuck me," he said, rubbing a hand through his greasy hair. It was sticking up in odd clumps from all the Vaseline they used, but John thought Paul still managed to make it look styled.
"Aye, he wants to do that and all," John said coolly.
Paul snorted, "Funny."
"Swear to God he does," John replied, holding his hands up in mock deference.
"Oh fuck off mate, he's not even gay is he? This is just one big 'Paul looks like a poof' gag, I know your ways," he accused with a smile.
"No! Honest! I mean, you do look like a poof, but he does want to fuck you, heard it with mine own ears."
Paul just leaned back and shook his head, smiling, "You're something else Lennon."
John shrugged, "Fine, don't believe me, but don't come crying to me when he's got you out the back alley trying to stick it up you."
Paul's face creased up in disgust, "God, John, leave it out."
"I'm just saying, back against the wall when he's about from now on," John replied, cackling when Paul lobbed his pen at him.
---
John dealt with the whole situation as tactfully as he's dealt with everything in his life, which is to say, with absolutely no tact at all. Jürgen dropped by the Top Ten Club a few hours before they were due on stage to see George, and they got through one pint before John grandly announced, "Right, so, Jürgen's a queer then," followed swiftly by, "don't look at Paul directly love, you might come in your trousers," and then sauntering gleefully off to the bar for another pint, leaving Paul and Jürgen in what had to be the most awkward silence of their lives.
George was shaking his head, Astrid and Klaus looked at John in anger, and Stu just sighed. Jürgen looked the worst out of all of them, mouth moving soundlessly around words and hands nervously wiping down thighs.
Klaus tried to make some small talk about the weather to diffuse the tension, which gave Jürgen the opportunity to lean across the table towards Paul.
"I'm sorry, I did not want to make you feel, ah, uncomfortable," he said, fumbling over the last word.
"Don't worry about it mate, honestly, I don't mind. Flattering if anything."
"John has been..." he trailed off, obviously not knowing how to say what he wanted to say.
"Been what?" Paul prompted.
"Been watching me."
Paul looked around, expecting John to be watching them from the bar, but he couldn't see him at all.
"I don't think he likes me," Jürgen announced as Paul turned to face him.
"Nah mate, course he does, trust me, you'd have a black eye if he didn't like you," he said amicably, slapping him on the shoulder to show there were no hard feelings over the whole thing. "Can't help my good looks can I? And look," he said, leaning close to meet him in the middle, "there's really no hard feelings mate, but could you – could you not mention it to the others? They take the mick enough already, yeah?"
Jürgen smiled and ducked his head, "Yes, of course, I - "
"Alright?" John re-emerged, seemingly out of thin air, slapping his hand down on Paul's shoulder with such force that the pint in his other hand spilled over the edge.
"Jesus Christ John, are you trying to dislocate something?" he shook his hand off and wiped what was left on his jeans, he'd just washed this pair as well, fuck.
"Not staying late tonight are you Jürgen?" John asked, ignoring Paul except to dig his fingers harder into his shoulder. Paul really didn't know where to start with John these days, he blew hot and cold at a rate of knots.
Jürgen looked back at John, confused, before replying, slowly, "Yes, I think so."
John just nodded moodily and slapped himself into his chair beside Paul, glaring instead of talking until George came back from wherever he'd disappeared to. Paul looked at him, frowning and gesturing with his hands as if to say, "what the fuck's got into you?" But John just raised his eyebrows in a silent, provocative, "Oh, don't you know?"
He made Jürgen's night hell, throwing sly digs that Jürgen seemed to expertly deflect, until the night was dying down and John, not thinking his impact was felt enough, decided to escalate his petulance.
"Oi, George?"
George's head turned to John's from across the table.
"Jürgen's got something he wants to say to you. Go on Jürgen," he said, jostling his elbow.
To Jürgen's credit he just started John down, slowly lowering his pint before steadily replying, "Nein."
"Lost your Englisch have you? It's alright, I'll translate -"
"John," Paul had to interrupt, he couldn't watch John humiliate their friend like this just to get one up.
John ignored him and ploughed on, "He's quite inter-"
"Right, that's enough," he said, getting up and dragging John with him.
"Get the fuck off me, McCartney."
He dragged him all the way through the back and up the stairs to their bedroom, at which point John snatched his arm back, and inhaled a deep breath, preparing to let loose.
"No, John, what the fuck was that? What the fuck's wrong with you? You can't go around telling people that sort of shit!" Paul sighed, gnawing at his lip, "It's one thing to tell everyone he's queer, which everyone already knows, dickhead, but you can't go around telling people he fancies them - "
"George needs to know! He needs to know to look out for himself!"
"You've got to be fucking joking, look out for himself? Jürgen's not a fucking rapist John!"
"How the fuck do you know? How do -"
"John, listen to yourself!"
"No, you listen," he said, getting right into Paul's face and raising a finger, "how do you know what that little creep's capable of?"
“Creep?” Paul retorted incredulously, “John it’s Jürgen, he’s as creepy as the Queen Mother.”
“Never thought you’d be such a defender of the queers, something you want to tell me, Paulie?”
“Yeah, stop being a dick to your friends, since when have you ever cared if someone’s queer? You and Stu hung out with Roy all the time at home.”
---
The infuriating thing was Paul was right. He couldn’t even play silly beggars and pretend he didn’t know Roy was as bent as a nine bob note, the man had tried it on with Stu in the flat for fuck’s sake. If John had been a bit less drunk and tired he might have paused to consider just what exactly it was about Jürgen that was winding him up so much, but here he was, drunkenly indignant for no apparent reason, and not about to give up the fight.
“He - he -” He really shouldn’t have drank so much, Paul was doing his annoying eyebrows now, the ones that said, “I know you know you’re being a tit, and now I have to hang about while you un-tit yourself and I can’t be bothered because I’m just so wonderful I could be off shagging every girl on the Reeperbahn.” Fucking arsehole.
“Roy wasn’t trying it on with you though was he?”
There was a bit of a pause where Paul’s eyebrows climbed down from his hairline and furrowed into his eye sockets in a bout of confusion.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
A horrible, looming feeling swept through him as he stood there, a foot away from Paul. “Well it’s - he can’t- you’re not queer are you? I’m just looking out for my mate, I don’t want him - why don’t you care? He’s walking around thinking about sticking it up you and you’re just fine and dandy with it?” John didn’t know where he was going when started that sentence but he landed it well in the end he thought.
Paul flung his hands out again, and John could see him approaching the end of his very long tether, “John, mate, I don’t care so long as he doesn’t jump me! They’re just thoughts in his head, we’ve all had ‘em, it doesn’t make him a bad person.”
John couldn’t have clapped his jaw shut if you’d paid him. How could Paul, a man who spent more time in women’s knickers than a midwife, just brush off another man fantasising about - wait a minute. John could feel a slow, delicious grin spreading across his face and he locked eyes with Paul, who just blinked at him, chest still puffing with aggravation.
“What thoughts have you been having, Paulie?”
A fast blush began spreading across his cheeks, and John could feel something building in his chest, the looming shadow from moments ago disappearing.
Paul fumbled his answer, “Not - not those types of thoughts, just you know, other thoughts, like, dirty thoughts, the usual.”
A lie he could have gotten away with if he hadn’t been telling it to John. Memories of all the blow-by-blow accounts of Paul’s escapades, every breath, moan, and goosebump described in vivid detail. Paul had nearly talked John off last year telling him about a girl he’d fucked from Birkenhead, and suddenly John was supposed to believe he was blushing over some thoughts about naked ladies?
“Whatever, this isn’t worth it,” Paul turned to leave, but John grabbed his arm, not knowing why, only knowing that something more should be happening. He thought it was impossible that Paul wasn’t feeling whatever this was too, but Paul wasn’t looking at him, his eyes were wandering around the room, the ugly red blush still staining his cheeks and ears.
John squeezed his arm, “Paul - Fucking -” He shook his arm in frustration because he didn’t have the words.
Still without looking at him, Paul muttered, “Just leave Jürgen alone alright? He’s a good bloke,” and then slid his arm free, walking towards the door.
Emotions ran riot through John, and he couldn’t understand any of them, but as Paul rested his hand on the doorknob he blurted, “Don’t go.”
"This place is fucking awful," he said. Then he walked out
---
The remaining weeks in Hamburg were lousy. A constant cycle of drinking, screaming, fighting, prellies, vomiting and hangovers. The Germans probably had the best nights in the club since they arrived, watching John get wilder and wilder on stage. Throwing things, stripping off, attempted arson, but no matter what he did, the same fucking looming feeling clung to him, seemed to drip from him like rancid glue. His freakishness, once a light, indiscernible shape that he viewed with pride, was now leaden and terrifyingly recognisable.
Nothing would shift the feeling, and he was becoming more and more concerned that he’d have to start doing some really fucking crazy shit just to be free for five fucking minutes.
Then they started travelling home. They were on the last leg, standing in a car park in god knows where, waiting on their van to pick them up and drive them back to Liverpool when Paul nudged his elbow and held a fag out for him. “You want?”
He had a smile on his face, not a grin, or a smirk, a full blown smile that creased his eyes and puffed his cheeks. John felt himself smile back without thinking, could feel his own eyes creasing and cheeks puffing.
“Always.” He lifted the ciggie from Paul’s fingers and put it between his lips, quickly using the end of Paul’s match to light his own. “What’s got you so fucking chipper anyway?”
“I could ask you the same. Not seen you crack a smile for weeks. Thought someone had finally knocked your teeth out,” he said, taking a long drag.
He didn’t know what to say, or he did, but the words were taking longer than usual to come out. He hadn’t spoken to Paul in days and apparently he’d forgotten how. Thankfully he was saved from himself by a minibus flying into the car park at forty miles an hour, Neil at the wheel thumping his hand on the horn and shouting “Wilkommen!” out the window.
“Jesus Christ, I’ve heard quieter air raids.”
He heard Paul snort from beside him, crushing his fag under his shoe before going to greet Neil with a sieg heil. John deliberately found his way to the back of the bus given that Neil looked like a man ready to interrogate and John didn’t feel like confessing. He threw his bag at his feet, and no sooner had he moulded his jumper into just the right shape for a pillow than he felt someone plonk down beside him.
“Seriously?” There were six of them in a twelve seater bus and Paul decided to slide into his pew?
Fucker just smiled at him again, “We’re coming home, cheer the fuck up.”