A Toot and a Snore

by 15clubsaday

Summary:

John was drunk. And he was high. And it was fucking weird that Paul was here.
__

It's 1974. Los Angeles. John invites Paul to jam, but things don’t go as planned.

Notes:

• Translation into Español available: A Toot and a Snore (Un Sonido y un Ronquido.) by Abisal

It was hot. Too hot for March.

John missed the tentative warmth of spring. He missed the way the world came back to life after a long freeze. How the air itself seemed to thaw. He missed the sight of crocuses, of snowdrops and blossoming trees. California was tedious, with its relentless sunshine every day. It felt wrong, for it to always be this beautiful. He felt he didn’t deserve it.

John exhaled a curl of smoke into the violet sky, resting his forearms on the ledge of the rooftop. A warm breeze swept his brown hair back off his forehead, caressing his cheeks. His eyes squinted at the scarlet sun from behind tinted glasses. Up here, he could smell salt in the air, it burned his nose slightly. He could hear the distant echo of crashing waves, a steady hypnotic rhythm. He could see palm trees sway lazily along the boardwalk, moving in time with the Pacific tide. 

Downstairs, Harry was waiting for him. 

John had accepted Harry’s invitation to the seaside studio based on one stipulation. No bloody jam sessions. He was only there to help Harry with a few takes, not to record. Jam sessions were dreadful, anyway- nobody ever knew what to do. Folks tended to just play over each other in disorganized chaos, the noise borderline untenable. Not to mention, it wasn’t exactly easy to slip into a flow with new people…. He’d gotten so used to reading someone’s mind, and having his read in return. Anything else felt awkward. 

Despite his best efforts, he was discovered around noon. Apparently, Stevie Wonder and his band had been recording just down the hall. John rather liked Stevie, so that was all fine and good. After a bit of chatter and catch up, John agreed, in spite of himself, to jam. He had to admit, they sounded good. Really good. So good, in fact, that John forgot his only rule and made a stupid decision.

He’d called Paul.

Now, on the roof of the studio and a few too many drinks later, he was regretting his decision. Regretting it deeply.

John sipped at his glass of scotch as he watched the sky turn a darker and darker shade of purple. What had he been thinking , inviting Paul to come here? What was this, a bloody after school special? He knew deep down that he was nowhere near ready to play with the bloke. Why, fucking why, had he rung him up like that? No doubt he was already on his way, with Linda in tow. Nothing John could do to stop him now.

John had gotten the phone call a few months earlier. He hadn’t been surprised to hear from Paul, not really. They’d settled into a steady rhythm of contact during the past several years, a phone call or two every other month. It was nice, actually. Their chats were some of the only times he felt himself these days. 

It had been a surprise, though, when Paul revealed that he and Linda would be in LA that spring. Band On the Run had gone platinum, Paul told him- a hint of smugness in his voice, they’d been invited to accept some award at Capitol Records. La dee fuckin da.

“Finally got something right with that one, eh Macca?” He’d taunted, snide but secretly rather proud. Jealous too, of course. But proud. 

“Perhaps we’ll pop in, then?” Paul had said, more of a statement than a question.

“I dunno Paul,” John had stammered, caught off guard by the suggestion. It would be the first time they’d be on the same continent in over a year. “I have been rather busy, y’know.”

“Oh, I’m aware, John. I do read the papers y’know.” Paul had quipped, a chuckle in his voice. “Painting the town red, I see.” A flush of unexpected shame passed over John then. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah, well. Trying to have a bit of fun, y’see. Thought I’d try it out for once: enjoyin’ meself.”

“Right, of course...” Paul’s voice sounded polite, but there was something else there. Something wounded. John’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t meant it like that - like nothing he’d ever done with Paul, with The Beatles, had been enjoyable. As though he’d been miserable the entire time. He’d only meant… It had been a difficult year. 

Paul continued. “Linda and I’ll be there for several weeks, alright. Staying at the Marmont. I’ll forward you our number, yeah? Ring us sometime.” 

“Alright, then.” John had said, absently. Already feeling a familiar cocktail of dread and thrill twist in his gut. 

That had been weeks ago. Since Paul’s arrival in Los Angeles, they’d seen each other only a few times. 

There had been that awkward poolside lunch at John’s during the first week. In the bright California sunshine, John had found it hard to even look at Paul. With most of their conversations taking place over the phone these days, he’d begun to think of Paul only as a crackly voice that lived inside an earpiece of a cold machine. 

Hearing that same voice rumble out of a real, warm and devastatingly familiar mouth was disorienting. His brain could not seem to process the fact that the man in front of him was, in fact, the same bright eyed boy he’d grown up alongside. Paul’s features were too vivid, too distinct, too real. He was tan , which intrigued John in a strange sort of way. Three months in Nigeria could do that, even to the palest of Brit’s, he supposed. The dappled sunlight had reflected off the pool and danced across Paul’s soft face, illuminating it in a distracting sort of way. It had actually hurt to look at him.

Then there was the time at Paul and Linda’s hotel. That had been a bit better. Paul, Linda himself and May lounging around, mixing drinks and smoking grass. John had watched with an air of contentment as May and Linda seemed to warm to each other. Paul too, he noticed, seemed to enjoy spending time with May. He kept asking her questions about what it was like to grow up in New York, genuinely interested in her answers. It was nice, actually. Plenty of good conversation and laughter.

As he’d left, Paul had stopped John- grabbing him by the elbow before he slipped through the gate. 

“While I’m here.” Paul faltered, “We should, uh, play sometime, y’know…” John had frozen and given him a vacant look. “ Together ,” Paul clarified when John didn’t respond. He had only nodded, not sure what to make of Paul’s invitation. Paul had let go of his elbow then, “Just think about it.” He’d offered, gently. 

John simply nodded again, and patted Paul’s shoulder. “G’night Paul.” He’d muttered, before closing the gate and walking off, arm in arm with May.

He wished that the thought of playing with Paul didn’t feel so hard . He wished it were a casual sort of thing. The truth was, he longed to sit down across from Paul. To lose hours staring at his hands, anticipating what chord might come next based on the slight twitch in his elegant fingers. He wanted so badly to slip back into the familiar rhythm of head nods and eye contact and half spoken sentences that left everyone else confused. It would be so easy. Like muscle memory.

The fact of the matter was that there wasn’t a soul out there who’d turned him on like Paul. But that was the bloody problem, wasn’t it? It was simply too much , working with Paul. It always had been. The intense closeness their partnership demanded. The way they’d shared every thought, every feeling with the other…..

It was a bit like making love, he thought to himself, oddly. The level of intimacy they required of one another. A kind of rare thing, stripped bare, something he could not- would not, do with anybody else. A part of himself reserved only for Paul, and a part of Paul reserved only for him. It wasn’t something that could be easily replicated, recreated overnight with someone new. 

But too much had happened in the past five years. Too much had been said that could never be taken back. That sacred thing between them had broken, snapped. And whatever they had now? Sure, they were friendly. But it was a delicate thread, too fragile to test. 

The truth was he’d shocked himself by calling Paul tonight. In fact, reality only hit him after he’d hung up- horrifying and real. Paul was on his way here . To play music . With him . By the time the full truth hit him, it was too late. He’d already had too much to drink, and snorted a few lines of coke. This was happening and he’d just have to stomach it.

 

***

It was as if he could sense Paul’s presence before he saw him. The hair of John’s neck seemed to stand up seconds before Paul and Linda stepped through the doors, hands entwined. A murmur of poorly contained intrigue rippled through the room.

It was odd, really- the sight of Paul in the studio. It felt both surreal and obviously familiar to John all at once. Through his drunken haze, he did his best to act as naturally as he could, acknowledging Paul with a curt nod. He swallowed hard against the anxiety rising in his throat.

"Valiant Paul McCartney, I presume?" He’d said, stupidly. A dumb reference to an early Beatles Christmas special.  But Paul had immediately responded with,

"Sir Jasper Lennon, I presume?" and God damn it, John grinned- he actually grinned , like a pathetic sod.

***

John ushered Paul in, trying hard not to give away his inebriation. With a vague hand gesture, he motioned to Paul to pick out an instrument. 

“S’whatever you like.” he slurred. Paul just nodded and rolled up his sleeves, crossing the room to shake hands with Harry.

John excused himself then, realizing he was far too drunk for this. He hoped a bump or two of coke would set him straight. 

In the privacy of the restroom, he took a few more bumps and gummed the remnants of his dime bag. His heart was racing already, and his stomach was twisted into knots. He’d need plenty of help to get through this. 

He caught a glance of himself in the bathroom mirror and leaned in, giving himself a once over. He looked like shit.  His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were flaky and chapped. He shook his head, as though that might clear his mind, and wet his hands in the sink. Roughly, he ran his wet fingers through his hair and licked his lips several times, a poor attempt to freshen up. He still looked like shit. He hissed a sigh out through his teeth. That would have to do . Running a hand down his face in exasperation, he swung the bathroom door open and stumbled back into the studio. As he turned the corner, the sight that greeted him made he stomach sink. Paul was sitting at Ringo’s drum kit.

He stopped dead. He didn’t know what he’d expected… He sure as hell hadn’t expected Paul to share a mic with him, he wasn’t delusional. He knew where the two of them stood with one another. But drums ? Bass, sure. Keys- well, Stevie had those covered. But drums? It was as though Paul was trying to say: this is all you get . It stung. John bit his tongue, he supposed it’s what he deserved.

Pretending not to notice, John picked up his guitar and began to tune it. If Paul wanted to play the bloody snare, there was nothing John could say to stop him. He didn't have a say in anything Paul did these days, did he? He didn’t get to have one. Not anymore. 

**

The jam was chaos. Just as John had feared, nobody had a clue what to play. Harry was busy plucking out a guitar riff, Stevie was playing an unrelated scale and Paul was banging senselessly on the toms. The cacophony of noise was enough to send a sober man into insanity. 

Not to mention, it was all painfully tense. Harry, May, even the techies- everybody kept looking at Paul. Nobody seemed able to believe that he was here . When they weren’t stealing glances at Paul, they were doing a worse job of stealing looks at John. They were being observed. John hated being observed. It took all the self control he could muster, through the coke and alcohol, not to shout at everyone to bugger off. Instead, he turned inward- pouring himself another drink. Maybe this had been a mistake.

He’d wanted this, he reminded himself dimly. May had assured him it would be strange, the first time he played with Paul again. She’d said they didn’t even need to sound good, that doing so was mostly a gesture of goodwill. He repeated these reassurances to himself vacantly, while drowning himself in another glass of scotch. Definitely a mistake. What had he been thinking? All these bloody people faffing about- it was too much, really.

“Somebody give me an E” John shouted over the clatter of toms and the tinker of keys, “Or a snort” he added, a desperate chuckle escaping him. Harry just laughed and handed him the small silver tray, 4 white lines ready for him. He lowered his nose to suck one up.

He twirled, his vision blurring, towards Paul- an arm extended. “It’s goin round” he offered, doubtful that Paul would accept. To his honest surprise, Paul took the tray and did a line- rubbing his finger under his nose to clean his clipped mustache.  

What was with that bloody mustache, anyhow? It was nothing like the one he’d grown for Pepper. That one had been distinguished. This one was groomed too short, it looked all wrong on his oval face, making him look a bit like a rodent. And what about that hair style? A mullet , was it? It looked daft, John thought. Like Bowie, if Bowie wasn’t pulling any of it off.

Despite the hairstyle and the questionable facial hair, Paul really hadn’t changed too much. The contours of his face were still soft, his cheekbones high, his eyes round and dopey. The creases of skin that crinkled handsomely when he laughed appeared a bit deeper- but that was all. He looked a bit more mature, perhaps. Just in the way he held himself, John noted. Looking at him for too long stirred up a strange feeling in John’s chest, both strange and familiar. 

In comparison, John thought he looked completely different. He’d shaved his beard and buzzed his head three years ago. A purge, of sorts, in those first few years apart. His hair had finally started to grow back, now tickling his eyebrows and ears. But he hadn’t let his beard come back all the way. He'd lost weight, then gained it back. The angles of his face had waned and waxed. He was with May. Things were different. He was different. 

He wondered briefly to himself how much of the Paul that he couldn’t see, if any, had stayed the same.

They’d been puttering about for a good five minutes before John commanded the room, suddenly antsy to get started.

“Who’s got a mic besides me?” John spoke directly into his mic, his voice booming around the room. His gaze swept wildly from Harry to Stevie, “Come on!” he urged, frustration bubbling up in his voice. They both shrugged at him, each satisfied with their station. “Somebody join in!” John urged now- vaguely gesturing with his hand for one of the tech crew to bring them another mic.

“Hey!”  A second voice boomed, making him jump. He whirled around and saw that Paul had found a mic. Of course he had. One of the techs, with his own agenda, had probably placed one in front of him. Fine. So they were going to play together, and they’d be harmonizing . That wasn’t too much. Not at all.

Paul counted them in, and before he knew what was happening, John was singing his way through a lazy rendition of Lucille . It was odd at first, hearing Paul’s tenor croon to him through his headset. It elicited the strangest feeling in John, similar to one you might experience smelling the scent of your childhood bedroom. Something so innately familiar, so comforting and warm, but followed quickly by a note of melancholy. He took a deep swig of scotch to bury the feeling.

After a few bars, John began to relax a bit, maybe even enjoy himself. He stepped outside himself to try and listen to them play, and it occurred to him that they didn’t sound half bad. Of course they didn’t, how many bloody times had they played Lucille on the Reeperbahn? He couldn’t have played it poorly even if he’d tried. 

Then, out of nowhere, John went deaf. He couldn’t hear a thing. He saw Paul moving his lips, but could barely hear him singing. Everything sounded dead and muted in his earphones. He signaled to the tech booth to turn up his volume, but couldn’t seem to catch the attention of anybody inside. He grumbled frustratedly to himself, he couldn’t sing harmony like this.

He did his best to get through the number, but without the proper balance in his ears, he was unsettled. Someone, maybe it had been him, suggested Stand By Me . But at that point, with the sound booth oblivious to his requests to balance his sound, John was beginning to lose his grip. He had the group stop and start too many times, and he could tell folks were beginning to get annoyed with him. But he couldn’t stop. He could feel Paul getting restless, filling any silence with drum fills and clattering noise. Each cymbal crash put John further and further on edge.

His sound wasn’t working, for christ sake. Paul was here, he was playing drums, they were bloody harmonizing, the sound in his earphones was all but dead and nobody in the sound booth was listening to him. He felt irritation start to creep up his spine like a flame. His heart was hammering in his chest. This was all too much.

He poured himself another knuckle of scotch and downed it in one gulp, stumbling backwards a bit as he swallowed. Finally, the moron in the sound booth finally fixed his fucking balance so he could hear something worth a damn and he tried to launch back into it.

But he was drunk. And he was high. And it was fucking weird that Paul was here. 

He heard himself screeching into his mic, off key and deranged. He moaned and droned pitifully. He tried řreaching for a high note and his voice cracked. He was ruining this, wasn’t he? Through the fog of his stupor, he could see that he was making a bloody fool of himself- but he couldn’t stop. Whose job was it to control him, anyway? Yoko wasn’t here. That sort of thing wasn’t really May’s part to play. It sure as shit wasn’t Paul’s job anymore. So there he was, beholden to no master, drinking himself stupid, ruining his first opportunity to play with Paul in over three years. 

It occurred dimly to John that this Jam was pathetic. He was pathetic. He couldn’t believe Paul was witnessing this mess, seeing him like this. His singing trailed off and went silent into the mic. The musicians around him continued to play, filling the studio with sound. John looked back at Paul, who was absorbed in his drum kit- barely looking at him at all. He glanced into the sound booth and saw Linda, chatting absentmindedly with May, watching Paul adoringly with a half smile on her lips

Something in John snapped. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t play casually with Paul, it was all a big mistake. All of it had been a mistake. Visiting his hotel in LA, having him for lunch, inviting him here. Things had been better with a continent and an ocean in between them. This proximity… It was too intense, too soon for John. Yoko had been right, he should stay far away from Paul. It was simply too much. 

Blinking to himself vacantly he muttered under his breath “ fuck this”.  Then, a bit louder- still to no one in particular, “ fuck this ” . Nobody heard him over the clatter of music.

Without another word, John dropped his mic to the floor- sending feedback squealing around the room. He stumbled out of the studio and into the hall, his head swimming. His vision blurred with shame as he started climbing the steps to the roof. Halfway up the stairs, he heard the music stop. Someone had noticed him leave. 

He pushed the roof door open and a gust of salty air hit him in the face, sobering him up slightly. He reached for the cigarettes in his breast pocket and lit one, making his way to the edge of the roof. Lighting a single cigarette between his lips, he took a deep inhale, his cheeks hollowing out. He exhaled slowly, leaning against the ledge. 

The sound of the roof door crashing open startled him. His heart thumping in his chest, he swung around, expecting to see May or maybe even Harry come to talk him down. 

But there stood Paul, Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned at the top, that uncharacteristic tan peeking out from beneath. He stood and stared at John, a puzzled look on his face.

He turned away, willing Paul to leave him alone. He only wanted a smoke and to be left alone. Instead, Paul strolled up beside John and rested his forearms against the ledge, their elbows only inches apart. With a sigh, John fixed his gaze stubbornly out over the ocean. He didn’t want to explain himself, didn’t want to have to say a word. Not to Paul. 

He felt unsteady, the ocean air barely tethering him to his thread of sobriety. Anger and disappointment and something else unidentifiable swirled below his skin- filling him with an anxious buzz. Before he knew what he was doing he heard himself speak. "Thissisrubbish.” He slurred, “I’m calling it.”

Paul, as even-tempered as always, sighed deeply before he replied, "Don’t be like that, John. Everyone’s here." His words were soft on the pacific breeze.

John just sneered, his breath sour with alcohol. "That's the bloody problem, though, isn't it?” Paul looked at him vacantly, his eyebrows pulled together in petulant concern.

“This whole thing's a bit fucked, y’know? Everybody watching you, watching me… probably bloody recording it." John scoffed under his breath, returning his gaze out across the water. He took another long drag on his cigarette, his shoulders hunched against the wind.

Paul’s eyebrows were still furrowed, confusion clouding his face, "you're pissed."

John's voice rose in defiance. "Can you blame me? First time in three years, and it's in front of a bloody audience.” Paul didn’t reply, just shook his head absently a few times. John fumed, the concrete ledge digging into his forearms now. Paul seemed to contemplate his next words, running a single finger across his pink lips two or three times before speaking.

“ You invited me .” Paul finally breathed to himself, a bit exasperated. John could only stand there and seethe. He shouldn’t have rung. It was too much too soon.

“And, it was a mistake, alright ?” John snarled, his voice full of disgust. He snubbed his cigarette out on the ledge, twisting it angrily into the concrete. His guard was down, alcohol and cocaine coursing through him, encouraging his impulses and amplifying his emotions. He felt his mouth move and he heard himself say into the dead of the night, “It should have just been the two of us.” 

He didn’t know that’s how he felt until he’d said it. The truth, what he’d wanted. “You and me.” He added, his face stony at the admission.

Paul’s neck snapped to look at him, an expression of defiance on his face. “A bit rich, don’t you think?” His voice sounded thick with bitterness.

John just shrugged, still staring out at the ocean.

" You're the one who kept turning me away in New York.” Paul scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest now. “Told me to piss off who knows how many times…" and John couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a twinge of hurt in his voice.

Still refusing to look at Paul, John exhaled sharply before he retorted, "things were different then."

"When Mother made the rules?" Paul countered, his voice carried an uncharacteristic note of taunt in it. Scathing, almost.

John's anger flared, and he shot back, "I make my own damn decisions."

Paul just chuckled to himself, and for some reason that made John extremely angry. “That’s right!” He turned to face Paul then, his eyes flaring, “and I decide this heartwarming reunion,” He gestured at Paul, waggling a finger back and forth between them, “is over. You can piss off back to the Marmont.”

Paul snorted in exasperation and aggressively shoved his hands into his pockets. He didn’t budge, just turned around to lean himself against the ledge, his gaze never leaving John’s. "I shouldn't have to tell you, John, but you don't get to tell me how I spend my time. Not anymore.” He brought one nail up to his mouth to chew, glancing pointedly at John as he quipped “you seem to be mixing me up for someone else." The roar of the tide tore through the air.

John could only mutter under his breath, "Oh, fuck off." 

Paul let out a frustrated exhale, but didn’t respond. John’s expletives hung in the air between them. The ocean breeze whistled in their ears for a long while before Paul spoke again. "How was I supposed to know that's what you wanted? You never…" He trailed off in frustration.

John rolled his eyes and made a dismissive sound, but Paul, growing impatient, seemed to snap, stepping towards John in his obvious irritation. "Contrary to everybody's thinking, John, I can't actually read your mind, y'know. Sometimes you do have to tell people what it is you're thinking."

"Fuck off." John said again stupidly. He was running out of retorts.

Paul laughed humorlessly. 

He ducked his chin in order to catch John’s eye. “You know I'm right.” He said, a bit less anger in his voice now. John met Paul’s gaze, unwavering and even. His eyes were endless pools of black. Bottomless. He felt himself sway, like he might fall into them if he wasn’t careful. He gripped the ledge tighter with one hand. “Stop throwing a tantrum and come back inside.” Paul placed a gentle hand around John’s elbow. “Come on, John, it'll be good fun... I'm having fun.”

But John's pride and drunken stubbornness refused to budge. He shrugged Paul’s hand away, suddenly uncomfortable at the familiarity in Paul’s touch. Paul tried again. “I’ve missed it, if I’m being honest. Playing together.”

At these words, John felt his red hot anger begin to cool into something else. Something worse. Humiliation. John’s shoulders slumped, the fight immediately slipping out of him.  He let out a shaky sigh and brought a hand to the bridge of his nose. Embarrassed, he grumbled, "I sound like shit, it's humiliating."

Paul straightened up, responding immediately to the shift in John’s mood. He moved in close to John, patting him on the back in reassurance. John could smell his shampoo from this close, a new scent he didn’t recognize. "You sound fine, John. Who cares anyway."

John's frustration lingered. "I care, Paul. Mister 'Wings Over the Fuckin’ Universe.' I care ." 

“Is that what this is about, John? The bloody-” Paul stopped himself abruptly, realizing he’d stumbled into a rare moment of vulnerability and cleared his throat. "Well, I don't care, John. It's all just a bit of fun, y’know."

John's demeanor softened a bit more as he turned to regard Paul. His eyes traced the soft slope of his cheeks, the downward turn of his eyes, searching for something important, unsure what. "Then how come it doesn't feel fun?" John asked defeated.

"John… come on, " Paul seemed to coo, moving in even closer now. He placed his warm hands on each of John's arms, looming larger than life in John’s swimming vision. The heat from Paul’s hands seemed to burn John’s skin. 

John pushed Paul away again, recoiling visibly, "Don't fuckin' touch me.” He snarled, stepping away. “You don't get to touch me."

Paul dropped his hands, bewildered. His mouth hung open in shock, lips parted in the shape of a “o”.After a long silence, Paul spoke with a note of exasperation, " Christ , John. What's gotten into you?” He readjusted himself against the ledge, a bit further away this time. He shook his head in bewilderment as he stared out across the black water. “I thought it was good to touch , remember?" 

Something flared in John, hearing Paul throw his own words back at him like that. It set him on edge. He could only reply elusively. " Not like that …" His words barely audible against the roar of the waves. His eyes were fixed on something far away.

Paul was silent, clearly confused, leaving space for John to speak.

But John didn't elaborate any further. Instead, he angled his face and sent Paul a look so scathing, so devastating that Paul was forced to look away, a flush creeping up his neck.

Silence settled between them as they watched the waves crash against the shore below. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the rooftop in a cool, silvery light.

John hadn’t asked Paul to follow him up here. He didn’t need Paul to talk him down like this, like they were 21 again in the back of a club. He wished Paul would leave him alone, just turn around and go. He could handle himself, God damn it. At the same time, though, he could feel every fiber of his being reaching out to Paul, willing him to stay. Praying for him to say something, anything. The right thing. The thing that might make this all feel okay. Like he used to.

Paul, shifting uncomfortably, finally spoke.

" Fine… ” He breathed, running a hand down his face. “We don't have to go back down.” He gestured vaguely to the roof door and instead stared fiercely at John. John felt his face prickle under Paul’s attentive gaze. Paul continued, urging now. “Let's get out of here, then.” John could hardly believe what he was hearing. “I'll send Linda back to the hotel, alright? You and I can go back to yours. Just us."

John's expression shifted from defiance to mild surprise. He hadn't expected Paul to suggest something like that… and his offer to send Linda away? For all the times they’d seen eachother in the past five years, they’d never been truly alone. Yoko was always hovering, Linda often in tow. 

He considered it. What it might mean, to be alone with Paul. How it might feel. If he was ready. Was it what he truly wanted? He knew it was dangerous territory. They were still on shaky ground, the slightest misstep could spell disaster. It was still hard for John to look at Paul in the face. The fact was that he was nowhere near ready for something like this. He knew this objectively. But something in him urged him forward. Something eager that would not be denied. Despite everything that had happened tonight already, he felt himself nod, a half smile tugging his mouth up at the side.

Paul, let out a sigh of relief, "I'll tell Harry.” Something irresistible shone in his stare, that same nameless charm that managed to flatten John every time. Paul flashed his crooked front tooth in a shy smile and with a jerk of his chin he added, “go get in the car, ya sod.” 

John didn’t move right away, still dumbstruck at the sudden turn of events. He felt a mix of anxiety and excitement begin to swirl in his gut, bubbling up through the alcohol and cocaine. 

“I'll meet you in a few." Paul’s eyes seemed to glint conspiratorially in the moonlight and, shit . John could never resist that sort of look in Paul’s face. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Despite himself John was aware of the fact that he was smirking. "I'm goin'." He mumbled to himself as Paul patted him twice on the shoulder. He continued to stare out over the white capped waves as he listened to Paul’s footsteps retreat, the heels of his boots clacking against the concrete. After the rooftop door slammed shut, John kicked himself away from the wall and rubbed furiously at his eyes. He needed a coffee and a cold shower. He yawned and clambered down the staircase, and after a guilty glance back into the studio, John snuck out through the side door. 

***

“John” 

Paul’s voice cut through John’s inebriated slumber and jolted him awake. “ We’re here.”

He must have fallen asleep in the car ride home. 

He lifted his head and wiped his face, embarrassed to find he’d been drooling. When had he fallen asleep? For christ sake, he didn’t even remember leaving the studio. Just clambering down those stairs and slipping out the exit.

“Driver says you all but collapsed into the cab. Had to lift your head a bit in order to fit.” Paul teased good naturedly. John continued to sit up, his head swam with lingering sleep and booze. As he righted himself it occurred to him that his head had been resting directly on Paul’s thigh.

Fuck . 

How long had he been like that, with his head in Paul’s lap? He’d drooled on Paul’s leg? Jesus Christ. How come Paul hadn’t tried to move him? Scrambling himself away from Paul, he turned his head to see that they had, in fact, arrived at his seaside rental. 

The white stone facade shone iridescent in the night and the terracotta roof was dappled in moonshadow. He knew the house must be empty with Harry back at the studio with Klaus and Ringo out for the night. They climbed out of the car, the slam of the door immediately swallowed by the thick humid air. The sound of the waves were even louder here- audible even from the road. 

They went inside, and the reality of their situation began to dawn on John. They were alone. Truly alone. For the first time in years. John didn’t know how to feel- a strange combination of both familiarity and unease began to work its way up his spine. 

“Tea?” Paul asked, seemingly unconcerned. 

“Take coffee these days.” John replied, before he sprawled himself across the white sofa. John watched as Paul moved about the kitchen, studying him carefully. It was a habit he'd never shaken, that urge to try and understand him.

“An all American boy, you are.” Paul remarked in his worst American accent. “Dunno how to make the vile stuff anyhow, so you’ll take tea.” John just chuckled to himself. He was the only one who ever acquired the taste for coffee, Paul had always found it disgusting. Some things never change.

As John lounged on the sofa, he watched Paul move about the spacious kitchen, tracking Paul’s gracious movements. His boyish elegance, the way he cocked his head, chewed his lip, furrowed his brow, it was all so casually coquettish. Hypnotic even. It made him uneasy, to notice these things. It had been so long since he'd had the chance to notice them up close and in person. He forgot how much he noticed. Probably too much- ever since that first smoky evening on stage, when he’d noticed how beautiful Paul could look under stage lights… he’d never stopped noticing. In fact he’d spent half his lifetime noticing Paul. Noticed his hands move, his foot tap, his head bob. He should be sick of it by now, but it never seemed to get old. 

The room slowly filled with the comforting scent of brewing tea, and John couldn't help but feel a strange sense of déjà vu settle over him. It was as though he’d been transported back in time to a late night in Liverpool back at Mendips after a show. The feeling was strange, like revisiting an old town only to realize all the shops have changed, and nothing's quite where it used to be.

Paul returned to the sofa, presenting John with a steaming cup of tea as if it were a peace offering. "Here you go," he said with a forced smile, settling into an armchair opposite him. They sat in awkward silence for a moment, both sipping their drinks delicately, unsure of what to say.

The relentless crash of the waves outside continued.

Paul cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "You know, John," he began, the hesitation in his voice was thick, "I didn't come here tonight to ruin your day or anything, y’know. Just wanted to have a bit of fun is all.”

John said nothing, the steam from his tea fogging up his glasses. He didn’t know what to say to that.

Paul's smile wavered, he looked a bit nervous. "Tonight was a right circus.” He said through a forced laugh, setting his tea down. There was a short pause in which he seemed to consider if he should keep speaking. John could see the moment he decided to continue flicker across his eyes. “Damn it, John I've missed this…  and I'm not talking about the music mate. I'm talking about you." He cleared his throat abruptly and quickly reached back for the tea, as though he could speed up time to rush past what he’d just said.

John just sat in stillness, letting Paul sweat. He needed more than that before he was going to pick up a guitar and play with this one. He narrowed his eyes and smirked over the lip of his mug, “that so?” he said evasively.

Paul cleared his throat with exasperation and shifted in his seat. "Christ sake, John," he began, his frustration barely concealed, “only been tryna get at ya for the past three years, mate.  Whenever I’d suggest something like this, you always said no."

John looked at him, his guard still up. "Like I said, that was before…"

Paul's patience was wearing thin. "This again- John . I’ll tell ya what, I didn't expect to be here tonight. I don't understand what you want."

John's throat tightened at Paul's words. It was true, he had been actively pushing Paul away for years, keeping him at arm's length, turning him away at the Dakota, skirting his many attempts at rekindling any kind of closeness. And yet, when he was finally face-to-face with the bloke, guitar in hand, he found himself angry their reunion had been so crowded. He didn't know what to make of his own reaction.

John took a deep breath, and decided to share a portion of the truth. "Paul, you’ve got to understand," he began cautiously, "Yoko, she thought I needed some space, to... withdraw, go cold turkey, whatever you want to call it."

Paul's brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued. "Withdraw from what, John? Smack?"

John shook his head, struggling to find the words. This was the part he didn't fully understand himself. “Not exactly.”

“Enlighten me, John.” Paul had leaned back on the sofa, a muscled bicep resting behind his head as a pillow. “Withdraw? Cold turkey?”

In those first few months apart, John had been a wreck. Empty and dead inside, he’d checked himself into Janov’s care the week Paul had confirmed their split. Those had been some long, aching nights. Unable to sleep, he’d wracked himself with sobs, curled like a fetus into Yoko’s belly. Splitting from Paul had been physically painful, like something inside him had to be exorcized. He recalled the vast and endless nothingness he had existed inside of, punctuated only by waves of anguish or paranoia that Yoko would leave his side. She’s stayed, though, rubbing his back through each excruciating wave. He remembered clinging to her like a life raft, knowing full well that without her he’d actually drown. He’d been so weak, so vulnerable. He couldn’t believe he’d become so emmeshed with Paul that he’d needed fucking rehab to separate from the bloke. Meanwhile, Paul had been up in Scotland, pushing out babies and milking cows. Unbothered. Thriving. It had been hell.

Paul had no fucking idea. No idea how hard it had been for him. John resented him for it, for handling the split so well. It had been him, not Paul, who’d asked for it in the first place- so why had John been the one to suffer so inordinately? It wasn’t bloody fair. Then, in a moment of resentment and anger, John leaned forward, his voice rushed with bitterness. 

"From you , Paul. I needed to withdraw from you .” He paused, letting his words sink in. Paul's eyes widened with something like shock and hurt. John continued, gesturing between them with an open palm, “From us, everything we were. It was the only way to move on." He felt his inside clench at his own words, it was the closest he’d come sharing the truth outside of Janov’s office.

Paul shook his head, not saying anything for a while. He just stroked his mustache and considered his next words carefully. "I didn’t know, John. Didn’t realize… "

“Well, it wasn’t just you, y’know,” He felt himself backpedal, suddenly uncomfortable at his admission."I needed to figure meself out, away from the group. Yoko understood that.”

“ Not just me. ” Paul repeated vacantly. John nodded, his expression still grim. They sat in silence for another strained moment, Paul’s eyebrows knitted together. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek furiously now. John could tell he was working something out in his head, trying desperately to fit puzzle pieces together. He watched with an anxious knot in his belly. Finally Paul spoke. “But you didn’t need space from George? Had no trouble recording with him on that god forsaken track?"

John squirmed under Paul's words, "that was different, Paul." He began defensively.

“Sure.” Paul's eyes searched John's face, a mix of confusion and hurt in his gaze. "You say it wasn’t just me, that you needed space from the group. But that song wasn't about the group , John. It was about me .” John’s stomach sank, he was dangerously close to the truth. Paul stood up and paced to stand behind his armchair, arms locked to support himself against its back. “Not exactly a love song, was it? What’s a bloke to think, John?” 

John couldn’t meet Paul’s eyes. His gaze was distant, over Paul’s shoulder towards the sea. Paul stood up straight and began to pace a bit back and forth. It made John uneasy.

“That hurt, y’know? I never said anything, but it hurt my bloody feelings.” John swallowed hard against the lump that was forming in his throat. “Not about me… please . Can we just be honest for once ?” Paul finished by shoving his hands in his pockets aggressively, turning on his heel to face John. John flicked his eyes to meet Paul’s briefly before looking away. There was too much hurt reflected there. He hated himself for that.

John's insides clenched tight. He knew that now was the time to be honest, even if it wasn’t completely clear to him what that meant. He took a deep breath and tried again."Like I said, I needed to withdraw -”

“From me , apparently. Not from George , not Rich .” Paul interrupted, anger in his voice now. John looked over to see a flush had creeped up Paul’s neck in his frustration. “The worst part is, John, I still don’t understand what it is I did to make you hate me so goddamn much!”

John bit down on his bottom lip, struggling to find the words. He knew he couldn't tiptoe around it any longer, even if it was something he didn’t quite grasp himself. Part of him resented that he even had to say it, that Paul didn’t already know. "It's... different with you, Paul," John replied quietly, his voice hushed. "I wish I could explain it better, but I can't."

That seemed to shut Paul up. He said nothing, instead walking to the window and prying it open. A cool salty breeze filled the room, John felt a chill go through him.

Paul lit himself a cigarette and began to smoke it restlessly out the window. Silvery moonlight illuminated his face, casting shadows down his cheeks where his thick lashes caught the light. Pale plumes of smoke rose up around him, casting him in a strange sort of ethereal haze. John couldn't shake the feeling that Paul might evaporate up into smoke himself, hardly here, hardly real.

"Do you regret ringing me tonight?" Paul asked after a long time.

John answered with his own question. “Do you regret coming ?” Paul shot him a look of reproach so he added, "I don’t, no."

Paul’s shoulders seemed to lower at that. He prodded, "But you said it was a mistake?" He ashed his cigarette out the window.

John sighed. "I just thought, y’know, I thought... if we were gonna play together... it should be more of a private affair."

Paul shook his head and slumped his shoulders in defeat. "You should have just said so, mate." 

John grumbled to himself under his breath. Paul walked back to the sofa, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and settled into the cushions opposite John. His foot was tapping anxiously, and John could see he hadn’t stopped chewing in the inside of his mouth. There was a long tense silence. John desperately wanted this moment to end, he wanted to relax with Paul, to laugh with Paul. He wanted to jam with Paul. It was clear, however, nothing of the sort would happen until they’d cleared the air. Completely. 

" Drums ?” John broke the loaded silence, his eyes narrowed at Paul. He hadn’t been able to move on from this detail. “First time we play together in three years and you choose drums ? It’s like you wanted to make sure there was as much bloody space in between us as possible."

Paul just let out one big humorless laugh. "Jesus John, has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to read into things? I thought that’s what you wanted . You never let me inside the dakota with my guitar, I thought-”

"Not this again." John gestured dismissively towards Paul, falling back against the couch.

“You needed space . Right" Paul echoed dismissively.

“Right!” John repeated, pointedly. 

Paul stilled, his foot tapping quieted. He sat there in silence, absorbing everything he’d heard, a single finger tracing the outline of his mouth. Then after some careful consideration he asked, "but... you don't need space anymore?"

John's voice was bitter, "Now that my marriage is falling apart, I suppose there's no point in keeping away." 

Paul cleared his throat rather loudly and looked away from John, obviously uncomfortable. A pink hue colored his cheeks, out of embarrassment, anger, or what- John wasn’t sure. 

It was an odd thing to say, really. To suggest that it was safe to be around Paul now that Yoko was out of the picture. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but at the same time, it was the first thing he’d said all evening that he was absolutely certain of. How often had Paul told John he’d felt pushed aside, as soon as he’d met Yoko? How many times had Yoko told John, point blank, she felt threatened by Paul’s presence in John’s life? This was simply a fact; one could not exist in John’s life if the other did too. 

Paul clapped his hands together, making John jump. “D’ya think that guitar will stand up and sing for us, or do you reckon we’ll have to actually play it?” He delivered the line through a forced smile. It was an awful joke. Terrible, really. Paul was clearly desperate to change the subject, to move on, but unsure how. John exhaled and decided to let the obvious diversion slide. "A bit eager, are we, Macca?" He asked with raised eyebrows.

Paul made a show of rolling his eyes as he stood up to cross the room. John noticed Paul wipe his palms against his pants, and that sent a sort of smug satisfaction through him. Always unflappable, Paul’s palms only sweat when he was truly nervous. The thought that Paul might be just as anxious, just as jumpy as he was. It made him feel a bit better.

Paul picked up one of the guitars sitting against the wall and brought it back to the couch. Within seconds of the instrument landing in his hands, he was already strumming, making music almost like an impulse he couldn’t control. It was as though the music lived right there, just below Paul’s skin, ready to burst out. 

John's lips curled into a half-smile as he began to recognize the melody. It was one of his own compositions, a song he was rather proud of.

So much younger than today… Paul sang, strumming lightly. The rendition was slow, melancholy and honest- the way John had felt while writing it. 

Didn’t need anybody's help in any way… It was almost bluesy, the way Paul was playing it. It was nice.

The reflexive urge was impossible to ignore. After a moment or two, John felt himself stand up and walk towards the grand piano that sat at the far end of the living room. 

Now these days are gone, I feel so insecure… Paul's voice rang out.

“I’m not so self assured .” John sang over Paul, correcting him.

Paul snapped up his head in surprise and cracked a grin, laughing breathily to himself. “Been a while.” He muttered before resuming.

I’m not so self assured… Paul corrected, his hazel eyes glinting in amusement. John couldn’t help but grin big and wide. He spun around and took a deep breath. This was happening, then. After years apart, all the hemming and hawing, it was finally happening.

A slight hesitation flickered in John, but he swallowed it down and struck out some bluesy chords on the piano. Once he started, there was no stopping. He might as well have tried to dam a river in full flood – unstoppable and overwhelming. Before long at all, he closed his eyes and let the music wash over them. The urge to harmonize with Paul overcame him, as if it were an automatic response. More than a decade's worth of partnership guided his fingers, and John found that he could still predict the subtle shifts in Paul’s melody as though they were psychically linked. It felt so stupidly good, like taking a hot bath after being outside for a long time in the cold.

They played the entire song, their voices blending in a way that was achingly familiar. When they finished, John held his eyes closed, letting the moment linger. 

"Well, that wasn’t a total disaster, was it?" Paul remarked with a nervous laugh, setting his guitar aside.

John’s back was turned towards Paul but he couldn't help but laugh to himself. "No, not entirely.” He opened his eyes and swung his legs around to face Paul.

A boyish smile began to spread across Paul’s face and all at once, John swore he looked just the same as he had on the day they’d met. For a second, they were both just two lads again. The same lads who would sprint home from class, throw their bookbags, school work forgotten, into the corner of their bedrooms and turn on the radio. They’d shove their heads together and teach themselves the first rock song they’d hear. “It’s E minor, Paul, I’m telling you!” “No, no, John- listen! It’s E major!”

They were the same kids who’d sold scrap metal and collected every last jam jar in Liverpool to afford the last Elvis LP at NEMS. They’d shared custody of that record, John getting it during the week, Paul during the weekends. They’d pass it off on the bus every Monday morning and Friday afternoon. When that mysterious scratch had showed up halfway through All Shook Up, they’d nearly come to blows- each blaming the other for being too careless with their most prized possession. Later finding out it had been Mike, the tosser.

They were the same two lads who shared an almost pathological love for music, a love so strong it alienated basically everyone else- but it didn’t matter, because they’d had each other. 

Warmth began to spread through John now. He was smiling big and bright- and Paul was smiling back. Paul opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but then seemed to think the better of it and snapped it shut.

All of a sudden, the ring of the telephone shattered the stillness of the room. John shot up, his nerves still frayed, and crossed the room to pick up. "That’ll be May," John mused aloud, his eyes never leaving the familiar figure on the couch. 

On the other end of the line, May's voice came through rushed with curiosity. "Hey, how's it going over there?" 

John smiled, even though May couldn't see him. She'd been the driving force behind this entire thing, believing it was high time for a reconciliation. "About as well as it could, I think."

John could hear the curiosity in her thick Manhattan accent as she asked, "Have you two had a chance to talk?"

John hesitated, their conversation was still unfinished. He watched Paul's fingers dance along the strings of his Gibson. "Sort of," John finally replied, cautiously.

May picked up on his hesitation immediately, "Do you need more time, you think?"

John let out a loud sigh. He knew the safer thing to do would be to stop here and send Paul home while things were going well. But something in him resisted... Something about the way Paul looked sitting in his house, in his living room , playing his guitar on his couch ... "Yeah, a bit more time," he lied, keeping his tone casual. "You know how it is."

May's laughter, warm and knowing, rippled through the phone. "Listen, Linda and I are heading back to the Marmont. I have a feeling she wants to make room for you two as well."

John couldn't help but let out a sharp laugh at the idea that Linda might be playing matchmaker. "Is the whole bloody world in on this reunion, then?”

"About time, isn't it?" May’s voice crackled with amusement. With a small smile, John nodded, despite the telephone. “John.” She added, her voice turning gentle. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll sleep at the marmont if you want me to.”

“Thanks May.” John murmured, and he meant it. “For this. For everything.”

It was good to hear May’s voice, she had a soothing effect on him. She was kind, she was easy. Most importantly, she understood how important this reunion was to John, even if he’d never said as much out loud. She knew because she was intuitive, and because she actually gave a shit about him, about Julian, about his relationships, his world outside of her. He knew he was lucky to have her. 

“By the way,” May’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Linda said that he, uh… he hasn’t shut up about you since they got to town.” John didn’t respond, just continued to stare at Paul whose head was thrown back a bit, lost in the music he was playing.

“Oh.” Was all he could manage to say. He swallowed hard against whatever feeling was making his stomach flip over, like that meant anything at all.

“Remember to try and have some fun.” May encouraged, a smile in her voice. Then, with a click, she hung up.

“Fun.” John echoed vacantly into the dial tone. Before he hung up, John stole a final look at Paul. His lips were pursed into a whistle and he was rocking back and forth, as though his body were just an extension of the music. The sight of Paul seemed to have a physical pull on John, practically demanding him to move closer.

John cleared his throat decisively and made his way to the bar cart beside the sofa.

"May seems like a nice girl." Paul remarked casually, setting his instrument down. 

John’s back was to Paul. "Brilliant, she is. This whole thing was her idea, y'know." He picked up a bottle of gin and turned around, gesturing it towards Paul for his approval.

Paul raised an eyebrow, impressed. "And you listened? Good boy, Johnny." Then, acknowledging the offer of booze, nodded in agreement. 

John turned back to the bar cart and poured them two stiff glasses. At this point, the booze and drugs from earlier had worn off, the clock tolling well past eleven pm. The night was still young, and May was right, he should probably try enjoying himself. Tonight wasn't just about playing music; it was about healing old wounds. It was surreal, really, to have Paul here with him after all this time. The impossibility of it struck John all at once. Even a few weeks ago, the mere idea of playing with Paul was nothing more than a pathetic pipe dream. But, here he was, directly in front of John, tangible and real, sitting cross legged on the couch, his couch, in bloody Los Angeles of all places. This was happening, and John couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he should make the most of it, or else he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

John pivoted on his heel and danced playfully over to Paul, swinging his hips side to side while holding the drink up with bent arms. Paul looked up at John and his nose scrunched in the way it always did when he surprised himself with his own laughter. As Paul reached out for his glass, John playfully pulled his hand back, taking a sip first before handing it over. Paul met John’s eyes with a playful glare.

“You bloody tease!” He whined, petulant. John shot him a wink, and Paul’s grin widened even further.

“Remember fun , Paul?” John called as he turned away, moving towards the radio now. “Remember that ?” Paul stood up then and rubbed at his eyes furiously, a shy smile creeping across his face.

“ Fun , you say?” He asked, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Sounds familiar, now that you mention it.”

“Used to have it when we were young, I think.” John yelled over his shoulder, turning the radio on and scanning through the channels. He found a station that was playing Bowie’s new LP and turned it up.

“Time, he's waiting in the wings.” The song crooned out of the speaker, loud enough now that John had to shout. “Come on, Paul, let’s try it. Fun , or whatever the kids are calling it these days.”

“He speaks of senseless things.” Paul stretched his arms long and yawned. A sliver of his pale white belly peaked out at John from beneath his loose fitted shirt. The sight of the dark hairs that grew there sent a weird sort of thrill through John. He looked away quickly, hoping Paul hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah, alright. Fun . I’ll have a go.” Paul picked up his gin and sauntered over to the radio, listening to the song. Recognizing it, he started singing along.

“The sniper in the brain, regurgitating drain” He mimicked David’s tenor- warbling his head in bravado. John couldn’t help but laugh.

“Is he why you cut your hair like that?” John remarked over the song, gesturing to Paul’s head.

“Like what?!” Paul’s hand shot up to his hair, a defiant expression in his eyes.

“Like this-'' John tousled Paul’s mullet with his hand, making Paul squint and giggle in spite of himself. He staggered out of John’s reach and put on a defensive look, his eyebrows straight up. 

“I’ll have you know it’s considered quite hip, in fact!” He insisted, teasing back. “Not that you’d know the first thing about that sort of thing- what are those, women’s trousers?” Paul gestured at John’s flared denim.

“They’re May’s!” John cried defensively, “Besides, I think I look quite dashing in them, don’t you?” He struck a pose for Paul, popping a hip and letting his wrist go limp.

Paul snorted a laugh into his gin, and playfully made to shove John’s shoulder. John easily dodged the shove, and raised his eyebrows in challenge, egging Paul on. Paul quickly downed his gin and set it down, grasping again toward John, who took another step back, a grin plastered on his face. John cackled and downed his drink just in time to dodge Paul’s next attempt to shove him. 

Then Paul was chasing him around the living room. John let out a small shriek of joy and sprinted all the way into the kitchen. Cackling with glee, Paul followed, slipping all over the hardwood floors in his socked feet. He ran around the kitchen island and back to the living room, leading Paul around the coffee table in one direction, then doubling back in the other. They were gasping for air through their laughter. At one point, John thought Paul had trapped him. He’d backed him towards an armchair and John couldn't see a way out- so he’d faked left but leaped right and shook off Paul once again. 

A sort of hysteria had seized them both, barely able to breathe through mindless fits of outrageous laughter. John wasn’t even sure what he would do if Paul caught him, he had no idea what the objective of this game was, what the rules were- if it even was a game at all. All he knew was that he was finally having fun. For the first time all evening, they were just two mates, just as they’d always been. It was palpable, the tension had broken, like a levee collapsed or a balloon popped.

Having had enough- Paul’s face steeled over with resolve and he made a beeline for John, clambering over the back of the sofa. Tumbling over the cushions, he rolled to the ground and grabbed John by the ankle, but John squirmed away almost immediately. In a flash he was on the floor and had trapped Paul in a headlock. Paul was giggling hysterically as John let out a loud cackle of victory. Then, panting like a dog, he ground his fist into the top of Paul’s scalp, entirely mussing up his hair.

“Stop, John! Gerroff!” Paul shouted through his laughter, and John eventually released him. They fell apart from one another, lolling back on the carpet in exhaustion. They were both flush with the effort of the chase, breathing hard, enormous smiles on their faces.

The song on the radio had changed. 

If I ever get out of here… Paul’s own voice crooned out from the speaker in the corner. Feeling lighter than he had all evening, John opened his mouth to sing along. “Well the rain exploded with a mighty crash-” He lifted himself off the ground and pranced over to the liquor cart to pour himself another glass of gin.

“Oh, Christ, no, John- please. Just change it.” Paul called out, embarrassed. He stood up and made his way towards the radio dial. 

“No no no!” John shouted, running over to stop Paul. “Wait!” John shoved a glass of gin into his hand so he couldn’t adjust the dial. “Don’t change it!” He insisted, tilting the bottom of the glass up into Paul’s mouth as he drank. “Good lad” he commented as Paul swallowed. He brought his own glass to his lips and took a few sips. As he drank, he hummed into his glass, swinging his hips in time to the beat. 

“Hmmm?!” Paul exclaimed into his gin in genuine surprise. He swallowed. “You actually like this, don’t you?” He jerked his head towards the radio. He was smiling in an odd sort of way, a shy expression of pride in his eyes.

John simply ignored the question and instead spun around on one socked foot, “I hope you’re having fuuun” he sang, taking another gulp of gin. He’d finished his second glass. He poured himself a third.

Paul glanced at his guitar, and then back at John. John nodded in encouragement, and Paul went to grab it. 

And then they were harmonizing over a song written by Paul, but recorded with an entirely different band. It was totally surreal. But they were smiling, and they were laughing and John was cautiously enjoying himself. Paul’s face shone with excitement, nodding to John as they made their way through the tune. 

“This is my favorite part- right here” John commented, pointing to the radio. The song exploded with Paul’s voice “but we never will be found” . Paul looked up and laughed, giving a throaty “ wahhhh ” imitating the reckless scream he’d let out on the recording. “Sound like Little Richard, there.” John added, knowing full well what the comparison would mean to Paul.

Paul smiled wide, a bit of a flush rising to his neck at John’s words. “I can’t believe you actually listened.” He shook his head with disbelief. The radio DJ faded the song out. 

“Course I listened. I listen to everything you put out.” John shrugged, as though it was the most casual thing in the world. As though he didn’t send May to pick up every album Paul released the second it hit shelves. As if he didn’t lock himself in his room and listen to them on repeat. As though he didn’t examine every lyric, every note, every byline- searching for some hidden meaning, overt or cryptic.

“That so?” Paul looked genuinely surprised, putting the guitar down again. He had that look on his face, a shy secretive thing, and John can’t help but feel that Paul can tell what he’s thinking— dangerous, that. 

The radio was playing something slow and moody now. John turned it down.

“Don’t act so surprised, Paul.” John rolled his eyes. “What about that one near the end… what’s it called- No Words?” The gin was helping him to say things he’d normally keep to himself.

“What about it?” John hated it when Paul feigned ignorance.

“Come on Paul” he scoffed, frustrated that Paul couldn’t admit it. “Why put that out if you didn’t think I’d be listening. Hm?”

Paul just stared at him, eyes wide, looking a bit like a deer in headlights. “Denny wrote that one, John. I just helped with the lyrics.” He shrugged, chewing on one nail. “Interesting, though, that you think that one’s about you.”

“And why’s that?” John asked pointedly.

“No reason.” Paul looked away then, a deep crimson shining through his tan. He sucked his lower lip and shrugged again, unable to look John in the eyes. He coughed rather loudly and stood up. John could see the deep flush had migrated down his chest, and John turned over the notion that he would like very much to take his hand and trace the outline of that flush as far as Paul would let him. He shook his head hard, he should slow down on the drink.

"So, are you writing any new stuff these days?" Paul asked John apruptly, changing tack instead of addressing John’s question.

The question hung in the air, and John’s smile flickered slightly. The thought of diving into the songwriting process, of opening himself up to that kind of vulnerability… It was both tempting and terrifying. 

Paul seemed to read John's hesitation. "Nevermind, sorry. Forget it.” Paul gestured dismissively, "Best not to rekindle that old flame." 

“Yeah,” John agreed, a bit unsettled at the suggestion, “no need to ruin a good mood.” he remarked, pouring them both another glass of gin.

Paul walked to the piano instead and began to bang out a chuck berry tune. John exhaled and made the choice to join Paul, sitting down next to him at the piano bench. He accompanied Paul on the lower octave, their hands moving in synchronized rhythm. On the small bench, John was pressed directly up against Paul. John couldn’t help but notice how warm, how real Paul felt against his body. He could smell Paul’s scent this close to him: the vinegary tang of sweat, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and gin- all mixed in with something new and sweet, that unfamiliar floral shampoo. It stirred up something deep inside of John, a uneasy, sickening feeling.  A sort of unrelenting… wanting. 

Each song brought back to life another memory, another story. Paul would play an old tune and added his own twist, deviating from the familiar melody to surprise John, who would respond by injecting a playful riff on the piano with a mischievous grin. Slowly, cautiously, joy seeped in like sunlight warming a room and before long their laughter rang out, bright and easy.

At some point, Paul whistled the tune of Michelle and went to grab the Gibson. He stood up to cross the room, and immediately John felt a cold absence flank his side. His leg and shoulder felt abnormally chilled where he’d been pressed against Paul’s radiating warmth. He felt impatient for Paul to sit back down.

"Remember when we tried to record this one in French?” Paul asked, rushing back to the piano bench. 

“Absolutely butchered the pronunciation.” John replied, inching as near to Paul as he felt he could without raising suspicion.

Paul chuckled, his shoulder bouncing against John’s. "Awful, wasn't it?" The memory surfaced a cackle from John. He broke into a rendition of the mangled French lyrics, his accent all hacking phlegm and guttural noises. The performance earned a hearty laugh from Paul, who keeled over and grabbed John by the knee. John felt his entire body go white hot at the touch, his head buzzing with gin.

Paul’s hand lingered for only a second before he retracted it to reach into his breast pocket. Producing a joint, he offered it to John. John raised a single eyebrow approvingly and pulled a matchbook out from his own jacket pocket, handing it over. He was plenty drunk now, both from the alcohol and from Paul’s company. He felt delirious with laughter, drunk with relief.

Paul lit the joint and took a deep drag. John watched the joint rise to Paul’s lips. It sat there, couched comfortably between his two pillowy lips, held by nothing more than their soft wetness. John was struck then, with an incredible wave of envy towards the joint, like it was taunting him. It was then that he decided privately that nothing should be allowed to be that close to Paul if John wasn’t as well. 

Ignorant of John’s fixation, Paul exhaled an egregious plume of smoke into his face. John could only cough theatrically, waving his hand in front of his face for added effect. “Me lungs, me lungs!” He cried, wearing a goofy expression of despair. 

Paul just chuckled, inspecting the joint to make sure it had light properly, “don’t act like you wouldn’t inhale the smoke right outta me mouth if I let ya.” 

John’s stomach flipped over. That sounded like an invitation; a taunt at the very least. But John couldn’t be sure… he had a decent buzz going now and his mind was delirious with drink, he couldn’t be sure what Paul had meant, if anything at all. 

“Can’t let any of that precious bud go to waste, Macca.” John shot back, snatching the joint out of Paul’s hand. His stomach pinched when he noticed Paul’s eyes track the joint all the way to his mouth. John’s belly pooled with a searing heat; he rather liked Paul looking at him like that, and the realization sent a sort of shiver through him. 

John pinched the joint by the filter and took a deep inhale, holding his breath at the top. Paul’s heavily lidded eyes traced the outline of John’s mouth, now leaking a wisp of white smoke. John’s stomach twisted with uncertainty, but he swallowed down his doubt and motioned with one hand for Paul to come closer. 

Paul’s eyes flicked up to meet John’s, a question written there. John just raised his eyebrows and motioned again for him to lean in. Paul leaned himself towards John, their shoulders pressed firmly together, their faces now only centimeters apart. John’s mouth was curled up at the side in a sly sort of smirk. He had Paul right where he wanted him.

John raised a hand to rest gently behind Paul’s ear, his thumb brushing a single lock of raven hair. His veins coursing with adrenaline, John jerked his chin, signaling for Paul to open his mouth. Paul swallowed, hesitating for only a moment before he complied, parting his lips ever so slightly. John could see the sheen of moisture there, the white tips of his teeth. He could even smell his breath: sour with gin and smoke. His stomach swooped. He leaned in slowly, careful not to get too close, careful not to touch, and blew out. As he exhaled, Paul inhaled, breathing in the air that had just been inside of John’s lungs. His eyes were half closed and John could feel him rest the smallest bit of weight into the palm that bracketed his skull. The sensation sent a nonspecific ache through his chest. 

Then the moment was over. His inhale finished, Paul straightened up and gave a slight cough, leaning himself away from John once more. John couldn’t help but feel frozen, completely dumbstruck by the closeness he’d just experienced to Paul. The closest he’d been to him in so many years. There was an undeniable tingling crawling beneath his skin now.

Paul looked at John thoughtfully up and down, and John felt himself prickle under his gaze. After a moment of silence, Paul opened and then closed his mouth, considering his next words carefully. After a moment, he spoke. "Up on the roof.” He started, looking a bit puzzled. “I tried to touch – how come you wouldn't let me touch ya, John?"

John leaned back, his eyes narrowing skeptically. "We're just full of questions tonight, aren't we?"

Paul rolled his eyes and shrugged, "I'm sorry, John! It's just... you literally shoved me off. I couldn’t help but think…” He cut himself off, bringing a single nail up to his mouth to chew. “Damn it, John, it’s been so long- I feel like I hardly know ya."

John shook his head and sighed audibly, almost laughing to himself. "Don't be daft, Paul. You're the only one who ever did." 

Paul’s eyes shone at John’s words, but a look of confusion still clouded his face.  "Then, help me out mate. You’re always saying it's good to touch. Do you really hate me that much…”

John felt his stomach sink. This was the second time Paul had hinted at John’s alleged hatred of him. It made him sick to think about, that Paul might actually believe that, after everything. "Oh for god’s sake, mate. I don’t hate you, I could never hate you. If I hate you- then what have I got- hm? Ten years down the bloody toilet and a heart full of regret?”

“ Isn’t that what you’ve got?” 

“Fuck’s sake, Paul, no . I don’t bloody hate you, in fact, I rather like you, y’know.” John heard himself blurt out, a pleading tone in his voice, “And I don’t regret a single thing, not a bloody second. Christ .” It hurt to think that Paul could assume such a thing, that John hated him, could barely stand him. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“Oh.” Paul simply said, after a long silence. He just shrugged, “I didn’t know.” The candor in his voice broke John’s heart. Did Paul really think so little of him?

"So what was the problem up on the roof? I... wanted to, uh, hug ya, John.” Paul said quietly, almost embarrassed. John didn’t know how to react to that one. A hug? From Paul? That was a new one. Since when was Paul keen on affection? Was this some sort of gag?

“Right." John nodded but remained cautious. How many times had he told Paul it was good to touch, try to pull Paul into an embrace only to have Paul wither in his arms like a limp rag- unable to give himself up to any sort of physical intimacy? Ever since he’d met Linda, Paul had been so polite with his touch. This had to be some kind of joke.

“It’s good to touch, right?” Paul offered his palms up to John, an apologetic sort of look on his face.

Something in John remained steadfast and humorless. “Don’t go saying that like you know what it means.” 

Paul’s eyebrows pulled together, confused, then his expression grew frustrated. "What the hell, John? I mean. I'm trying to mend a bridge here!" He slapped his palms back down onto his thighs.

John huffed and stood up, suddenly uncomfortable with how close they were sitting on the piano bench. "Forget it. You wouldn't understand."

Paul rolled his eyes in defiance, raking his fingers back through his raven hair. "Sure. I couldn't possibly understand the complex inner workings of John Lennon's mind. Please . Try me, mate."

John couldn’t help but let out a short laugh at that, raking a hand over his face. He hesitated again before continuing, “Alright.” He started, uncertainty crawling up his spine as he contemplated his next words carefully. “It’s like, you're too buttoned up."

Paul, offended, retorted, "Excuse you, sir!"

“It’s good to touch, sure! Except you’re no good at it.” John accused, shrugging defensively.

“Am not!” Paul shouted, offense all over his face.

"You're terrible at touch," John repeated, a mocking glint in his eyes.

Paul, determined to defend himself, insisted, "I’d say several dozen birds across Europe and North America would beg to differ!"

John shook his head, smirking. "I’m not talking about a shag, mate- I’m talking about a hug.”

“I can’t be that shit, can I?” Paul asked, desperation and indignation in his voice.

“Giving you a hug... It's like,” John started, anxiety prickling up his scalp, “You're rigid. You're nervous. You don't give in to it... You hold back."

Paul blinked, genuinely surprised. "Seriously?"

John nodded. "Yeah, mate. You're rubbish.” He paced towards Paul, “Don't know how to give yourself over to it.” Paul looked up at John from the piano bench, his pink lips parted slightly, his impossibly arched eyebrows furrowed with seriousness. John felt his stomach lurch and not for the first time that evening, he stopped himself from reaching out to trace a single finger along Paul’s lips. His head was swimming, his thoughts slow and thick with gin.

“I didn't think I could cope, Paul,” He heard himself say, hovering only inches above him now. “With a piss poor hug from you. Not after all this time.” He swallowed the lump that threatened to form in his throat.

Paul blinked, his thick eyelashes fluttering together and then apart. He continued to stare at John, as if he were searching for something in his eyes. "So you told me to shove off?"

John sighed, his tone softening. "I was angry, wasn’t I? And pissed—don't forget."

Rigid tension held them still as they looked at each other- their stares unwavering and intense. John found that he couldn’t blink, entirely hypnotized by Paul’s endless pools of green and brown and black. 

"Oh come on, let me try it proper," Paul suddenly offered, surprising John.

John, struggling to let go of his bitter stubbornness, hesitated. "Nah, s'alright." 

Paul was determined, though. "Come on-"

John cut him off gently. "Really, it's alright." He made to turn away.

Paul's tone became more urgent, his words slurring a bit now. "I wantto, John. I wantto. Don't be thick, it's been so long.” John turned back to face Paul, who was shifting in his seat, getting ready to stand.

"I... I don't think so." John stammered. Paul stood up, so close to John that he was forced to stagger back in an attempt to avoid their foreheads colliding. Paul swayed a bit upon standing up, so he reached a hand out to steady himself against John’s shoulder. 

“You better sit back down, Mate.” John muttered, acutely aware of the pressure of Paul’s palm upon his shirt, just how close their faces were.

Paul shook his head, undeterred. "Come on, John. What’reya talking about? I'll give you one proper—I promise. Won't hold back. It'll be good." He was nodding, insistent- his eyes a bit unfocused as they bore into John’s.

John was holding his breath, his apprehension palpable. "Wouldn’t be good enough." He heard himself whisper, vacantly. Again, the gin helping him to admit things he’d rather not say.

Paul frowned, puzzled. "Wha-?"

John clarified, his voice somewhere far away. "You've always kept me at arms length, son—never fully here."

Paul’s eyes clouded, unable to immediately respond to that accusation, John's words clearly striking a chord. Then in a sudden, almost desperate movement, he hugged John, pulling him in close. John’s breath was knocked out of him, huffing loudly against Paul’s chest. On his next inhale, though, his senses were assaulted with… Paul . His smell, so painfully familiar, climbed its way into his nostrils. His touch- warm and soft and firm all at once against John’s chest ignited a devastating pool of heat in his stomach. He went rigid.

"Relax, give into it," Paul whispered into John’s ear, his breath hot against his neck. Goosebumps exploded down John’s arms at the sensation. Paul rubbed his calloused hands up and down John's back, catching and pulling the fabric of his shirt up ever so slightly before pulling it back down. John could only hold his breath and remain as stiff as a board.

"It's good to touch—come on, John," Paul encouraged, his voice soft and soothing, his breath caressing the brown curls that grew around John’s ears.

"Yeah," John finally whispered, his defenses slowly melting. The scent of Paul this close to him was heady, and he felt hopelessly high off it. If he’d felt drunk before, he was absolutely beyond help now- the feeling of Paul’s broad arms wrapped around him, warm and real, was almost too much for him to handle. He had missed this so fucking much. A buzz of adrenaline began to pulse through his blood, causing his vision to swim.

John began to soften, finally remembering to breathe. Muscles in his arms and neck began to release, muscles he didn’t even know were tense. The sickening weight that had rested on his chest for so long he’d stopped noticing, lifted slightly. It felt like he could breathe again. The ember at the bottom of his stomach began to glow hot and bright, and before long, his entire body was ablaze. Carefully, John raised his own arms and placed his palms on Paul’s back- holding the coils of muscle that grew there, toned from years of hard labor on the farm, beneath thin cotton. John could feel Paul’s breath, a slow and steady wave. He could hear Paul’s heart beating. Paul was here, he was real, he was alive, he was touching him. It was more than he’d ever dared hoped for. 

After John seemed to reciprocate, Paul moved to pull away, but John tightened his grip. "Ah, ah, ah—not so fast. Just when you think you want to pull away, that's when you stay." He insisted, gripping Paul with white knuckles, forcing him to remain close for a moment longer. 

Paul chuckled, and they both exhaled. their heart rates slowed down as they took in each other's touch. John, unable to help himself, turned his head and buried his nose into the crook of Paul’s neck, taking a deep and luxurious inhale. The sensation of Paul’s milky white skin against John’s face sent a feeling of pure desperation through John. He wanted more, more, always more. He was greedy for Paul, unable to let go of him. As though he were filling himself up for the next three years apart. 

Paul rested his chin against John’s shoulder, then turned to rest his cheek. The two men stood there, holding each other, their embrace full of unspoken apologies and forgiveness. It felt so right, to touch Paul, to hold him. But John knew it would never be enough.

After what felt like both an eon and nowhere near enough time, Paul broke away. Bringing his palms to the outsides of John’s elbows.

"Good enough for ya?" He asked, a hint of playful arrogance in his voice.

John sighed, still sounding somewhat disappointed. "Alright, yeah."

Paul scoffed in disbelief. "What more could you possibly want from me? I fly out to Los Angeles, I abandon the session players, ditch my wife, agree to come to your house, I'm giving you a bleedin' hug—what else could you possibly—"

Before Paul could finish his sentence, John took him by the face and pulled him into a kiss. It was a hurried, hungry kiss, and it took Paul by surprise.

They broke apart, and Paul laughed nervously, his face a deep red and his eyes wild. He wiped one hand across his mouth, assuming it to be some kind of pointed joke. "You greedy prat... I'll cripple ya." He chuckled, his gaze flicking up into John’s face as he stumbled backward. But then he saw John's expression, one that was neither snide nor playful but deadly serious.

"Oh.” Paul mumbled, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.

John’s mouth was a thin line, and his eyes were fixed on Paul's mouth.

Paul turned away, picking up his guitar and wiping his mouth again, trying to regain his composure. Meanwhile, John, feeling foolish and stupid, turned to roll another joint. He smoked it in silence, lost in his thoughts, painfully aware of the tension mounting between them.

Just as John didn’t think he could take it for a second longer, right as he was about to demand that Paul just leave for God’s sake, the front door of the house burst open. A clatter of noise and voices exploded into the foyer, and John snapped to attention.

Ringo and Klaus stumbled into the living room, their faces flush with alcohol. Ringo walked straight towards John with his palms reaching for his cheeks. 

“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny Boy” He sang, obviously drunk. He cupped John’s face between his hands and planted a sloppy kiss on both of his cheeks. John forced a smile and patted him on the shoulder, then raising his eyebrows pointedly, he jerked his chin in Paul’s direction.

Ringo’s eyes focused and then unfocused before he pivoted on one heel.

“You!” He shouted, shock and delight lighting up his face. Paul grinned, a look of barely concealed delight on his face. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?!” Rich demanded, stumbling across the room in his haste to embrace Paul.

Paul stood up to catch Ringo, slapping him a few times on the back through his laughter. “Ask this one,” He gestured to John, “he’s the one who invited me.” 

“Wha-.” Rich said in disbelief, his brows furrowed in confusion. “John did?” He seemed unable to believe his ears. “KLAUS!” Ringo screamed into the foyer, “Get in here, Paul’s here!”

“Paul?!” Klaus called from the hall, his voice slurred and disbelieving. “Here?” He rounded the corner, eyes wild and searching. “Paul!” He yelled when he spotted him, and jogged over to the sofa to hug him. “Good to see you, man.” He slurred in his German accent, and Paul beamed.

“So you’re here to see him, then?” Ringo asked, directing his question towards Paul, jerking his head in John’s direction, his voice still skeptical.

“That’s right.” Paul confirmed, raising his eyebrows once in confirmation, his mouth a thin line of unease.

Ringo looked at John and then at Paul, picking up on the obvious friction between them.“Are we interrupting anything?” He asked suggestively, looking at them over his sunglasses, which he was still wearing even though it was well past midnight.

“Yes.” John answered.

“No.” Paul said at the exact same time.

Ringo froze, then shook his head with laughter. “Right.”  He looked at Klaus then, who just shrugged.

“We’re keeping the party goin’ if you want to stay, boys.” He announced, producing a small baggie of coke from his pocket, dangling it in the air.

“Sure.” John answered quickly.

“No thanks.” Paul said simultaneously.

Klaus and Ringo laughed again, uncomfortably this time. “Well,” Klaus started, “I hope you’ll stay, it’s been too long since we were all together.” He kneeled down then, in front of the coffee table and started pouring a fine white powder out onto its surface. Ringo sat down across from him on the sofa and watched.

“I dunno, boys.” Paul hesitated, making a show of looking at his watch. “It’s getting late.” He ran a hand through his dark hair. John felt his stomach sink, suddenly desperate for him not to leave.

“You should just crash here, mate.” Ringo suggested, not knowing the significance of his words. “Top to tail it with John like the old days.” He joked, just before he bent over to snort a line. Paul looked at John horrified at that suggestion, John just shrugged.

“Yeah!” Klaus encouraged. “Linda’s not gonna come and get you now, will she? Let the woman rest!”

Paul’s features twitched, uncomfortable. John began to panic. He couldn’t stand the thought of Paul leaving now, not after what had just happened. But the idea of them spending the night together, in the same bed- that was even worse.

“You can take the bed, Paul.” John finally spoke. “I can sleep anywhere, you know me.” Paul chewed the inside of his mouth in concentration, weighing his options. 

“Yeah, alright.” He finally agreed, a hint of apprehension in his eyes. John’s belly flooded with relief. He couldn’t say goodbye to him now, not yet.

“Atta boy!” Ringo looked up, flashing a grin at Paul, who sat down next to him. Ringo gestured to the coke, offering Paul a line. He refused politely, gesturing to the joint in John’s hand. John looked at it, remembering it he was holding it and cautiously made his way over to Paul. 

Ringo and Klaus were chatting a mile a minute, their words frantic and hurried. Something about the club they’d been to, the women they’d met, the music they’d heard. Paul just watched John approach him from behind Ringo’s head. Without a word, John handed Paul the joint .Paul took it and placed it in his mouth, his eyes never leaving Johns. 

“Got a light?” He asked, quietly, his words almost drowned out by Ringo’s laugh.

John just nodded and took a match from his matchbook, struck it and held it up for Paul. Paul leaned in, grabbing John by the wrist to keep the flame still and pulled once, twice on the joint, finally getting it to light. His hands lingered on John’s wrist even after it lit, then remembering himself, he dropped them into his lap.

**

Another hour passed. John barely spoke. He could only sit there, frozen, and watch Paul. Paul, who carried on conversation with Ringo and Klaus as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened right before they’d walked through the doors. His joyous banter with Ringo sent an unwarranted flare of envy through John. He wished so desperately that his relationship with Paul could be as uncomplicated, as easy and straightforward as Paul’s relationship to Rich. There was no hesitation in their touch, their smiles friendly and inviting. Their banter was light, unburdened by hurt or unspoken truths. 

It was well past one in the morning when Paul stood up.

“Knackered, I am.” He announced, stretching his arms up to the ceiling. “Think it’s time I head to bed.” John just looked up at him and nodded, unable to say anything. Better to let Paul go upstairs first, get undressed in private. Better to avoid any time alone. He’d wait down here with Richie until he felt it was safe.

“G’night, Paul.” John mumbled, hardly able to look him in the eyes. 

“Mind if I phone Linda, let her know I’m staying here?” Paul asked.

“Course.” John motioned to the telephone in the kitchen, dismissively.

“Thanks.” Paul said, taking a last toke from the joint before disappearing around the corner into the next room.

“Not feelin’ well… sleep it off.. Don’t worry, love…be back tomorrow.” John couldn’t help but overhear. John’s stomach twisted in curiosity. Why lie like that to Linda?

Paul hung up shortly thereafter and made his way up the stairs, John listened to Paul’s footsteps until he was sure he’d made it to the bedroom. John continued to sit there, pretending to listen to Ringo and Klaus’s coked out conversation, nodding at the right times, laughing at their jokes- but privately he was watching the clock, waiting for the clock to strike quarter to two. That would give Paul a healthy half hour to undress, brush his teeth and get into bed- hopefully even fall asleep.

The minutes ticked by and as soon as the clock read one forty five, John made a big show of yawning and stood up to excuse himself for bed.

“G’night then.” He said, patting them both on the shoulder as he left the room. 

***

John shifted restlessly on the floor, trying desperately to get comfortable. He punched his pillow a few times then let out a huff, dropping his head into the feathery down. There was no way he’d be able to sleep on the floor- why on earth had he offered to give up his bed?

He’d been trying to sleep for a little while already, having snuck into the room on tiptoes. He’d peaked in and found the lights off, the dark outline of Paul asleep under the covers. He’d made his way to the bathroom noiselessly, stripping down to his boxer briefs and emptying his bladder before snatching a single pillow from the bed. He’d stolen a blanket from Richie’s room and laid it down on the ground. Immediately, he’d known it was a lost cause. The carpet was thin and provided hardly any protection from the cold, hard floors, and he was stoned- his mind a buzz with drink and pot. He didn’t feel the least bit tired, but felt he should try and rest. 

He shifted again to his back, squirming so that his hip bone didn’t dig into the floor quite so much. He let out a frustrated groan, when two minutes later, his tail bone began to ache against the ground.

“John.” The sound of his name made John jump. He could have sworn Paul was dead asleep.

“John, are you alright?” Paul’s voice whispered again from somewhere above him. John bit his tongue, not sure if he should feign sleep or not. His heart pounded in the dark as he considered what to do.

“Fine.” John finally muttered, dismissively. John heard the sheets rustle. Then with a quiet ‘click’ the room filled with an orangey glow.

“Agh! Bright!” John hissed indignantly, the light from the bedside lamp hurting his eyes. 

“Sorry!” Paul quickly apologized. Blinded, John squinted in the direction of Paul’s voice, a hand shielding his face.

“Whatisit?” John demanded, frazzled by the bright light.

“This is ridiculous, John.” Paul said matter of factly. “You’ll never fall asleep down there.”

“Ehhh.” John groaned.

“Your noises are keeping me up, anyhow. Just come up here won’t you?” Paul insisted.

John stared up at him, his vision slowly adjusting. Paul’s figure gradually came into focus: his hair was askew, tuffs pointing out every which way and his eyes bleary, squinting at John in the thin light. He looked so innocent, so much younger, just like he used to look every time they had woken up next to each other on tour. John’s insides squirmed. Paul was right, he’d never be able to sleep on the floor, but the chances of him being able to fall asleep next to Paul were even slimmer. He hesitated, unsure of what to do.

“S’alright, I can take the couch.” He said quickly, sitting up to gather his blanket and pillow. 

“Don’t be thick, mate.” Paul insisted, slapping the mattress twice. “If anyone’s taking the couch, it’ll be me.” He made to sit up, but John just shook his head, giving up on their charade of good manners. “Stop it, Paul, no need to be so chivalrous.” He held out a palm to let Paul know he could lay back down. “We can just share.” 

John rounded the mattress, squinting against the light, and cautiously climbed under the sheets. He laid down on his back, as far away from Paul as he could without falling off the bed. Balancing on the edge of the mattress, he felt acutely aware of the warmth that seemed to radiate off of Paul only a few inches away from him. He closed his eyes, waiting for Paul to turn off the light. 

The light remained on. 

Through his eyelids, John could see the shadow of Paul’s head move over him, blocking out the light.

Without opening his eyes, he grumbled “What is it, Paul?”

“Nothing! It’s just…” Paul trailed off, and John opened one eye. Paul was looking down at John, his black hair hanging in front of his face. “Is this the bed?” He asked, an impish look of intrigue on his face.

It took a second for John to understand what he was asking. “Y’know- the bed where Kennedy shagged Monroe?!” Paul urged, breathlessly.

“Are you serious, Paul?” John grumbled, turning onto his side to face away from him. Suddenly, he was desperate for sleep. How could Paul be so awake? 

“Well?!” Paul urged again, “Is it?!” 

“One in the same.” He muttered, hoping Paul would leave him alone if he answered.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Paul breathed, clearly nowhere near sleep. John opened his eyes and stared at his socks which sat crumpled on the floor in front of him. Wasn’t Paul supposed to be tired?

“What’s it like?” Paul prodded. “To do it, in the same bed they did it?” His voice was teasing, but John was at his wit’s end. This was not the time to have this conversation. It was late, he was stoned, he knew he’d be hungover in the morning. It was time they both got some sleep.

“Brilliant. Now, if you don’t mind-” John whirled to face his mate, and it was then that he noticed Paul was shirtless.

“Right, right. Sorry, John. I just- I didn’t think you were tired.” Paul raked his fingers down through his hair. John’s eyes flicked briefly to his chest, that unfamiliar bronze tan glowing in the orange light. Sparse black hairs grew there in tufts above each of his pink nipples, goosebumped and hard against the cool air. His chest was nicely defined too, the muscle tone obvious in all this shadow. He wasn’t all muscle, though. Propped up on his elbow, the soft skin of Paul’s tummy folded in on itself, providing a gentle contrast to the definition that rippled down his arms. 

John felt short of breath.

The reality that Paul was in his bed, bare chested and within reach… it sent a crazed feeling of lust through John- he felt his fingers twitch. He clenched his fist and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath he shook his head, “shut that light off won’t you!” He choked out, trying his best not to glance at Paul’s sculpted shoulders, the chords of muscle that stood out in the light. He felt like he was going to throw up.

“Right, course. Sorry, John.” Paul reached behind him and switched the lamp off. Darkness swallowed them.

“Try and get some sleep, yeah?” He said into the black nothingness, his stomach churning with dread. 

“Sure.” Paul whispered. John just stared up at the ceiling, unseeing. Paul squirmed around for a while, making himself comfortable, jostling John up and down with each of his movements. 

“Comfortable?” John asked, his voice lethal with sarcasm.

“Sorry.” Paul whispered again, tugging at the sheets to cover himself. The movement stole the sheets entirely off of John’s back. He grumbled and reached behind him to tug back.

“Quit hogging!” Paul groaned into the dark, grasping blindly for John’s hand. His fingers raked against John’s and John let go of the sheets immediately. 

“Think you can leave some for the both of us?!” John scoffed.

“If you weren’t so damn far away-” Paul hissed, “I’ll just-” Paul scooted a few inches closer to John, then, and in the process, their legs brushed together. The sensation was like touching a live wire. He recoiled instantly. 

“There.” Paul muttered into the dark, his voice so close to John’s ear he could feel his breath hot against his cheek. “Plenty of bed covers for the both of us.”

“Hrmph” John huffed. His blood was like ice, his muscles rigid as he balanced at the edge of the bed.

 

***

John lay there in the dark, his breath ragged and shallow. There was no hope for sleep tonight. Paul’s body, heavy on the mattress beside him, was all John could think about. His crippling fear of touching Paul wrestled with his wild and unnerving urge to reach out and grab him. It was as though his brain was stuck on a loop. Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move .

After a while, Paul’s breath slowed to a shallow and steady rhythm. He’d fallen asleep. His breath seemed to blow against John’s ear with every exhale. Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move.

At some point during the night, John must have drifted off, because suddenly he was awake. He wasn’t sure at first what it was that had disturbed him, but as he came to he realized there was a heavy sort of weight sitting on his chest.

Lifting his head off the pillow, he looked around the dark room, hardly able to see. It was with a start that he realized the weight on his chest was actually Paul’s broad arm. He’d shifted in his sleep, unaware of his surroundings, somehow managing to drape himself almost entirely across John- pinning him to the very edge of the mattress.

Suddenly, John was wide awake, his heart hammering in his ears. Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move.

He shifted the smallest amount beneath Paul, testing to see how responsive he might be. Paul just let out a loud snore, but didn’t budge. Assessing his situation, John realized that all 12 stone of Paul’s weight had rolled on top of him, a toned arm across his chest, a long leg across his thighs. If he weren’t so terrified, John might have been glad.

It was then that Paul shifted a bit in his sleep, and John felt it. Paul was hard. 

John’s blood ran cold. Paul was so close to him, his hot breath blowing into his ear, his arm across John’s bare chest, and his long legs tangled up with John’s. John bit down on his bottom lip until he tasted blood. His mind went completely blank. The world narrowed down to the sensation of Paul’s cock pressed against his thigh. Paul’s cock, hot and twitching, pressed up against his thigh. Paul’s length, separated from John by only a thin layer of cotton. Blood roared in his ears, he forgot to breathe.

All of a sudden, Paul coughed himself awake. John peeked at him out of the corner of his eye, their face mere inches apart. Paul’s eyes fluttered open briefly, and in the dim light they locked eyes. 

“You’re not Linda.” Paul croaked, more to himself than to John. John could only grunt in acknowledgement, still frozen in shock.

Paul adjusted his hips away from John in a feeble attempt to disguise his erection, but it was too late. It was dawning on Paul just how close he’d been to John, and John could see panic flash across his face.

“That’s embarrassing.” He muttered, a shy hand reaching to press his cock down as he turned onto his back. John turned his face to look at Paul’s profile. He was blinking rapidly, his face stoney with shock.

John just blinked at Paul. Despite his personal panic, he couldn't resist teasing, "A bit excited, are we?"

Paul’s head snapped to look at John sidelong on the pillow. "Oh, shut it. It's just physical, you know that. It happens sometimes when I smoke grass.” 

“Uh-huh.” It’s all he could manage to say. He was intimately familiar with Paul’s physical urges and whims, this wasn’t the first time he’d been in the same bed with an aroused Paul McCartney. How many times had they laid down next to one another, eyes closed, and wanked it? Countless times. Paul’s erect penis was no stranger to him. So why was his heart thudding this loudly? He swore Paul could hear it. John met Paul’s stare and blinked several times.

“What?” Paul whispered, a pleading look on his face. 

“Nothing. I-” John felt dizzy at their unexpected closeness. The feel of warmth rolling off Paul’s body was maddening. The thought of Paul’s body, Paul’s cock pressed up against him sent a shiver down his spine. A desperate longing, an aching lust began to pool deep in his core. He wanted so much just to reach out and touch Paul, to let this fire consume them. But fear and uncertainty held him back.

He scoured his mind for a reason, any reason to reach out and touch, a reason to bring Paul closer to him. In the dark of the night, John could have sworn they were teenagers again. Side by side in a lonely hotel room, riled up from a show and desperate for release, they used to turn to each other.

It had been so long since they’d done anything like that. But in the stillness and quiet of the night, John couldn't help but wonder if Paul felt the same buzz of excitement pass between them, that same juvenile desperation. It would be the ultimate end to a day spent revisiting their old lives. 

“I was just thinking.” He heard himself breath into the dark, his eyes never leaving Paul’s.

“Hm?” Paul's eyes flashed with curiosity.

John took a sharp inhale, anxiety fluttering in his chest. “For old times sake?” He carefully peeled back the sheets and placed his palm on top of his crotch, he was half-hard already.

“I dunno John, we aren't 19 anymore.” Paul’s eyes flicked down towards John's hand. “I don’t think… I mean, come on...” He trailed off, his voice lacking conviction. 

John moved his palm up and down his boxer briefs, cupping his bludge slowly and carefully. Maintaining eye contact with Paul, he bit down on his bottom lip. Paul’s breath got shallow, his eyes raked up and down John’s chest. John was starting to feel hot all over, his half hard cock only growing firmer under Paul’s gaze. He glanced to see that Paul’s prick was still hard, twitching beneath the sheets.

Not sure he could stop now, even if he wanted to, John slipped his hand beneath his waistband and began to touch himself, fluttering his eyes closed to luxuriate in the feeling.

He could hear Paul breathing next to him, the exhales growing ragged. Then he heard the unmistakable rustle of sheets and felt Paul shift on the bed. He opened his eyes briefly.

Paul had slumped back against the headboard, his eyes closed, with one hand cupping the hard cock in his underwear. Fucking hell, the sight sent an undeniable rush through John, his vision blurring slightly. He closed his eyes again, before he lost his nerve.

 

Feeling a bit braver now with his eyes closed, John heard himself ask desperately, "What gets you going these days, Paulie? Hm? Bridget Bardott?"

 

Paul almost laughed, a sharp exhale escaping his nose. "Oh, come on, you can do better than that. Not nineteen anymore, remember?"

 

John opened his eyes wide at that comment, surprised at Paul’s sense of humor. Paul was smirking at John, and god damn it, he looked irresistible like that. 

 

"Alright, fine," John asserted, “I’ll do ya one better.” And he abruptly sat up to remove his boxers.

 

Paul watched slack jawed in awe as John lay back down, entirely naked now, his erection visible in the dim light of the moon. John's heart was in his throat now, blood roaring in his ears. To John’s shock and thrill, Paul followed suit. Sitting up, he fumbled with his waistband, then kicked his shorts off before laying back down beside John.

 

Jesus Christ. Paul was naked next to him. John couldn’t see much, the room still dark and gloomy- but from what he could see, Paul’s cock was heavy and it lolled against his thigh, resting there, hungry for touch. It took all the strength he could muster not to extend his arm and grab it, give it a stroke, even just hold it. He wanted to feel the weight of it in his hand, the warmth of it against his palm, every ridge, every vein. His entire body felt like it was on fire, if he didn’t touch himself right now he might die.

 

Not wasting any more time; he snaked one hand down his body. When he found his cock, he wrapped his slender fingers around it and began to stroke. And Paul watched, mesmerized. John's breaths grew rapid and shallow. 

 

Then Paul’s left hand slid south, and gently lifted his own cock off his thigh, letting it bounce up against his belly. John felt himself go a little woozy. It’d been eons since they’d done this. He didn’t remember it being this exciting though, feeling this elicit.

 

"Fine. Not Bardott then," John gasped, his voice strained with barely contained pleasure. He continued to stroke himself, his eyes tracing the dark slope of Paul’s shoulders.

 

Paul’s heavy eyelids fluttered as he gently closed a palm around his prick, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. The sight sent a rush of desire through John, his cock aching now.

 

John spoke again, his voice desperate with desire, "Remember that one bird in Glasgow?" 

 

Paul had his left hand wrapped firmly around his cock, tugging on it with force. His eyes were dark and hungry, and they bore into John’s with a smoldering intensity. His lips were parted slightly, and John imagined what it might feel like to stick the head of his cock in between those lips. Teasing the head of his cock, he gasped “the one we shared?” 

 

“Course.” Paul managed to breathe. They had only done that sort of thing a few times. 

 

"She was right fit, wasn't she?" John asked, flicking his gaze down towards Paul’s prick. In their earlier days, they didn’t typically steal glances- a silent pact of privacy. But in the dark of the room, John felt brave, he kept his eyes wide open, shameless.

 

"Yeah." Paul gasped, bucking his hips slightly into his own palm.

 

John’s words became increasingly explicit, his voice low and husky now. "She had those tits, massive, eh?"

 

"Yeah," Paul croaked, his voice growing ragged. John could hear the unmistakable sound of skin rubbing skin, could see the jostling of Paul’s body in the dark.

 

"You loved 'em—couldn't get enough.” John pressed. Paul let out a desperate groan at those words, encouraging John to keep going. “Remember how you fucked her tits, Paul? Remember how she let you stick it in between them?"  Fuck Brigett Bardott, this was doing plenty for him. 

 

"Uh-huh." Paul's breathing hitched, and at the sound, John’s cock throbbed in his hand. He raised his palm up to his mouth for a moment and spat into it, giving himself the slickness he craved. He returned to the head of his cock, rubbing it in small tight circles. He inhaled sharply, waves of pleasure coursing through him.

 

"Remember how she let me take her from behind? While she sucked you off?" John continued through choppy breath, his words heavy with arousal and desire. The memory itself was heady, sending a sick thrill through John. It was the kind of memory that felt illicit, one he rarely allowed himself to visit. So much of that evening had been a blur, but he remembered all the important parts.

 

"I remember, yeah," Paul barely breathed, his voice trembling. The sound of his voice, tight and desperate with arousal, was almost too much to bear. The sound of it sent a crazed feeling of excitement through him. Feeling bold, John glanced down at Paul’s prick, fully hard now. It was taught and throbbing in his left hand. The outline of it, the divet of his engorged head, stark and pronounced in the dim light sent a deep ache through John’s core. What he wouldn’t do to reach out and touch it, to be the reason Paul made such delicious sounds. 

 

"What else do you remember?" John's voice wavered, urgently inviting Paul deeper into their shared fantasy.

 

Paul was struggling to maintain his composure. "I remember... She swallowed my load, then she kissed you."

 

John's voice dropped to a sultry whisper. “Oh fuck, yeah. I remember that. I could taste you in her mouth.”

 

“ Christ , John.” Paul hissed through his teeth, his body shuddering against the bed. 

 

“Turns you on, then? To think about?” 

 

Paul could barely find his voice. "Yeah." it was almost a question. Like he was asking permission to admit a long kept secret.

 

John felt a frantic desire push him forward, his movements growing faster. “Paul.” was all he could manage to say through the spasms of white hot pleasure that rippled through him. 

 

"What else do you remember?" John was panting now, pre-come sticky on his palm.

 

Paul was barely hanging on, his own pleasure building steadily. "I remember... when she kissed you, I watched." God, his voice. John could die like this.

 

"You watched?" John managed to croak. He could hardly believe this was happening, all he wanted to do was reach out and touch Paul’s mouth.

 

Paul hesitated, his body trembling with need. "I watched, yeah. Couldn’t look away. You looked so pretty like that, John.” white hot lust poured through John at those words. His cock pulsed dangerously in his palm, and he let go, desperate to last longer. He let out a frustrated moan into the dark.

 

“I could taste you on her tounge, Paul. That's all I could think about.” John heard himself pant into the dark- Paul’s head was thrown back in ecstasy, his left hand pumping tirelessly.

“Fuck.” Paul’s voice was growing impatient, the words cascading out of him now. “I remember your face when she made you come.”

 

“What’d I look like, Paul?” John gasped

 

“You looked- fuck. You looked fucking perfect.” Jesus Christ, John was close. In a moment of clarity, he paused- clambering to sit up straight. Paul paused too, taking cues from John. 

 

“John- I didn’t-” Paul stammered, and John interrupted him with a reassuring “shhhh” Then, swallowing a flicker of doubt he breathed “I want to look at you.” 

 

He slowly reached around and hovered his hand up to the bedside lamp, a question in his pause. In the dark, John could see Paul’s head jerk in a frantic nod. With a faint click, the room filled with a pale glow. John squinted for a moment, and when his eyes adjusted he felt bowled over by the sight of Paul. 

 

His face was splotchy with arousal, patches of pink and scarlet trailing all the way down his chest. His hazel eyes were wide and wild, his eyebrows pulled together in desperate supplication. His forehead gleamed with a thin layer of perspiration, and his eyelashes seemed even longer in the shadows of this light. John’s eyes raked down Paul’s chest. His nipples were dark and stiff. A frantic wish to bite down on one of them flashed through his mind. His stomach lurched. His eyes migrated south, following the black hair that grew around his belly button; further, all the way to where it grew thick, right between his legs. 

 

Paul’s left hand lazily cupped the base of his prick. He cradled it there, pink and perfect and throbbing, every vein, every curve of it visible now for John to see. It was just as he’d remembered it. Again, he had to physically hold himself back from the urge to bend over to lick it. He wanted to taste him. 

 

His eyes then traveled all the way down Paul’s long, pelted legs, which were elegantly draped across the mattress. John’s eyes finally made their way back up to Paul’s face. With a current of lust, he noticed Paul’s eyes raking their way up and down John’s body. When Paul’s eyes finally met Johns, he looked hungry. He licked and then bit down on his bottom lip, which made John’s head feel dizzy. If he didn’t have more of Paul right now, he’d probably die.

 

“What else do you remember?” Paul whispered in a low voice, as though the light required them to be quiet. John smiled knowingly, glad he wasn’t the only one enjoying this.

 

Slowly, still staring into Paul’s beetle black eyes, John began to move his hand again. He couldn’t be sure, but Paul seemed to inch himself towards John as he readjusted his forearm. Taking a deep breath, John spoke again.

 

“I remember how you fucked her mouth, your pretty pink prick pumping in and out.” Paul squinted and bit harder on his bottom lip, bracing himself against the pleasure that threatened to explode out of him. John’s breath hitched against the sensation that bubbled up inside him.

 

“I remember how I... I remember how I…” For all John had said up to this point, he couldn’t seem to say this part. Paul opened his eyes just barely, his bottom lip glistening with moisture. Again, it occurred to John how much he’d like to rub the head of his cock all along that pouty bottom lip. Paul just stared, and through heavy lids he asked,

 

“How you what , John, tell me. What.” He looked desperate, his eyes begging. John had already crossed so many lines tonight. Admitting things he’d swore he’d never say out loud. What was one more line? Paul would be on a plane back across the globe next week anyhow. Something about the impermanence of it all, the impossibility of the entire evening made John reckless. 

 

“How much I wanted to touch you.” He declared, clear as day. Paul seemed to gasp, his eyes never leaving John’s face.

 

"Really?" he whispered, his voice and face pleading now, begging for deliverance.

 

John couldn't pretend any longer. "Fuck yes , Paul." 

 

Paul let out a beautiful moan, low and throaty. Then he went still, a cloud passed across his face. He let go of himself and slowly began to sit up.

“What’re ya- I didn’t mean-” John stuttered, his stomach turning to lead. But looking up into Paul’s face, he didn’t see disgust, didn’t see rejection, only intensity and purpose. He snapped his mouth shut as Paul moved towards him, one inch, another inch- then he was right there, directly in front of John. John held his breath. He could feel Paul’s breath, shallow and rapid, on his face now. They were so God Damn close. John wanted to touch him- didn’t. Paul blinked, and John could swear he felt the wisps of Paul’s eyelashes brush against his cheek. 

 

Moving so slowly, giving John any and all opportunity to stop him, Paul floated a single hand over John’s. Their fingers brushed and John shuddered, it was as though his entire body was an erogenous zone with Paul, even the slight touch of fingertips felt erotic to him. Paul guided John’s hand away from his body and began to pull it towards his own. Realization hit John like a train, and he let out a rush of air, finally remembering to breathe.

 

John let Paul guide his hand down, down all the way until it closed around his cock. Paul let out a low, shuddering moan, his eyelids fluttering at the touch. His cock was heavy and full, the weight of it in his hand made John dizzy, his vision going black at the edges.

 

"Christ, John." Paul gasped, his fingers now tangled in the bed sheets. 

 

"Alright?" John turned his head to whisper, his lips brushing against Paul's ear. Goosebumps pricked up along Paul’s arm. He nodded furiously.

 

" John ," Paul gasped for air, then turned his face toward John’s. Time stretches out in front of them and then narrows down to this precise moment. John tilted his chin a fraction and his bottom lip brushed Paul’s. It was like a chemical burn, so scalding hot, so volatile. He paused, waiting, still not breathing as Paul trembled against him. Paul’s lips parted and John heard an almost inaudible sigh of resignation escape his mouth. Their lips collided then, in a heated, passionate kiss. There was no turning back now.

 

Paul’s lips were unbelievably soft against Johns. Their warmth was so unexpected, so incredibly surprising- John felt lightheaded. Paul angled his jaw to part his lips even further, allowing John in. His stomach in his throat, John cautiously darted his tongue out and flicked it against Paul’s front teeth. He felt Paul take a sharp inhale through his nose and then his tongue slammed against John’s. John gave a guttural groan, the vibration radiating into Paul’s mouth. 

 

Paul turned his face, deepening the kiss, and that made John’s breath hitch. Completely dizzy with want, he took Paul’s bottom lip in between his teeth and pulled gently, to which Paul responded with a satisfied moan.

 

“You taste so good.” John breathed into Paul’s mouth. Hardly able to comprehend what was happening. All he knew was that it was everything he’d ever wanted.

 

“Mmm” Was all Paul could say. Their mouths pulled apart and then crashed together with a hungry, desperate gasp. THis was no time for tenderness, no time for caution. Both men seemed to understand the fleeting nature of this moment, the impossibility of it, the frantic need for more, more.The kiss was both terrifying and thrilling, like an electrical storm in the middle of July. 

 

Then his hands were in Paul’s hair, his fingers raking through his locks, pushing it back off his forehead. His fingers caught in the soft tendrils of it, sending Paul’s scent cascading down around them. The scent sent a poignant sort of ache through John’s chest. Their mouths moved against each other, their breath raspy and desperate as Paul inched closer to John. They were so close, so much closer than they’d ever been before. Their shoulders bumped and Paul grabbed onto John’s bicep, squeezing it as though his life depended on it. 

 

His hands worked their way from Paul’s hair to the back of his neck, cradling his skull while he took Paul’s upper lip between his own. Then they traveled to his shoulders, and John could feel the ropes of muscle that grew there, taught and hard and alive. He could hardly stand it, he dug his fingernails into Paul’s skin, as if he could sink into him if he tried.

 

Paul hissed into John’s mouth at the pain, but John could feel the corners of his mouth turn up in delight, so John squeezed again, this time dragging his fingernails down Paul’s arms. Red marks welted up in the wake of his fingers, but Paul didn’t seem to mind- instead he reaching out to grab John’s face. Paul’s callused hands held each of John’s cheeks and he could feel Paul pull them together, pressing their lips together in a heated passion. 

 

They broke apart only for a moment, their eyes hungry and lustful. Their breath was heavy and labored as they looked at each other for a long, sweltering moment.

 

“Is this okay?” Paul asked, breathless- as though the reality of what they were doing had hit him for the first time.

 

“Don’t overthink it .” John urged, panting and wild. Banishing any doubts from his own mind, he rolled Paul onto his back and climbed on top of him, bracketing his mate’s narrow hips in between his thighs, effectively pinning him down.

 

John growled as he dove his head into Paul’s neck, mouthing kisses all along his neck, his jaw. Paul just squirmed beneath him, his pelvis searching for pressure against John’s body. “I needed this so bad.” He took Paul’s ear lobe between his teeth and pulled. Paul whined. John let go and kissed all around Paul’s ear, even dragging his pink tongue up along the cartilage. The action had the desired effect, Paul thrashed his legs and turned his head away- the sensation overwhelming him. “You have no idea.” He added, his lips right against Paul’s ear.

 

In the back of his mind John understood this was what he’d always wanted. This was the reason he couldn’t look at Paul without feeling a stabbing pain in his chest, the reason he couldn’t write with Paul if he wanted to be with Yoko, the reason he felt so angry, so full of poison in the wake of their split. He knew with certainty, in that moment, this was why proximity and closeness to Paul felt impossible, because it hurt too much not to be able to have him. It hurt too much to not be able to reach out and hold him, kiss him, feel him. He’d always known this, he thought to himself, but never allowed himself to succumb to it, never allowed himself to sit with its urgent truth. A feeling of tightness in the back of his throat threatened to strangle him, but he swallowed hard against Paul’s neck- shoving them closer together in the process.

 

“ Idiot .” Paul gasped against John’s ear, a teasing tone cutting through his uncertainty, “Would have done this a thousand times already if you’d asked.” John’s heart skipped a beat. Unwilling to think too hard about the implication of those words, John just groaned as his mouth moved from Paul’s jaw back to his mouth. This was excruciatingly good, the firmness of his cock throbbing now against Paul’s soft white belly.

 

John wiggled himself down so that he was fully on top of Paul now, their entire bodies flush, skin to skin, from their legs to their chests. It was intoxicating, John felt drunk and high off it. He couldn’t stop kissing Paul, the taste of him overwhelming, addictive. 

 

He could feel their erections slide together in between them deliciously. Pinned in between their stomachs, the sensation was ecstasy. Paul’s hands ran along John’s back, up and down and John writhed against him, his cock searching for Paul’s with each thrust. Paul moaned into his mouth each time the tips of their cocks touched, it was like heaven.

 

John pushed himself up to hover right above Paul, locking his elbows out. He looked down at the vision below him, Paul- black hair sticking to his face in sweaty tendrils, eyes red and heavy from lust, his lips puffy and raw from kissing. He looked fucking gorgeous. It was too much for John to take. 

 

“You’re so fucking pretty, Paul” John whispered, gazing at Paul in awe.

 

“Shut up and keep going” Paul smirked, bucking his hips up and into John. The side of John’s mouth curled up in amusement.

 

Then John took them both in one hand. He held both their cocks, side by side and slippery with spit and pre-come in his roughly callused hand and Paul threw his head back in ecstasy, exposing the pale column of his neck. John leaned down and gnawed at it, unable to help himself, the sight too irresistible. He continued to hold them both in his hand while he nipped all along Paul’s exposed neck, from the adam's apple all along the Jaw, right to where its slope met the ear. Paul squirmed and panted beneath him, hips thrusting his cock up and against John’s. John hissed  desperately into Paul’s ear. While Paul’s thrusts took over, John’s hand stilled, closed tightly around them both while Paul desperately bucked into him.

 

“Fuck Paul, you’re going make me come - slow down .” John growled into Paul’s neck, biting down hard in warning.

 

“ Fuck ” Paul winced, “You’ll leave a mark.”

 

“Don’t give a shit.” John sighed against the rough stubble, letting it drag against the soft skin of his lips- the sensation scratchy and electrifying. But Paul complied, slowing his thrusts beneath them. John propped himself up again, then let a strand of spit land between his fingers. The effect was immediate, his hand able to glide around them both with much more ease. He picked his pace up again, this time with urgency. 

 

White hot heat was building inside him, like a hot coal was flickering right behind his naval. He needed release, he needed so fucking bad. John looked down at Paul, his vision clouded by his own pleasure and John could tell that Paul was losing his grip- his eyes were shut tight and his head thrashed back and forth on the pillow with every pump. 

 

“You look so pretty like that Paul” John huffed as he continued to grip and pump their engorged cocks together. “Come for me Paul, come for me, come on.” He felt crazed, unable to help himself. “I want to see you come, show me how beautiful you look when you come.” 

 

Paul’s teeth were bared as he grimaced against the intense pleasure that was wracking his body. John too, felt himself approach his edge. His prick began to twitch and contract, that coal beneath his naval roaring into a flame. He was panting. So was Paul.

 

“Come for me, Paul. You look so beautiful when you come,” John’s hips jerked into his palm, the bright pink head of his cock sliding out from his foreskin against Paul’s. 

 

“ Fuck yes, ” Paul exclaimed, his entire body rigid now, only seconds from exploding. John gritted his teeth, willing himself to hold back so that they might finish together. His balls tightened at the effort.

 

“I’m gonna come, John.” Paul opened his eyes then, and lifted his head up off his pillow, his eyebrows furrowed in that gorgeous, pitiful look of ecstasy. John let out a groan from the deepest part of his chest. Paul scrambled up to his forearms, his eyes locked on John’s hand- still pumping away.

 

John couldn’t hold his orgasm for another second. “I’m gonna come all over you, Paul.” He heard himself say, tight throated and feral.

 

Then Paul was coming, white slickness oozing out between John’s fingers. John could feel Paul’s cock throbbing with each wave of pleasure, and then John’s orgasm overtook him. His mind went black with pleasure, the entire world narrowing down the sensation of pure bliss at the tip of his cock. He shut his eyes tight as full body contracts wracked through him. Through his orgasm, he could feel Paul shudder below him. Slowly, he began to come back down, his mind fuzzy and hazy with pleasure. A euphoric fizz bubbled up in his chest, his breath beginning to slow. He let his head hang down, his shoulders slumped.

 

“Shit” Paul hissed, and John opened his eyes to look. Opaque puddles of come, from both himself and from John lay on Paul’s stomach. John’s hand too, was covered in the silky ejaculate. The sight itself was enough to make his cock throb one final time. “Oh my god.” He shuddered, one final wave of orgasm passing over him.

 

Paul fell back against the bed, his chest heaving, a look of both satisfaction and disbelief on his face.

 

John rolled to his side to dismount Paul, and furiously wiped his hand off in the cotton sheets. He stared up at the ceiling, speechless, his breath still coming in heaving pants. Their arms were still touching, and John could feel both sweat and heat pour off of Paul. He smiled to himself at the casual touch, the unthinking, automatic closeness.

 

“Well…” Paul sort of sighed, still staring at the ceiling. “That just happened.” John turned his head to look at Paul. He was blinking at the ceiling fan, total shock written all over his face.

 

“Yes it did.” John vacantly echoed, his eyes searching Paul’s profile, terrified suddenly that Paul would say it had been a huge mistake.

 

“Not exactly how we used to do it, but…” Paul stammered. John just shook his head against the pillow, still staring at Paul. Then Paul turned to face John, their faces so close that John needed to cross his eyes a bit to bring Paul into focus. John held his breath, suddenly completely unsure what Paul was thinking.

 

“Rather nice,” He finished, his eyes flickering across John’s face. John’s heart began to hammer in his chest, nice ? Had he heard Paul correctly?

 

“ Nice .” He echoed, a question in his voice. Paul just nodded, a shy smile on his face. John let out a sharp exhale from his nose, a disbelieving laugh.

 

“It’s good to touch, alright.” He sneered, rocking himself into Paul’s shoulder playfully. Paul just chuckled to himself with his eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips. John closed his eyes too and lay there, letting the sweat evaporate off his body. A comfortable silence filled the room. His breathing began to slow, his heartbeat too. He could feel the rhythm of Paul’s breath against him behind the dark of his eyelids. He felt wrung out, completely spent. The sound of the waves crashed against the sand. The wind howled across the sea. Far away, he heard a dog bark. Before he knew what was happening, he was deep asleep.

 

***

 

Thin morning light filtered in through half-drawn curtains, painting gentle stripes of warmth across the rumpled sheets. John blinked his eyes open, his mouth as dry as cotton. He lay there and for a fraction of a second he felt weightless and content- but couldn’t remember why. Then it hit him, all at once it came crashing in. Paul’s face, his perfect mouth, hot skin on hot skin, the way he’d tasted, the sound he’d made. The ghost of Paul’s lips on own dragged him out of his sleep and into alertness. Suddenly his heart was thumping with adrenaline, his body ready to run. 

 

John shot straight up and spun his head around his room. Even without his glasses on, he could tell that the space next to him was empty. Disorientation deepened into sheer panic. Where was Paul? He scrambled to the bedside table, shoved his round spectacles onto his face and the world came into focus.

 

He scanned the room, Paul’s clothes were conspicuously absent from the chair where he’d thrown them last night. John felt the panic bubble up his throat now. Where was Paul?! 

 

God, he was so fucking stupid. How could he have let this happen? The room seemed to close in on him as he began to spiral. He had not thought this through. Paul must have felt the second the sun rose, embarrassment and shame sending him running. John’s throat began to tighten and his eyes stung threateningly. He would not cry, not now, not over this. He shook his head, clearing his throat. He stood up shakily and took a deep breath and that’s when he saw it. A small bit of yellow legal paper, freshly torn from a book, was pinned to the dresser by a water glass. He stood up and tore it out from under the cup, squinting at it to read.

 

We should talk. 

xo -Paul 

 

John’s eyes traced Paul’s familiar handwriting; the high loops of the Ls, the K, the slanted laziness of the T. He imagined Paul writing this in haste as he made his frantic escape this morning, desperate to leave, too ashamed to stay. John crumpled the note in his fist and threw it into the waste paper bin. “Fuck!” He yelled. In a flash of fury he kicked the bin with his bare foot, but that just hurt his toe and he let out a long string of swears, hopping his way back to the bed. He sat there, rubbing his toe, his stomach in knots. He was so full of shame, humiliated that he’d let things get so out of hand last night. Why couldn’t he have just slept on the goddamn couch? And what had Paul been getting at with the “it was nice” bit? Fucking lair. Where was he now?

 

That question wasn’t so hard to answer, he supposed: there was only one other place in Los Angeles Paul could go. John pulled on his robe and paced across the room and picked up the phone.

 

“Hello.” Linda’s american drawl crackled through the telephone. Her voice startled him, like he’d forgotten she was in Los Angeles too. Her voice was a stark and rude reminder to John that what they had done last night was wrong, shameful. He shook his head and replied, with a cool unbothered tone of voice.

 

“How was your night, then?” He hoped he didn’t sound guilty.

“Alright, yeah.” Linda said, “May and I turned in early.” 

“Great.” John strained his ears to see if he could hear Paul’s voice warble in the background, but the line just buzzed with static. He froze, it occurred to him that it would be odd to ask “is Paul there? ” That might raise suspicion. Instead he just cleared his throat and said, “Listen, I need to come by to pick up May.”

 

“Okay, sounds good, John.” Linda replied in her sing-song voice. “We’re just having coffee on the balcony.”

 

“Lovely.” John said, then “Tell Paul I’m bringing something he left here.”

 

“Okay...” Linda sounded puzzled. “He’s not with you?”  

 

“Um…” John's confusion deepened. If Paul wasn’t here, and he wasn’t with Linda, where on earth…

 

Just then, the bedroom door handle squeaked and John whirlled around. 

 

Paul was standing there, barefoot and in the same clothes he’d worn last night, a steaming mug of tea in either hand. John felt a stupid wave of relief flood through him. He let out a heavy exhale. “Nevermind.” He said into the receiver. 

 

“Okay John-” Linda started to say, but John had already hung up. He felt like he might throw up, he was so relieved to see Paul. 

 

John just stared at Paul, unable to move. Paul stood there and looked back, finally raising a mug in John’s direction, "thought you might want some." He said, his eyes still fuzzy with sleep. God he looked so good in the morning.

John didn’t say a word, just nodded. With a shy sort of smile, Paul paced over and plopped down next to John on the bed. He handed John a mug, and their knees gently knocked together. John looked down at where they touched, and inexplicably, he felt terribly sad, unsure if touch was welcome or not. He could only take the tea and hold it, cupping it with both hands. The steam warmed his face. 

 

They sat there for a while, side by side, the silence interrupted only by the sounds of them sipping the hot liquid.

 

“Thought you’d left.” John said finally, looking at Paul over the rim of his spectacles.

 

"Don't be stupid." Paul said good naturedly, digging around in his pants pocket. He seemed to find what he was looking for and offered his fist forward. John just raised his eyebrows, so Paul opened it, revealing two aspirin. John could have cried at the kindness of the gesture. He felt so fucking glad Paul was still here, that he hadn’t run away. In fact, he’d been here the whole time, making tea for them, fetching him medicine. It was overwhelming how much he did not hate this man.

 

Words turned to ash on his tongue. The usual rules of conversation didn't quite apply here, did they? Every moment felt punctuated by a palpable dread that if he acknowledged that anything was different between them, the world might end. John just sipped his tea and swung his feet, second-guessing every word he might say, every look they exchanged. It was as if they were two strangers meeting for the first time, instead of lifelong mates who’d just shared a fuck.

 

"Nobody can find out," John finally blurted out, a bit desperate. Paul didn’t move for a moment, then he nodded. John continued. "Especially May. If May finds out, Yoko will find out. May can’t lie to her. And if Yoko finds out, god- I dunno what she’d do. She can’t find out, okay?"

 

Paul just continued to nod, his expression solemn. John looked at Paul, willing him to speak. Paul brought the mug to his mouth for a final sip, then bent over to place the mug on the floor.

 

"Right. That’s… I’ve got something to tell ya, John." Paul said, still facing the floor, his back to John. John’s heart sank, that was Paul’s “I mean business” voice. That was the same voice Paul used when he told John “I’m marrying Linda.” John could only stare, his tea going cold in his hands.

 

Paul straightened up and glanced over at John, he looked resigned, uncertain. "I haven’t told you the real reason-” He cut himself off and shook his head, correcting himself “one of the reasons I came here, to California…”

 

John just stared at Paul, the knot in his belly only growing larger. “You had that Capitol records shindig.” John answered for him, as though that was the end of it.

 

“Right, yeah. I did, yeah…” Paul nodded, he looked off into the corner of the room. “But uh… I’m also here to deliver a message of sorts.” His eyes fell into his lap. “I wasn’t even gunna tell ya, didn’t want to get in the middle of it…”

 

“Out with it then.” 

 

“It’s Yoko, John. She wants you back.” John’s blood turned to ice. “Wants to know if you still love her," Paul finished. The words hung in the air between them. That was the last thing he expected Paul to say.

 

“You spoke to Yoko?” John asked, dumbfounded. He couldn’t even picture it, Yoko and Paul having a Phone call. 

 

“Came to scotland.” He said, his eyes wide and apologetic. 

 

“She what?!” John shouted, spitting his tea back into his mug, incredulous now. Then, suddenly the weight of Paul’s words seemed to hit him. Yoko wanted him back? Wanted to know if he still loved her? After everything? He was finally fucking happy again, he was making music, he’d fallen in bloody love with May for God’s sake- and here was Paul, of all fucking people, Paul . Here. Right in front of him. Something he never thought had been possible while he’d lived under Yoko’s thumb. And she wanted him back ? Had she finally gotten bored of her drummer then? Realized he couldn’t provide her the same access to fame and notoriety as John could? John suddenly stood up in a huff, anger sizzling beneath his skin.

 

"This is bullshit." He decided, forcefully, his voice rather loud. His hands were shaking, fury bubbling up in him like poison. He started pacing back and forth, absentmindedly picking up a sock and shoving in a drawer.

 

Paul just sat there in silence. John couldn’t stand it. This is what Paul had wanted to talk about? This was why Paul was here? The fucking prick , the fucking liar . He was here on false pretenses, the slimy git. He couldn’t believe that he’d fallen for it, that he’d actually thought Paul would just pop in for a visit because he missed John.

 

"Why are you even telling me this?" John spat, stopping dead in the middle of the room to shout at Paul. Paul just shrugged. "I- I-" He stammered.

 

“And after…” John trailed off, unable to finish that sentence. “I can’t believe this shit.” He was shaking his head now, anger coloring his face. “Back with Yoko- she told me to leave, told me to go out with May. And now this ." He gestured wildly in between the two of them. Paul’s eyes were wide, sorrowful.

 

“I dunno, John! She’s your wife . I thought… if I didn’t tell you and you found out later I’d kept it from you, I-” Paul broke off, shaking his head to himself. “You’d hate me for it.” He finally admitted with a half-hearted shrug. 

 

John stopped his pacing and let those words sink in.

 

Paul must have understood that by facilitating a rekindling with Yoko, he would basically ensure his continued isolation from John. And yet, here he was, delivering the message anyway. Here he was, doing what he thought was best for John… It occurred to John that it was selfless, really. He continued to contemplate Paul, his eyes mournful, his brow furrowed and anxious. Through the fog of his anger, John realized that all he wanted to do was sit down next to Paul and hold him, tell him everything would be okay.

“I can't go back to her, not now.” John said with finality, shaking his head rapidly. “Not after…” He swallowed hard, moving to sit back next to Paul. “Not after all that business last night” His face prickled with heat, still unsure if he was allowed to mention what had happened. 

 

Paul looked up at John, his eyes brimming with moisture. Was he about to cry? John’s heart ached at the thought.

 

“What about May?” Paul asked, simply.

 

What about May? John felt a pang of dread pass over him. Despite his best efforts to keep things casual with May, somewhere along the way he’d bloody fallen in love with the gal. His heart ached at the idea of having to choose between May, Paul, Yoko… It was all too much.

 

“I dunno what I want, Paul.” John just whispered, pinching his brow. Paul seemed to deflate at those words. “But this…” John added, using the only word he knew to describe what simmered between them. Paul looked back up at John, a glimmer of hope in his eyes, he nodded in encouragement.

 

John scanned Paul’s face, open, kind, beautiful. His eyelashes crawled up his face like elegant spiders, his mouth round and red like an overripe cherry. The knot in his chest loosened a bit. 

 

“May can never find out, Paul. Yoko can never find out.” He was suddenly deeply aware of how close they were positioned on the bed, their knees touching, their fingertips only inches apart. John’s body registered the closeness and he could feel his heartbeat quicken, his pulse flutter.

 

“Linda too.” Paul breathed, his enormous eyes passing across John’s mouth. John felt something in him let go, and he began to freefall into Paul’s irises. His breath hitched, and without thinking he hooked his pinky finger across Paul’s. The smallest little touch sent full body chills through John. Paul’s mouth tugged up on the side knowingly, and he took John’s hand in his, a thumb brushing gently across his knuckles.”No one will know, John.” He whispered, his breath hot against John’s face. Something inside John’s belly roared to life. Suddenly, nothing else on earth mattered but Paul’s face, his eyes, his lips. God, his lips. 

“Not Linda, Not May… Not Yoko. You should be with May, John…” Paul pulled John’s hand up to his mouth and planted a kiss into his palm. John could hear blood roaring in his ears.

 

“Right.” He gasped, as Paul planted another kiss on his wrist.

 

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t do this…” Paul looked up and lifted his  hand to the outside of John’s face. The rough calluses of his palm scratched against his cheek, and John inhaled sharply. Paul’s eyes were so big, so endlessly wide, John was falling helplessly into them. “...One more time.” Paul finished, his voice thick with lust.

 

John couldn’t deny the stiffening that was already happening in his pants. He was half hard already, from just a look from Paul. He was so hopelessly lost in him now, so far gone.

 

Paul leaned in but John met him halfway, crushing their lips together in a frantic, all consuming kiss. They fell back into bed, hands running wild, mouths everywhere. John’s mind went blank with ecstasy, luxuriating in the still thrilling, still new sensation of Paul’s body against his. So strong, so warm. His cock stiffened in his robe, eager and ready for Paul again already. They pressed their bodies together in desperation, each uncertain when they might ever get the chance to do this again. All John knew was that if he didn't get Paul’s lovely mouth around his cock, right now, he’d probably die.

 

Pulling away for only a moment, he tugged Paul’s shirt up and over his head- scrambling to remove his own. Then, staring hungrily at Paul’s mouth he stuck a finger in between his lips. The soft wetness there was unbelievable. Paul closed his mouth around John’s finger and let him shove it in and out, exploring it in response with his tongue. John’s cock throbbed at the thought of how much he wished it were the thing inside of Paul’s mouth, right now, instead of his finger.

 

“I want you to suck me off.” He breathed, his voice shook. He looked at Paul and was surprised to see intense desire reflected there. Paul’s eyes were lidded and lustful as he used his tongue to moisten his mouth, his saliva shining on those beautiful cherry lips.

 

Without another word Paul straightened up and slid off the mattress. John watched him as he moved to the edge of the bed, a single hand raking his black hair off his forehead. God, he was so fucking Gorgeous. Paul reached out and pulled John’s legs over to dangle off the mattress, pulling him by the waist. John’s stomach lurched. Holy shit.

 

Paul began to kneel, bending one knee and then the other, all the while, maintaining eye contact with John. His eyes were black holes, pulling on him with such force that nothing could escape, not even light. His tanned face was open, inviting. John held his breath, unable to believe his was real.

 

Paul ran his hands up and down John’s bare thighs, his fingers catching up and under the shorts of his boxers. His fingers were cool, the sensation was heady. John threw his head back, his cock already as hard as granite at the anticipation of what was about to come.

 

“You want me to lick you?” Paul asked, deadly serious.

 

John’s head swam with lust, only able to think about Paul’s hands all over his legs. They traveled everywhere, up and down and across his crotch, teasing, teasing, never quite touching the place he wanted to be touched most. 

 

“Fuck yes, Paul. Put your mouth on my cock.” John looked up again, and fell backwards onto his elbows. Paul bit his pouty bottom lip as he tucked his fingers beneath John’s waistband. Fucking hell, John was going to pass out if Paul didn’t touch him soon. Nothing else in the world mattered. Nothing but Paul’s mouth on his cock.

 

“How bad do you want it?” Paul whispered, tugging slightly on the elastic, teasing again. 

 

“So fucking bad, Paul.” John groaned, biting down on his lip in agony. Paul smirked, and pulled the fabric of his shorts down slowly, so slowly, pulling his cock down with it until it slid off, John’s cock springing back up to his belly.

 

“Fuck” John half laughed, half moaned. Paul eyed his prize hungrily, licked his lips in preparation and John’s cock throbbed. 

 

Paul reached out and held John’s erection in between two fingers, delicate, polite. He glanced back up and John and John swore again. The sight of Paul, on his knees for John, his enormous eyes looking up at him through half parted eyelashes, his bottom lip full and shining only inches from the head of his cock. He felt precome start to leak out of him.

 

Paul noticed and chuckled to himself, “Barely touched ya, John.” 

 

“I’m painfully fucking aware” John growled, sitting up to get a better look. Paul just raised his eyebrows and began to lower his mouth towards John. Unable to help himself, John reached out with his index finger and pulled Paul’s bottom lip down, in awe of it’s softness, how fucking sexy it was. Paul smirked at John then, and as though he could read his mind, Paul angled John’s cock towards his mouth and ran it against the fullness of his lower lip.

 

“Christ, Paul.” John shuddered, his cock twitching dangerously already. He was not long for his world. 

 

Paul darted his tongue out and ran it in a circle around the swollen tip of John’s prick and that sent a wave of pleasure straight up John's spine. Paul went back and forth, rubbing John against his lips and then giving his cock a lick. The sensation was so fucking good. John had had many blowies in his lifetime, more than most men would ever have- but nothing he’d ever experienced compared to this. He was already ready to bust, after only a few seconds of Paul’s mouth around him. 

 

Paul pulled away for a brief moment, and gave his cock a healthy squeeze with one hand. “You’re so hard for me, John.” He remarked, jerking his wrist up and down a few times. John writhed at the movement, his legs jerking reflexively. He was cursing under his breath, a slew of swears and expletives tumbling out of his mouth as he felt his orgasm rapidly approach.

 

“Mouth- Paul.” John gasped, barely able to speak. “Your mouth.” Paul’s eyes flared with a dangerous sort of mischief and without another word, he sank his entire mouth around John’s length. Holy fucking shit. If he’d thought Paul’s tongue felt good… this was pure ecstasy. The warmth and wet of his mouth enclosed entirely around his aching cock was the end of him. Paul took John to the back of his throat for a moment before sliding his rough tongue back along his length on his way up. John felt a contraction almost explode out of him. Paul pulled John out of his mouth for just a second, his eyes wild. 

 

“You taste so good, John.” He whispered before plunging his mouth around him once more.

 

John could only shudder in response as he came undone into Paul’s mouth, his orgasm shattering him. His eyes closed, he let himself erupt onto the warmth of Paul’s tongue. He moaned at the agonizing pleasure, the impossibility of it all.

 

Paul licked and kissed him through every one of his waves of pleasure. 

 

Then, without missing a beat, he straightened up, swallowing John’s load and kissed him sweetly on the mouth. He could taste himself there, on Paul’s lips. 

 

It tasted like forgiveness