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Paul’s lying on John’s bed, naked as the day he was born, wondering how the hell it took them both so long to get to this point. How things could’ve been different if they did this back in 1960 when they had been just two teenaged teddy boys and not now, almost two decades later, both in their late 30s.
“Was I your first?” John asks quietly, still trying to catch his breath.
“No,” he replies, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve got four kids, y’know.”
“Idiot,” John mutters, not even trying to hide the smile on his face. “You know what I meant. Was I the first man you slept with?”
“Not that either,” he hums happily.
John raises his eyebrows. But who…?
“Robert Fraser,” Paul says, as if reading his mind. “In ‘67 or ‘68. Before India.”
“Ah.” John gives him a curt nod as a response. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been suspicious of the two already back then, so really it was nice to have those suspicions confirmed.
(Despite the growing feeling of jealousy in the pit of his stomach that only seems to get stronger from the mere thought of Paul like that with somebody else.)
“What about you, then?” Paul asks. “Was I your first?”
“Erm…” He pauses, trying to shake the thought of Paul and Robert out of his mind. “No.”
“No?” Paul repeats, looking back at John. The small grin playing at his lips seems to grow ever so slightly as he notices the awkward look on his face. “Brian?”
John shakes his head. “Stu.”
“Oh?”
He nods, speaking his next words quietly, barely able to form a coherent sentence. “But Brian and I… when we were in Spain… Y’know.”
Of course Paul knows. How could he not, with the fit John had thrown at his 21st birthday party when someone had dared to ask him about the Barcelona trip.
“So you’ve been with multiple lads before me, then,” he states, almost smug in his tone.
“You calling me a slut, Macca?” John asks playfully, poking at Paul’s side with his finger.
“No, no, not at all,” he assures him, chuckling softly as he swats John’s hand off of him. “Me too, y’know.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm.”
“Like…?”
“Mal, for one.”
A small chortle of incredulous laughter escapes John’s lips. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“Am not,” Paul says with a laugh before continuing. He seems almost proud of the fact that John apparently hadn’t had a clue. “A few times, too.”
John can’t help but roll his eyes. Maybe he should’ve seen that one coming as well; Mal had been the closest to Paul out of all the Beatles, at times reduced to a somewhat servant-like role if the bassist so desired, so really it shouldn’t be that big of a surprise if Paul had gotten Mal to sleep with him on top of it all.
“Slag. Who else?”
“Denny Laine,” Paul reveals with absolutely no shame, the proud grin on his lips growing even wider.
“Harry Nilsson,” John answers with an equally giddy smile, as if trying to one up him.
“Donovan.”
“Mick Jagger.”
“George Martin.”
“Now I know you’re lying,” John says, barely able to contain his laughter, giving Paul a light shove as they lay there on the bed. The scene reminds him of when they were younger, playfully ragging on each other and then giggling like schoolboys about it. Puppy love, it had been; both dying to be around each other every hour of the day but too shy to express those feelings in any meaningful way, in a way that would’ve led to something more.
“I would never!” Paul says, gasping at the accusation. “In fact, there was even a time when he—”
John doesn’t want to hear any more. He silences Paul with a firm kiss on the lips, to which the other man melts instantly, soft lips moving against John’s own, a small, barely-there moan slipping out of his throat.
“That’s enough of that,” he mutters softly against Paul’s lips once he finds it in himself to pull back from the kiss.
“Your fault for asking.”
“Sure.” John smiles as he leans down to kiss him again, this time peppering Paul’s jawline with soft pecks, breathing in his smell. For a while, they just lay there, both still recovering from the earlier lovemaking — twenty years ago they’d probably be way past their refractory periods by now, but that too had changed over the years. Then John opens his mouth again. “Y’know, you’re the best I’ve had. By far.”
Paul smiles. “You too.”
John smiles back. Despite the years, there’s still a hint of that teenaged boy in the man he’s looking at: the way his eyes light up whenever John compliments him, the way his dark brown hair sticks to his forehead with sweat — although this time it’s not from playing multiple hour long gigs at seedy Hamburg clubs, but from a completely other reason, one John at his current age is much more fond of. Nevertheless, there’s also something different about the Paul he’s looking at right now, not just agewise; a sort of vulnerability that he hadn’t yet seen twenty years ago, back when they had both felt like they needed to prove themselves to each other, whatever that meant. Right now there’s nothing they need to prove to each other anymore; all’s been said and done, for better and for worse.
John wraps his arms around Paul and pulls the man closer to himself, reveling in the feeling of his own body pressed tight against Paul’s. The jealousy he was feeling earlier has faded; after all, even with all the previous men (and women) they’ve both been with, Paul’s ended up right here, next to him in his bed. Just like he should be, the thought echoes through his mind as John lets out a quiet sigh, his nose buried in the raven hair.
After a while, Paul rolls away from John’s arms, moving to straddle him instead. A soft gasp slips through John’s lips as he feels Paul’s naked body on top of his own, his cock already beginning to react to the sensation. Before he can say anything, however, Paul silences him with a quick kiss.
“So, how about a second round, hm?” he suggests, grinning against his lips. And of course John says yes; after all, they have a lot of catching up to do to make up for all the wasted years.