Chapter Text
“I miss you, y’know,” the letter read. John had been looking over these words Paul had written to him over and over, his mind was spinning with a mixture of strong emotions. Emotions he knew all too well, yet refused to acknowledge out of some kind of fear.
These words were quite simple and perfectly innocent—something that you could just tell your mate without any queer intentions behind them—though it’s the way Paul had included them into his letter. The way his writing had seemed to pause and slow while he jotted down his thoughts to John.
John’s thick eyebrows furrowed as he scoffed. “Stupid,” he thought, “it’s plain idiotic to think this way.” Think about how Paul wrote, the way his hands moved swiftly as he wrote letters or lyrics, think about anything that happened to relate to McCartney. All things he had memorized from all the times the two were together. It was quite hard not to think about Paul, since practically everything he did since they met had some kind of connection to him.
They hadn’t been apart from each other terribly long, no longer than maybe around a week, but it had practically felt like a month at this point. “Guess Paul felt it’s been a while too, huh,” John mumbled to himself before closing the letter and tucking it neatly back into the envelope.
Even though John was acting like it was some stupid idea to miss Paul as strongly as he had seemed to miss him, John had missed Paul too, not in a way a queer would though. Or at least that was what he was trying to tell himself. His feelings were growing stronger and extremely overwhelming the more he thought about Paul, specifically about how much he truly missed him.
It didn’t matter anyways. He was too busy writing lyrics for their next album to think too hard about his feelings for his best mate. The feelings that were too deep for him at this moment, and he didn’t have the mental capacity to think about it, nor try to understand what it meant for himself.
Every time he struck a chord on his acoustic, he thought of Paul. He was getting embarrassed and frustrated. Why did he care so much for his best mate? He had already written a letter back—mostly just about what he’d been doing while away and their upcoming music, not really acknowledging the miss you part—so why couldn’t McCartney leave his mind?
John wanted to clear his mind of Paul, and didn't want to bother with these thoughts on him. “I’m not some poof,” he mumbled quite loudly, desperate to convince himself, “I don’t care for Macca this much, I don’t!”
If any of the Beatles were going to be some fairy, it wasn’t going to be John. He was trying to do anything to prove it to himself, and he was going to—the only way he knew how. He’d shag with a bird—possibly the straightest thing a guy could do—and without Paul being on his mind at all.
That night he decided he’d bring a bird to his room. He was determined that, just maybe, having sex with a bird would remind him that he’s only into women and get these queer-alined thoughts to leave his mind.
As John shagged the bird, he kept thinking about Paul. It made him plenty more upset and he only went rougher on the women below him, almost muttering Paul’s name once or twice and wincing silently afterwards.
John had found himself doing this quite often—especially more recently—where he would shag women to try to ignore his ever so obvious feelings for Paul. He would try anything to get these thoughts out of his head, and having sex with birds was the most common way he’d try to remove the image of Paul—but it only ever worked if the bird was loud enough that he couldn’t even hear his own thoughts.
Afterwards, he lit a cigarette and took a couple of drags from it. Trying to completely ignore the fact that he was thinking of Paul practically the entire time he was inside of that bird.
He had always known that he felt a special way towards Paul—since the day they met and even more after Paul had joined John’s band. They always had this special bond, one that was different from any other relationship he had with friends or family—but he had never thought that it could be that he was a homosexual for Paul.
“Impossible,” John thought. “I’m into birds, not blokes, and especially not… Paul.” He’s questioned himself of ever having any kind of romantic or sexual attraction towards men before, but he’s always found women attractive. Always dated and had sex with women. That was it for him. Had to be.
The next day, waking up next to the bird from the night before, Lennon and the girl got their clothes on and then he started composing again as the girl picked up her things and left. John was still—trying to—avoid his feelings for Paul, though it didn’t work that much. With every song he played, he was reminded of how he worked on it with Paul, or that he had seen Paul singing and playing the song, full of emotion, whilst staring over at John.
John wondered if it was even possible that maybe, just maybe, Paul might feel the same way towards him that he does towards Paul—
No, he doesn’t. John doesn’t feel any romantic attraction towards Paul, and neither did Paul towards John. He kept replaying this message in his head, like maybe, if he thought about it enough, it would suddenly become true.
It’s not that John had a problem with queers, really. John had never really cared that Brian was into blokes—though he did use Brian’s feelings for his benefit from time to time, teasing Brian and such—but John hasn’t often thought about himself being interested in men the way poofs were.
As if these thoughts hadn’t been enough without seeing Paul’s face, all the members were getting back together that day. Back to the studio, back to seeing Paul’s handsome face, hearing his rich voice and laughter, for at least a couple of hours. With Paul around, he would have no choice but to think about him. Even if it was going to be music related, it was still him, still Paul.
John walked into the studio, already with a cigarette between his lips, looking quite tired from the days before, mainly because he stayed up questioning his attraction towards both blokes and birds. Greeted only by George and Ringo—since Paul had been running quite late—he felt a slight sense of relief that he wouldn’t immediately have to deal with Paul around.
Then later, Paul walked in to find the other members discussing their album works. At the moment, only John was talking about his ideas and how he had been struggling to continue writing the lyrics. Mostly because Paul still hadn’t left his mind, but he obviously didn’t say that aloud.
Ringo looked up to Paul and smiled, “Hey, Paul!” Paul, smiling back, nodded while saying “Morning, Richie.” He then greeted the other two men, his eyes lingering slightly longer on John but it wasn’t anything too noticeable at least to George and Ringo, since John did notice. He tried to ignore it, though the thought of it was still loitering around in his head.
They started their recording sessions, discussing lyrics and different keys for the song. Later, while they were all rehearsing, John would sometimes look over at Paul to find him smiling back with his damned perfect smile, completely unaware of the turmoil he'd unintentionally been causing John.
John watched Paul the entire rehearsal. He’d stare at Paul’s fingers while he was strumming his bass, watching his lips as he talked or laughed, and looked into Paul’s eyes whenever Paul would turn to him. Whenever they had to do harmonies and share the same microphone during recordings, his eyes kept darting down to Paul’s. Trying to calm himself, his grip tightened on his guitar whilst strumming—which did mess with the sound a bit, causing George Martin to correct him on multiple occasions.
It was then that he realised that Paul had become a great, overwhelming distraction that John could no longer ignore.
John thought hard about what he could do, or say, to get Paul’s attention in some way. He was bugging Paul, along with all the other Beatles, quite often—but this time he wanted to make sure that Paul’s attention stayed on him.
During one of their takes, John would slightly shift closer towards Paul, kicking his foot against Paul’s. “Paulie,” he’d whisper over to McCartney, grinning stupid. George had noticed from afar, and was cringing at John’s poor attempts to get noticed.
Paul noticed, but he just thought John was acting a fool, so he didn’t bother to pay much mind. After a few more minutes of John messing around, Brian eventually noticed and called John out for his behavior, and John corrected himself—though quite clearly he was frustrated.
They had finished up in the studio at quite a late hour. John followed Paul on their way out of the building, trailing behind Ringo and George. John didn’t want to stop hanging around Paul, and thought up a way to keep the Beatles together, even if it was just for the night.
“Do y’guys maybe want to head to a pub,” John suggested once they were all outside, disregarding the time of night. “No thanks,” Ringo replied, lighting a cigarette, taking a shallow breath in. “S’too late for that, y’know.“ George looked over at John and Paul, then to Ringo, also holding a cigarette between his fingers and letting it get lit by Ringo. “Yeah, I’m ready to head home. Come on, Ringo.” John was a little disappointed, and Paul seemed to pay no mind to it. “See ya, George,” Paul called out after George and Ringo turned away, “Later, Ringo.”
“So,” John paused, clearing his throat awkwardly, “would you want to walk down to the pub, Macca?” Paul moved to face John, his wide eyes staring back into John’s, then he laughed gently. “Nah, mate,” his stupidly perfect grin catching John’s eyes. John pressed his lips together, annoyed at himself for his heart fluttering at the sight. “But, y’know, maybe if you want to drive somewhere, we can sit in me car. Get high on acid like we’ve been doing quite often recently,” he paused, then he quietly continued with, “I quite enjoy it, y’know.”
They’ve gotten high off acid plenty of times before, and every time they had done so, they always ended up staring deeply into the other’s eyes. Probably one of the most intimate things they do. Faces far too close for it to seem normal, eyes wide and unblinking, and their gaze very intense.
Neither John or Paul say anything after it, either, they’d usually just act like it’s normal. Normal for the two men to lose one another in their eyes, lose all other sense in their bodies besides sight. Focusing only on the man in front of them, forgetting all aspects of their lives.
John was up for it, though a tad concerned about being under the influence whilst in a car, especially with such a strong drug like LSD. “In yer car?” he asked nervously, “ya sure that’s, like, safe, Paul?”
McCartney’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he was smiling. “So what, you wanna head to a hotel or somethin’ like that,” he teased, but it was a genuine question. “Hm, maybe,” Lennon’s face flushing slightly as he said so, trying to return Paul’s teasing tone, “it’d be safer by a ton, at least there’s that.”
Paul agreed, so the two got into his car, and drove to the nearest hotel. While Paul booked a room, John started thinking again. They’d done this multiple nights before, but it was different now—since John had been questioning his attraction towards blokes and birds recently. He was afraid he might say something too open about those questioning thoughts whilst he was on acid.
He didn’t want Paul to see him differently—didn’t want to be seen as gross—just because he might’ve felt a kind of way towards men that he was supposed to feel only towards women.
The thought of revealing that fact that he might be queer had nauseated him. As soon as they made it into their room, John took a light amount of the acid. Paul followed shortly after, his lips shaped in a soft sort of manner that John always noticed about him. John felt comforted by Paul’s presence, and was reminded of the way they had been close for many years now.
Acid had—at least, by technical means—brought the two closer together. Paul only started to indulge more into acid to feel more on the same wavelength as John, as a sort of way to be the most vulnerable with the other.
“Paulie,” John swallowed and called over the bed to where Paul had been sitting, a couple of minutes after they had settled more comfortably into the hotel room. “Ever think about how people would react once they knew you fer real—like if they knew everythin’ about you?”
Paul looked over at John, looking a bit confused. He lit a cigarette and opened his mouth to respond while inhaling the smoke deeply. “Well, ‘everything’ is a bit extreme, no?” He exhaled the smoke sluggishly, “What’s this question about, anyway? No one has to know every little detail about you, mate.”
“Well, ‘course, Macca, I know that. It’s just—“ John sighed, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get Paul to understand without explicitly explaining that he thinks he might be a sort of queer. “Nevermind,” he exclaimed quietly, “thank you, Paul.”
Paul, looking a bit frustrated since he knew John wasn’t telling him the full truth, scoffed. “Quit being a sorry sod, Lennon,” he paused for a moment, then mumbled, “I’ve been your best mate for a while now, haven’t I? You can talk to me ‘bout anything, and it won’t change my view on you.”
It won’t change my view on you. That’s exactly what John had been worried about, so he was slightly relieved to hear this kind of reassurance.
“You ever considered liking blokes,” John nervously spat out, “like, the same way you like birds?” Paul’s eyes darted to John’s face, as if looking for some kind of joke or that John was messing with him. He brought his cigarette close to his mouth again, taking a drag, then responding flatly, “Don’t think I ever have, John. Is that what’s been bugging ya?”
A knot in John’s stomach tightened with guilt, he didn’t know if he should lie or just tell Paul all of his recent thoughts—and being high off acid wasn’t helping him quite at all. His thoughts felt lighter, but the guilt was still nesting uncomfortably deep in his heart.
“Kind of, I mean, in a way,” John’s eyes darted down, not wanting to meet Paul’s eyes in a slight unease in a far that, despite what he said, he’d still see him as some kind of disgusting queer he felt he was.
“Hm,” Paul hummed fondly. He was still looking at John’s nervous, anxious figure, and started thinking of a way to try and make him feel less put off. “We’ve known each other for years, John. If you were queer, it really wouldn’t change much.”
John sighed, exasperated; he felt that Paul didn’t actually understand what he was trying to say, without actually saying it. John wanted to let all of his emotions spill out through his words, scream about his strong emotions towards Paul, how he wanted his hands all over, how he’d dreamt about him from time to time. He wanted to just say something about these emotions but his fear was getting the best of him.
After long silence, John finally spoke again, decideing he was going to be truthful. “Paul, recently I’ve been feeling sorts of ways about, er,” his face grimaced. He wasn’t just going to face Paul and say I’ve been thinking about your lips for the past month, wanna snog? It was improper, way too direct, and would totally gross Paul out if he went about it that way, but he had no idea on how else to go about it.
“Have you ever,” John paused, nervous and full of a strong fear. “Have you ever kissed a bloke?” Paul’s face unchanging, besides a slight lift of his eyebrows to widen his already big eyes. “No,” replied Paul softly, as if he did not dare to break the vulnerable scene that had formed, likely an effect of the acid, “never.”
They both subconsciously moved their bodies closer, the tension in the air was rapidly becoming a lot for John, but he started having hope that Paul might actually be reciprocating his feelings. John pressed his lips together hard before he spoke again, softly and extremely hesitant, “Would you ever kiss a bloke, Macca?” The nickname slipped out quietly before John could stop it. Their faces moved closer, the action was both conscious and unaware.
Paul’s hand placed itself on one side of John, just beside his hip on the bed, to stabilize himself as he was leaning closer. Soon after, it was John moving on top and over Paul, his hands slowly exploring all of Paul’s arms and back, trying to feel as much as he could through clothes—hoping what he was doing wasn’t too queer.
It wasn't too long before their faces were just inches apart; McCartney’s cheeks burned. They were both flustered and embarrassed they had felt this way for their best mate. Paul, almost under his breath, responded slowly, “Maybe, if the bloke happened to be attractive enough. And if he asked me.”
Paul didn’t seem to mind as much as John did with being queer or having any kinds of queer feelings, but Paul still felt he shouldn’t say anything aloud about actually being okay with having romantic feelings for blokes. John, on the other hand, was completely terrified of the idea he might like his best mate more than he had any woman ever.
Despite how wrong this was supposed to feel, John couldn’t deny how good Paul looked at the moment. Paul looked like a true angel from what John could see. The dimly lit room made it close to impossible to see—it wasn’t helping he’d hadn’t got his glasses on—but John could notice almost every detail of Paul’s handsome features. John had always noticed that Paul was a quite fit bloke, since the day they met, but seeing him like this, wanting to kiss and touch him everywhere, made him look a hundred times more beautiful than ever. Paul’s large, hazel eyes staring back into John’s, lidded with such intense love. His body wasn't too skinny, nor too defined. His lashes that seemed too long for a bloke, yet Paul wore them so perfectly. Everything about him seemed impossibly perfect. An angel sent from the heavens, just for John at this moment. “Johnny,” Paul whispered, careful to not shatter this beautifully intimate moment.
John, deciding to ignore the terribly guilty feelings that boiled deep in his heart, pushed his forehead forward to press right up against Paul’s, and they both felt the other’s heavy and warm breath beautifully on their lips. The interaction distracted them both from how wrong this was supposed to be and feel. “Can we,” John’s voice came out shaky and scared as he continued, “Can we kiss, Macca?” Paul didn’t respond immediately, a little shocked at how blunt John was being with his request. Even so, Paul felt compelled by the man who lay in front of him. They both leaned closer and closer until, just then, Paul’s mouth met John’s.
Paul kissed John softly at first, almost doubtful, and once he felt John kiss back, Paul pulled back for a moment. John’s eyes widened in a mix of confusion and fear, afraid that he might’ve not meant to kiss him back, or if he actually had meant to kiss John at all. “Paul—”
It was then when Paul’s mouth crashed against John’s again, the kiss was long and full of strong want that had been repressed for years because it was wrong.
The kiss deepened; it had become sloppier, and plenty more desperate. Something the both of them seemed to have been waiting years for. They got lost in each other's touch, only focused on the warm mouth in front of them. John held the back of Paul’s head, pulling their faces impossibly closer. Both the men’s hands were feeling the other all over, hands moving swiftly against their backs. One of Paul’s hands was grabbing and feeling John’s arm, fingers digging in and pulling his body closer. His other hand held tightly on the side of John’s waist, as his tongue dove deeper into John’s mouth. John’s free hand fell to the side of Paul’s chest, gripping roughly at Paul. They both felt themselves dissolving into each other, lost entirely in the other man’s affection. This is such a blissful feeling, John thought. The feeling was one that neither of them never wanted to lose. The best friend John had for years, in front of him and kissing him back with equally as much want.
After a moment of John feeling himself get completely lost in the wonderful feeling of his best mate’s lips on his, John’s eyes fluttered open slightly, watching Paul’s face for a moment. Then, he began noticing all Paul’s most masculine features. As if a spell was undone, John’s eyes widened and his mind started spiraling in the guilt of liking blokes once again. This is terrible, he thought. Horrid. Why are we doing this? This is wrong. He’s not some bird. “Paul—“ John choked about between a kiss, trying to pull away, though he was chasing Paul’s mouth despite himself, like his body knew he still wanted it despite how wrong it is to kiss another guy. “Paulie, stop—we can’t be doing this.”
Paul finally moved back from John’s face, their lips still connected just by a string of their mixed saliva. Paul pressed his lips together, and his upset and confused eyes searched John’s. “John, I mean, didn’t you just say that—“
“Yes, Paul, I know, but this doesn’t make it right,” John swallowed the lump in his throat, eyebrows furrowed together. “Us doing this, it’s not right and it’s plain gross.”
John pushed him away lightly, hand lingering on Paul’s chest—not wanting to let go, not wanting to stop touching him; he never wanted to stop touching Paul. But he had to. He shuffled back, away from Paul, sitting at the edge of the bed. John panicked internally, anxiously tapping his foot on the floor right up next to the bed.
John was quite surprised with how Paul’s reaction wasn’t a guilt of being queer; the fear seemed to be more centered around the fear of losing his best friend, and the fear of John truly finding Paul gross. Paul kept opening his mouth to try and comfort John in some way, but he was afraid of hurting John, so he just kept his lips pressed together.
Paul had felt a twinge of guilt, but not about being queer, about hurting John. That was the last thing Paul ever wanted to do. John was probably the closest person to him, closer than any woman ever. Paul wanted to stay this close with John forever. Never wanted anything else on his mind besides John. Didn’t care to see anyone else besides John in this kind of intimate moment, but something was going through John’s mind that wouldn’t let him feel the same way that Paul did about him.
Paul’s heart felt heavy as he finally let himself speak, “What’s gross about this, John?” They’ve talked about queer people before; it was only back in Hamburg, when Brian offered to be their band’s manager. Nothing that went fully in detail, but enough to know that neither were grossed out by the idea of queers. “Everything,” John quipped, exhaling roughly. “We’re two blokes, Macca! This is terrible!” Paul, staring deeply into John’s squinty, panicked eyes—as if, just maybe if he searched long enough, his eyes would tell him everything, every secret of the universe—sighed. Trying to calm himself and John down, Paul placed a hand on John’s shoulder, an attempt to steady his shaky body. “Johnny, it’s alright. None—None of this is wrong, I promise you.” John stared back into Paul’s beautiful, wide eyes. Something he’d always admired. He admired everything about Paul. Everything. From the way he looked; how easily he could speak with women; how he could have anyone wrapped around his handsome little finger just by a look; to the way he seemed to understand John more than anyone could, ever. They’d both always understood each other without needing any words to be said. Their “heightened awareness” of each other’s minds, as they called it. There was always this kind of unspoken codependency between John and Paul. They’d always been so reliant on each other, too reliant, if you asked anyone that wasn’t them. John needed Paul, and Paul needed John just as much.
“John, we don’t need to move so fast,” Paul paused, watching John’s face for any emotion that John would try to suppress. “If that’s what’s worrying you,” he added, softer than his previous words. John pulled Paul close, their flush, warm bodies pressing against the other’s. “That’s not what it is, Macca,” John whispered, lightly.
Paul’s heart ached for John. He decided he wouldn’t push it, not wanting to make John uncomfortable at all. He leaned into John’s embrace, wanting to be there for John anyway he’s able to. He wasn’t sure exactly what John was worried about, they’ve had conversations about… well, this kind of situation. Never explicitly stating being in a relationship, but enough to know John wasn’t completely against the idea—now, John was acting as if he’d always hated even the thought of being queer. Paul presumed it had something to do with his trip to Spain with Brian, a few years back in ‘63.
After a while of John anxiously staying still, they eventually laid down in the hotel bedroom. With the fact there was only one bed in said hotel room, they laid next to each other. John could feel Paul’s warmth radiating off of him, and he was certain Paul could feel his warmth too. He wanted to turn and face Paul, just stare into his big, hazel eyes and fall asleep like that. He didn’t though, figuring he might send himself into another anxious spiral. John heard Paul let out a soft sigh, and he felt reassured by Paul’s presence; the same presence that he’s stuck with for years, the same one that’s seen all versions of him, the same one he’s loved for years. John leaned back slightly into the warm body that lay behind him, and felt himself drift far into a deep sleep.