Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stuart stepped closer to John, twisting his hips as he played. John’s eyes shifted from Paul’s face to Stuart's. He screamed out the last lines of The Girl Can’t Help it. Someone handed John a cigarette.

“Thank you and goodnight!” George yelled to the audience, who spouted words at the stage in German. Pete stumbled away from his drum set, sweat and smoke curling around him. Stuart pulled at the strap of his bass and looked out at the patrons of The Kaiserkeller. He turned from the adrenaline covered faces and the blinding lights to be met with smoke from John’s mouth. His eyes burned. He closed them and turned his face to the side. Paul sidled up beside John.

“Drink?” He questioned.

John looked to Paul, then to Stuart.

“Stu?”

“I need some air. It’s a bloody sauna in here.” Stuart replied.

Paul nodded with a triumphant smirk on his face, barely noticeable but to those who wanted to notice it. Paul’s guitar came off, so did John’s. Stuart watched them walk off the cramped stage, winding through the crowd to the bar. Klaus, Astrid, and Jürgen welcomed them into the haze of too many people. Stuart looked to Pete, but he was already gone. George walked past him, patting him on the shoulder in sympathy before joining the rest of the group at the bar. Stuart turned to the door on the side of the stage. He let the strap of his bass linger between his fingers for a moment longer before pulling it off and setting the instrument against an amp. He made his way briskly to the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the burning night of St. Pauli. The air was not warm, but not cool either. It was August, and there was a slight breeze, but the remnants of summer humidity remained. The push and pull of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll added a certain buzz to the atmosphere. Stuart was sure he could feel it.

He looked down at his shoes, scuffed against the shattered pavement. From his pocket he retrieved a pack of cigarettes, took one and placed it between his lips. He reached back into his jacket to feel for his box of matches, but it was absent from his grasp. Stuart looked up at the brick wall across from him, then to the left, and to the right. On the far right side of the alley stood two men, speaking in hushed voices to each other. He walked towards them.

“Uh. Hast du… uhh..” He tried, forgetting the word for matches.

One of the men turned to him. He was older than Stuart, maybe in his late thirties. And muscular. Perhaps he was a sailor.

“Englisch?” The sailor asked in a thick German accent.

Stuart nodded.

“What is it you need?”

“Matches.”

The man turned to his companion and then back to Stuart.

“What will you do for them?”

Stuart’s face contorted.

“I dunno, just give me the matches.”

“No. Trade.”

Stuart didn’t have any money. None of them did. He didn’t have anything of value either. And it really wasn’t worth it anyways.

“Nevermind.” He sighed.

He began to walk away, when a strong hand grabbed his arm.

“What the fuck- let me-” The sailor was strong.

Stuart’s cigarette was knocked out of his mouth as he was flipped around and violently pushed against the wall. His head knocked against the bricks, sending a sharp shock of pain down his spine. He tried to break his hands from the sailor’s grasp, but it was of no use. Stuart felt his stomach drop.

“Fuck off! What is this even for!” He said harshly.

He struggled, his shoes pushed against the ground. He brought his knee up to the other man’s crotch, but he felt it held back by another pair of hands.

“How much?” The sailor asked.

“What?”

“How much?” He repeated.

“I dunno, fuck off!”

“Then we will just take what we need, darling.”

Stuart felt like he was going to throw up. He lurched forwards, trying to catch the man off guard and knock him away, but the man turned his head to the side and avoided the blow.

“Don’t make us hold down your pretty neck.” The sailor scolded.

Stuart’s heart was in his stomach, his head was reeling and his body was trying to force his energy levels up so he could get away. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t fight. His arms went limp in the sailor’s grasp.

“That’s good, good boy. Like that, don’t struggle.” The sailor said.

Maybe he smiled at Stuart, but it was too dark and his brain was too high on anxiety to notice. Stuart’s head lolled to the side, and his eyes closed. Maybe if he couldn’t see it would all go away. His legs went limp and the sailor’s friend stopped holding them. If the sailor didn’t still have him pinned to the wall, he would’ve slumped onto the floor. The sailor transferred Stuart’s wrists to one of his large hands, holding them directly over his head.

“We willl give you what you need, Engländer.” The sailor whispered into his ear.

His breath was sour, tainted with beer and cigarettes. Stuart shivered as he felt the warm air on his ear, but he kept his eyes tightly shut. If he didn’t react, it wouldn’t be real. In his head, he saw nothing. A vast emptiness accompanied the feeling of guilt and exposure. This was wrong. He was wrong. He felt something pressing up against the seam of his pants, and he realised it was not them, but him. Oh my god, he was so wrong. At this point, he couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

“Oh, you filthy thing. I told you we would give you what you need. Go on, cry. Das is gut.” The sailor said.

Stuart’s body stayed limp, but his mind was turning. The sailor’s voice disgusts him, the feeling of the sailor’s hands makes him want to climb out of his skin. He doesn’t want this, he wants to go sit at the bar with John, Paul, and George. He would take watching Paul make eyes at John, his John, any day than be where he is now. The sailor’s friend rubs a hand up his side, stopping at his throat for a moment before going back down. How could he let these men’s hands on him? How could he be so weak?

The sailor’s knee is between his thighs, pressing up against him. Against his will, he lets out a broken sob. He doesn’t have enough agency to speak, or he would’ve been yelling curses at the sailor, or begging him to stop. Instead, he removes himself from the present. He thinks about John. The way he stumbles down the streets at night because he refuses to wear his glasses. Blind as a bat, John is. The way he laughs, his whole face tugging upwards. The way his eyes go all soft and watery when it’s just them, late at night, talking about anything and everything. The way he smells after a show, sweaty and smoky and really very gross, but so distinctly John that Stuart can’t help but love it. And so, Stuart is gone. His body is limp, his eyes are closed, and maybe, just maybe, if he thinks hard enough he won’t be here anymore.

When Stuart comes back to his body, the men are gone. He is slumped on the floor, bruises littering his arms and neck. His lip is split. He even has blood trickling sluggishly from his forehead. His shirt is unbuttoned and his pants (trousers, if you’re an Anglo-Saxon) are pulled down to his knees. His body aches, and the cold air of the early morning makes him shiver. Stuart’s hands feel heavy by his side, despite this, he lifts them up and begins to button his shirt. He briefly looks to the side, wondering if he’ll see the men, but the alleyway is empty except for a discarded unsmoked cigarette laying on the ground. Stuart reaches over and takes it between his fingers. He pulls his pants up and re-buckles his belt. He can feel tacky drying liquid flaking against his thighs. He puts the cigarette behind his ear, pulling at his hair to cover it.

Stuart pushed himself up, wincing as he felt a pulse of pain as his muscles moved. One hand braced against the wall, Stuart moved crookedly towards the stage door of The Kaiserkeller, pushing back into the sweaty drains of the club. Most of the patrons are still there, but Stuart can’t tell what time it is. Has it been minutes? Hours? Days?

The room feels as if it's covered in a thin scarf, a veil he cannot reach through. The noise of the club is littered with static, the voices of the people sound as if they're underwater. Stuart looks towards the bar. He sees a figure which he thinks is George, but in his current state he can't be sure. He turns back towards the door he just entered, a sliver of light from the battered neon lights outside slipping into the grime.

—

Something haunts the silence. Stuart wakes up, chilled in his rotten yellow sheets, and it's there. He craves the constant buzzing of some film or another next door, the hum of Paul’s infuriating voice, and oh the music. His bass screams and screams, the skin on his fingers flakes and burns, like his calluses had never been there. It hurts to wash his hands.

Stuart didn’t stay at the bar after shows anymore. He packed his bass, grabbed his jacket, and seeped out into the chilled night of the Reeperbahn. He asked Pete to walk with him, sometimes, but most of the time he walked alone. Little noises, loud noises, all types of sound licked into his mind as he skittered home. There was no time for anything anymore, since he had started at The Kaiserkeller. Daytime was for rest, nighttime was for work, if you could even call it that. And every single second he was surrounded, maybe by John, Paul, George, and occasionally Pete, maybe by the crazed patrons of The Kaiserkeller, maybe by the filth of the men and the women prowling the streets of St. Pauli.

Chapter Text

Paul’s eyes flitted upwards from his drink at the sounds of squabbling outside his hotel door. His back rigid, he eyed the door with an inkling of fear. It’s fine. Probably just a couple of drunks, or a pair of rowing partners. He looked back down into his wine, swirling it in the glass. George and John had gone out to who knows where, and Ringo was safely holed up in his and John’s room across the way. Paul idly wished George was back in the room with him, he wished for a dryly comedic conversation, or a bubbly game of cards, and he wished to fall asleep with George’s tentacle-like limbs tangled around him in a vice grip. But he was alone with the buzzing hum of the building and the angered shouts of the beings just out of his reach. Should he lock the door? Should he cower in the bathroom? He took a sip of his wine.

An hour passed. Paul had finished his first glass of wine and then decided to resort to water. What if something happened and he was inhibited? What would he do then? The room was now quiet, the only noise to be heard was the general wheezes and yelps of the supposed five-star building. There wasn’t a clock in his room, the walls were barren and uncommonly smooth. Paul set his glass of water on the bedside table and stood up to make his way over to the television. He tried to turn it on. Nothing. He swept his eyes behind it. Oh. It wasn’t plugged in. He pushed the cord into the socket and tried again. The screen flicked to life. He tuned the channel, browsing through adverts and cartoons and sports before he came to the familiar drawl of the posh voice of Patrick Troughton. He clambered back to the bed, flipping his legs atop the covers. A thought came to his head.

That haircut looks highly familiar.

He chuckled to himself, bending his brow towards his lap. The television continued to provide much needed stimulation to the discomforted room, and soon enough, Paul fell into a deep sleep, accompanied by the sharp ticking of the drawn out silence.

—

A sight no one wants to awaken to is that of their best friend with blood caked into their hair. Unfortunately, this was the reality for a certain someone. Paul shot up, the scent of iron assaulting his nostrils. He whipped his neck to look at the lifeless form beside him. He reached out his hand, shaking George’s shoulder harshly.

“George?” He yelped. “C’mon, Georgie!”

Paul’s heart dropped. George’s face twitched in annoyance before he opened his eyes and groggily stared at Paul.

“Fuck, George.” Paul said through sharp breaths.

George groaned. His eyes began to drift closed again before his momentary peace was interrupted by Paul.

“Well c’mon la’! Yer fucked! What’s happened to ye?”

George groaned again, bringing his hand up to brush away a strand of hair encrusted to his face with blood.

“Got a bit pissed, y’know.”

“A bit! Ya look like hell. I was right worried you were dead.” The beating of Paul’s heart stayed at the same heightened pace, thumping away against his ribcage, alert.

George’s hand reached out, brushing his arm. He flinched, eyes frantically examining George’s bruised and beaten face.

“‘S alright, y’know. Just got into a bit of a row, nothing horrible.” George spoke softly, with intention, an empathetic air to his voice as to not frighten Paul more than he already was.

“George there’s blood on your pillow!”

“It looks worse than it is.” There it was, that slow, kindly voice. Speaking as if Paul only knew another language.

To Paul it seemed like George was yelling ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

“Please let me clean you up.” Paul begged, attempting to assert some kind of control over the situation.

After a short pause, one filled with immeasurable tension, he replied evenly;

“Go on then.” George gave in, if only for the sake of his friend.

Chapter Text

John doesn’t die in 1980. Him and Paul get marriedddd. George doesn't die in 2001 (idk if George and Ringo are tg). 2020s.

John is better at social media than Paul is.

Every year the lads have a reunion at Friar Park. The guests include: The Beatles, their children, the mothers of those children, and some other people maybe.

I’d love to see John’s interactions with the various Beatle children (esp Dhani I love him).

Old bugs do zoom calls every so often to check up on each other.

John has gotten unhinged when dealing with the press, he says the most insane things, just because he’s allowed to now.

Idk why but I feel like old John would wear more jewelry.

Where Old Paul is like a stereotypical grandma, Old George is like a stereotypical grandpa. He’s grumpy and he goes ‘back in my day’ and such.

John still acts like a teenager, because he is one at heart.

Paul drags John along to Taylor Swift and Gracie Abrams concerts, John says he doesn't like it but he’s lying, he actually loves it.

I have a very specific image in my head of someone handing John a pride flag while he’s on stage and him wrapping it around his shoulders while he sings.

George has long grey hair, it reaches down to his navel. He often keeps it in a braid.

John wears maxi skirts. Because everyone looks good in maxi skirts.

Chapter Text

The sun was rising over a prosaic town, it was hardly noticeable due to the deep fog consuming the streets. The previous night’s weather had been mostly the same, save for the rain that had fallen constantly for hours in the dark. Five miles or so outside of the town lay a moderately sized estate. It was nothing like the suburban dwellings so near to it, it was more isolated and quite unkempt despite the considerable riches of the occupants. Who consisted of Ernest WIlson who, in his years at Cambridge has lost more than he had gained. His sisters Alice and Nellie, who were of a much higher intelligence than Ernest hoped to acknowledge, and their mother, Mrs. Wilson, a widow, who often said more than she should and talked more than she thought. It was a perfectly quaint picture of domesticity.

Most of the family's income came from Ernest’s holdings in properties, many of which were located in the nearby town or in London, but there were a few houses on his own land that his family had rented out for generations.

***

Ernest’s life had not been one of great turmoil. He had had a typically mundane English childhood. He went to school and did well, particularly in his study of the classics. He used his language well, artfully crafting sentences and speaking with grace to most of his relatives. He had a number of schoolboy friends, only a few of which he genuinely liked. His later adolescence was spent on the cricket field of his ordinary public school. He didn't particularly like the sport, but it was the nature of polite Victorian society and he felt obliged to engage. Some of his free time was spent in the bowels of the school studying. He was smart for a youth, but he never hoped to excel past the antiquarian knowledge of a young man of his standing. At Cambridge he cut lectures more often than he should, but he was almost never punished for it because of his superior charm. After he finished his degree, he went into his father’s business as a landlord. Most of his time is now spent lounging about leisurely or on excursions to different towns. He was a traveler at heart, but had never been out of the country. He longed to visit Greece, or Turkey, but he had never really had any excuse to go. His mother didn't understand his desire to get out, she believed that England had everything one could ever need.

***

At this moment, Ernest lay in one of two drawing rooms, the smaller one, nearer to the back of the house. Bookcases lined the walls, the books on them were organized in such a way that only Ernest could access the text of desire with ease. A large cream colored settee was placed on the eastern side of the room. This is where Ernest now sat. Cigarette smoke curled through the air, mixing with the reasonably less beautiful scent of Nellie’s perfume. It wiggled its way into the wallpaper, convincing the room to sustain its scent. Ernest's fingers were stained with tobacco and the taste was still in his mouth, clawing at his throat, long after the cigarette was gone. He did not own a smoking jacket, he found no point in them. He preferred, like many of the young men of his time, to smoke wearing whatever he pleased. Most of his day had been spent in this drawing room,

Chapter Text

Gabriel dropped to the floor by the bed, clutching his phone tightly in his hand. He unlocked it, and dialled a number he hadn't dialled for leisure in almost two years. The phone rang as he shakily held it up to his ear.

A few moments passed. Gabriel considered the possibility that there would be no answer, until-

"Gabriel."

The crackly voice on the other side said solemnly.

"Stéphane I'm Prime Minister."

Gabriel spoke with a rushed quality, nervous and excited.

"I know."

"I still can't believe it."

A pause.

"Come over. Please."

"I'm on my way."

And Stéphane hung up. Gabriel tossed his phone on the bed, watching it bounce slightly before landing face down. He stood, clutching his arms as he paced.

--

Not 15 minutes later, there was a knock on his door. Gabriel rushed to open it. Stéphane stood outside, impeccably dressed as always. He let himself in.

"Stéphane. Fuck."

Gabriel gasped out, desperate and hungry. He was high on adrenaline, the excitement of that conversation with Emmanuel and the heads of the parties, the knowledge that he was on top of the world.

Stéphane moved towards Gabriel's bedside table, taking off his glasses and setting them down gently as Gabriel watched him from behind, helpless.

"Congratulations Gabriel."

He said without turning his back. Gabriel said nothing, looking at Stéphane with his mouth open.

Stéphane turned around.

"Close your mouth, you look like a fish."

Gabriel snapped his jaw closed, straightening his posture. Stéphane regarded him with tired eyes, full of a hidden longing.

"I'm in your government, but, of course, you know that."

Gabriel nods dumbly.

"That makes you my boss."

Gabriel opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, so he closes it again.

"Huh. Why don't you get undressed? That's what you called me for anyways."

"No, no. I promise, I didn't I-"

Gabriel stumbles over his words as he tries to explain.

"Don't. I can't deal with this today."

Stéphane said harshly, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. Gabriel felt like he was going to cry.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll do it."

Gabriel began to unbutton his shirt, peeling it off himself as Stéphane watches, apathetic. Tears begin to well up in Gabriel's eyes as he takes off his pants, but he holds them back.

When he's finished getting undressed and folding his clothes up nicely, like Stéphane had taught him, he looked over to Stéphane, still standing and looking at him with a mix of distaste and desire. Stéphane doesn't say anything, merely gesturing towards the bed.

Chapter Text

George gasped. The blood pooling in his wound began its steady descent down his chest. Billy threw the knife across the room. It hit the wall, small splats of blood adorning the off-white paint. Billy's hand grasped his chin,

"Baby..." he cooed sweetly.

George stayed impossibly still. He felt his blood creating a track down his chest, turning sluggish and cold as it continued to fall. He saw the fine droplet speed up, dipping into his hip bone.

"Oh, darling. One isn't enough, is it?" Billy said. "So fucking greedy."

George didn't speak.

"It's too bad i threw the knife away, isn't it?"

Billy let his hand drop from George's jaw. His cold gloved fingers pushed lightly on his neck, feeling around. Billy pressed his index and middle into George's jugular. George's neck twitched slightly.

"Well, I don't want to kill you. One death is enough, isn't it. Though, in time..." Billy looked into George's eyes through the mirror.

"In time, I may want you dead as well, baby. Can you imagine that?" Billy's lips touched the shell of his ear.

George didn't answer.

"I said, can you imagine that?"

"Yes." George said, voice strained.

"I'd get to you when nobody was watching. I'd come at night. I'd grab you out of your bed and tie you up. I'd gag that pretty little mouth and get my knife. I'd cut you up, I'd watch you bleed until you passed out and then I'd stab you straight through the heart. And then I'd fuck you." Billy rambled off.

"Can you imagine that? Your dead body, limp and warm and so fucking easy." Billy's teeth scraped across his ear.

George gasped, eyes fluttering closed as Billy moved down to mouth at his neck. His teeth were so gentle, George was scared of what was to come.

Billy bit down, hard. Not on his jugular, but where his neck meets his shoulder. George didn't scream. A silent tear ran down his face. He swallowed, trying to keep his emotions at bay. Billy's teeth dug into his skin, trying to break into him.

George heard a pop, and then he felt it. His eyes shot open. Pain, skin peeling away from his body. Billy had taken a bite out of him. George's hand automatically reached up to hold his wound, to tear Billy away from him. George screamed. Billy sucked and pulled at the wound with his teeth. Warm blood dripped out of Billy's mouth and down George's chest. George could feel the opening throbbing and thudding across his whole body.

"Fuck, no, Billy..." George whimpered, "No, no, no, no..."

George gasped, tearing beginning to flow in rivers. He sobbed as Billy pulled his face away, blood clotting in his moustache. George couldn't hold himself up, he dropped to his knees. Billy pushed his tongue into his cheek.

"I'll take you apart, you fucking faggot. I bet you're getting off on this, aren't you?" Billy didn't even force him to stand up, he just picked up his foot and dug the heel of his boot into George's thigh.

George wept. How was he here? He wanted Paul back, he regretted ever saying a single degrading word to him. Billy was so much worse. George looked down at his lap, watching his tears fall onto his naked and bloodied thighs. He wanted Billy to leave so he could crawl over to the phone and call 999. He wanted Billy to stay and put his boot between George's legs. He heard Billy spit and felt something wet and amorphous hit his back and slide down.

"Hold your head up." Billy tugged his hair, forcing George's head to snap up and look in the mirror. George gasped, the sudden movement stretching the wound on his shoulder.

"Turn around."

"I- I can't" George pleaded.

"Yes you fucking can." Billy's grip on his hair tightened and his scalp burned.

George tried to avert his eyes from the gash on his shoulder. He clambered around, turning so that his back was facing the mirror.

"Clean." Billy tapped him the toe of his boot against the floor, next to where a scrap of George's skin lay, covered in blood and Billy's saliva.

"No, no you can't-"

"Yes I fucking can. Clean it up."

George slowly reached over, mindful of the stretch in his weak shoulder, and picked it up.

"Not like that, you pansy. With your mouth."

George's eyes grew wide. His grip on the skin became loose and it fell to the floor. He lowered his body so his mouth was aligned with it, and opened his lips. He grasped it between his teeth and brought it into his mouth. It felt strange, rubbery and soft. It was difficult to bite into, it just kept slipping around against his teeth. Eventually, he got a good hold on it and peeled it down the center. Two scraps of skin lay dormant in his mouth.

"God, look at you. You'd do anything for me. I bet you'd even cut your own leg off."

George wouldn't. George wanted out, now. The fear in his heart overrode the pain in his body.

Was Billy going to kill him now?

Chapter Text

He was lucky, that's what he told himself. He was lucky his father took such good care to keep him out of the public eye and bribe people to change his gender marker, to eradicate his medical history, he was lucky his mother was such a kind and caring woman. He was lucky his wife didn't mind getting fucked with his silicon cock. He was lucky T had done so much for his body, given him a strong jawline, his very own tiny cock, helped him loose weight, made his hands all bony and figured.

He was lucky. He was so so lucky. This is what he kept telling himself, every time he looked in the mirror and caught a glimpse of his face, of the suit jacket and tie hanging from him. You're just pretending. You're just pretending to be a big, strong man. You can't run a county.

2003, the results came in and his heart sparked. He was finally there, finally doing something! But then, as it always does, it all came crashing down in a matter of minutes. The news was switched on.

'Gavin Newsom elected Mayor of San Francisco. He is to be sworn into office in January of 2004.'

God, that name. His name, the one he chose, the ugly, bulky name that he chose so people would think he's a real man. A man who's capable of running a county, of maybe running a state someday, of fucking his county over.

He remembers back in collage, that roommate, a republican, bending him over his desk and fucking him. Week after week, those papers in his face, that voice behind him, calling him dirty, incapable, a whore, but always, always a man.

"Dirty little fag. You think you're gonna save the country? Huh? That what daddy told you? Oh, fuck off. You're just a filthy fucking whore. Yeah take it like that, good boy. This is all you're good for."

Disgusting. He was still so filthy. He was still just a little girl. He couldn't do this the right way.

On January 8, 2004, he was sworn into office. Afterwards, he had a celebration. Donors, friends, family, all surrounded him. The glass of champagne in his hand was still almost completely full. He stood intertwined with a mix of donors and representatives, making snide comments and chuckling when appropriate. Diplomacy, possibly the worst thing Gavin would ever endure.

Kimberly stood with his father, and he kept taking quick glances towards them at any given interval. His wife's glass of white wine was slowly dwindling. Gavin looked down at his own drink and grimaced. He abandoned it on a table. His father's drooping face seemed to fall to the carpet and his light sunken eyes bore into him, screaming. Gavin blinked. His father was looking away from him.

He grasped at his sleeve, looking down. A woman, one of his, he supposed, continued to speak to him about one policy or another. He looked up at her.

"Michela. Can you send me the details? It'd be great. Yeah. Thanks."

Michaela (Alioto-Pier. If you're wondering) nodded politely, confirming.

"Course. You are the mayor now, after all. It'll be in your inbox by morning."

"Oh, don't stress yourself Michela. Take your time."

And with that short and feeble excuse, Gavin turned and sped towards the bathroom.