Authors: banburytale, lillizilla, and magicaltrevor
Word Count: 6,295
Summary: It's 1965. John is feeling lonely; Paul pays him a visit.
Warnings: Smexy. Slightly angsty. Really slashy. And proud of it.
Disclaimer: The guys are not ours. We so totally made this up. Unfortunately.
Author's Note: We haven't written in a while, and for that we apologize. We were traumatized by WHA's leaving us, haha. But we were visited by the John And Paul Faerie and everything is okay now! :D But seriously, it's good to be back, and we hope you guys enjoy.
John was lying in a graveyard, not thinking of death.
Odd enough, but there was no other way to describe it, and John didn’t particularly think the graveyard would care. And he couldn’t care less if the graveyard cared; he had better things to think about. Paul shifted beneath him, arm tightening around John’s back, and John buried his nose in the crook of Paul’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and aftershave. The darkness seemed to calm around them, the breathing of the trees quieted, the vivid edges of the night wind diffused in John’s mind to a cool softness just short of silence. The stars hung above them, he knew, sharp and icy, having whirled through the night above as John and Paul whirled through it below, and all of it was slowing, slowing, and soon there would be no sign that this night had been different from any other.
John sat hunched over on the side of his mattress, willing the groggy feeling out of his head. It should have cleared by now, he knew; he'd been sitting here unmoving for over an hour. He glanced at the clock-- 9:13 PM, fuck-- and felt like sighing but couldn't quite work up the will. He blearily calculated that he'd slept for almost twelve hours. Not surprising, of course; he'd been sleeping like this for a while. Now he had only the night to look forward to-- darkness and lonely silence. The sun had disappeared long ago and Julian was surely in bed by now. Cynthia would probably go to bed soon, too, he reckoned. He could faintly hear the sounds of her practising the piano downstairs, fumbling through sour notes and sorrier chords, and found himself hating her for occupying herself. He realised with a stab of loneliness that she wouldn't even know he was awake; she had become so accustomed to his absence that it made no difference to her whether he slept through the day or not.
John thought about the night ahead and wished he could simply sleep through that, too. The following day held no exciting prospects either, and he would have to decide whether he wanted to sleep through another day or be tired and miserable yet again. He noticed how disgusting he felt and vaguely cast around in his mind for the date, the day of the week, his last memory of a shower, and came up short. He felt empty, yet heavy, like something rotted from the inside, the hollow shell becoming too weak to support its own weight. He briefly contemplated letting gravity take him completely, and visualised himself sprawled loosely on the floor, his life oozing out of him into the carpet. Wasn't that what he wanted, though? To give up the struggle...
And there was that tapping sound at the window again-- what was that? He could've dismissed it as leaves in a high wind striking his window, but it was a bit too rhythmic. Unnervingly so, he thought, as a nervous adrenaline cleared the fog from his eyes and he looked up in time to see another tiny object pinging off his windowpane. Curious, and more than a little anxious, he crossed the room and flung open the window, thrusting his head out to get a good look at the perpetrator before whoever it was could flee.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed at Paul, who grinned up at him.
"I want to go out!" Paul answered, breathless in the chill. John watched as Paul's words turned to mist and was suddenly aware of how invigorating the cool air was. He had a sudden image of clean, clear oxygen rushing into his room through his open window, and couldn't remember the last time he had even opened this window. He wondered whether it was possible to suffocate in one's own house. Maybe his brain wasn't getting enough oxygen.
"Come on, then," Paul said impatiently, turning up his collar and hunching his shoulders to hurry John along. He looked at John expectantly. John suddenly had a wild notion and, grinning madly, thrust one leg through the open window, then his shoulders, then pulled his other leg through until he was sitting on the windowsill. The sunroom jutted out of the lower story just beneath him. Sleepless nights and the morbid thoughts that accompanied them had led him to imagine it might come in handy if there was a fire... but sneaking out felt oddly like fleeing smoke and flames tonight and so, encouraged by Paul's giggle, John slipped out to land, catlike, on the roof below. Amazed at his own stealth, John straightened proudly and glanced down at his friend. Paul smiled and shook his head.
John made his way to the ground, landing next to Paul. "Nicely done, Lennon. Now come on, it's freezin', " Paul clapped him on the back. They retrieved an extra jacket from the back of Paul's car and set off into the night on foot, feeling too fantastic to bother with sitting in a car.
John turned his collar up; his jacket smelled just like Paul-- Paul's car, Paul's house, even Paul's aftershave, and John was suddenly inexplicably sad that his own things could never smell this way. They could never be imbued with such comfort, and he could never live in a home that smelled like this. He wondered if his own things had a scent, and found himself hating his house for smelling more like new carpet than like a home.
A rush of wind brought John's attention back to his surroundings; he could hear the trees sigh around them, could see twisting branches of oak, their leaves like orange fire, and the prickly exuberance of gorse, brilliant yellow despite the night. He shivered against the cold, ecstatic that he could feel the wind, breathe it in... and felt absolutely surreal, as though he'd crossed some invisible line that bound him to a dream-world of normal life. Or maybe this was real, and the world on the other side of his window was make-believe. He couldn't be sure, and the thought frightened him. He stole a glance at his friend. Maybe John had just imagined him into existence-- or perhaps it was the other way around? John wondered whether he and Paul had just conjured one another up at precisely the same moment, and whether the two of them had simply imagined the entire world into existence and then had somehow forgotten ever having done it.
Then Paul's shoulder collided playfully with his own. John grinned back and tried to elbow Paul but missed, and Paul ran ahead of him. John followed suit, and the two took off down the footpath into town. Out of breath, cold burning their lungs, they stopped at the edge of town, and Paul removed his jacket.
John hadn't had time to fully explore this little village as of yet, but they headed for the heart of the town, and found an open pub with everything a Beatle could ask for: alcohol, anonymity, and--John noticed with a slight grin--a piano. The regular patrons frowned as they looked over the newcomers, and turned back to their tables-- John and Paul could not have dreamed of a better reception. They suppressed grins at one another, co-conspirators in their Beatle-y secret. They sat at the far end of the bar and John ordered two pints.
"Two pints of what?" Paul whispered after the bartender had gone.
"Two pints of ale, Paulie." John gave him a tight smile.
"What kind of ale?"
"Village ale." John rolled his eyes in mock-exasperation, "The kind they make in villages."
"Village ale." Paul contemplated at the heavy glass as it slid to a halt in front of him.
"Not bad, this," Paul drawled, now working on his fourth pint of the newly dubbed Village Ale, "Wonder what makes it so... Village-y?" Idly, he lifted the glass toward the ceiling and peered through it, as though trying to discern its contents.
John was amused. "So tell me, Mr. McCartney," he questioned in a mockery of BBC English, "what do you look for in your ale?"
"One of your contact lenses, no doubt," Paul answered over the rim of his cup, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in a smile.
John blinked, then put a hand to his face, and was simultaneously relieved and embarrassed to find his plastic frames there. He hadn't intended to leave with them on, but it was best to get drunk in glasses; the fate of contact lenses after a night out was, well, never good.
Paul gave a short laugh, and reached over to his friend. "'ere, let me see," he requested, and John closed his eyes and patiently allowed him to slip off his glasses. Rendered nearsighted, John's eyes attempted to focus, but could make out nothing past arm's length. Paul wasn't exactly blurry, but John leaned in, transfixed by the way Paul's image sharpened against the inscrutable background. Paul blinked as his eyes frantically tried to focus through John's too-strong lenses, but immediately settled into ignoring it, and smoothed his hair over to one side.
John chuckled. "You look just like him," John observed, only half-sarcastic. He suddenly wondered whether either of them had mentioned Buddy Holly by name since his death. John remembered only too well the sudden death of his idol, the genuine pain he had felt, and how Paul had sought him out. "I heard he's dead," Paul had said, as though he were simply there to deliver the news. Mimi had let Paul stay the night, but they were restless, and ultimately snuck out well after the streetlamps had been extinguished. John recalled defiantly stumbling through the absolute darkness with his friend, all winklepicker boots and angry angles, the night muffling their laughter.
"Here," present-day Paul said, returning John's glasses.
"Thank you," John responded with greater sincerity than was necessary, holding his friend's gaze a moment longer. Paul ducked his head and grinned, still not breaking eye contact, and the coy-yet-defiant body language was so intrinsically Paul that for a moment John wanted to take him by the shoulders and tell him how fantastic of a mate he'd always been. Which could mean it was time to stop the flow of Village Ale, but he found himself tempted to remain drunk so that if he gave in to the impulse, he could just dismiss it as the inexplicable behaviour of intoxication.
After all, they'd explained much more complicated things to themselves that way before.
Or maybe it wouldn't matter if he was pissed, so long as he acted like it. Really, a pint's an excuse, he thought to himself, and smiled. And he had several excuses floating about in his bloodstream right now, so he took the opportunity to kick Paul affectionately in the shin, and clink their glasses together.
"We," he informed Paul, "are the bloody kings of Rock and Roll."
Paul didn't pretend to modesty. "We are," he agreed.
"Or maybe," John continued with what he knew was the light of challenge in his eye, "I'm the King, and you're the Queen." John said it just to see Paul's eyes darken with laughter, and the corner of those lips curl into a tiny grin.
"Naw," Paul drawled in his best Elvis impersonation. "I'm the king. You're the Court Git."
"I," John told him loftily, poking at the bridge of his glasses, "am Buddy bloody Holly."
"Well, I'm Chuck Berry."
"Not if George gets there first. I'm Little Richard, and you can't beat that."
"Can't I?" John looked around the pub for support, saw the piano at the wall behind Paul, and grinned. "Let's hear it, then."
"Give us a tune," John nodded at the piano, and Paul craned his neck about, looking at the piano in surprise as if he hadn't noticed it there. "Give us some Little Richard," John wheedled. "Please, sir, I want to hear it, your majesty, sir."
Paul looked at John, the piano, and the utterly mundane patrons of the pub, and his eyes caught up a mad edge of mischief that John allowed himself to very privately adore. "They'll never know what hit 'em, will they?" At John's cracked grin he stood abruptly, almost knocking over his chair and jerked his head in invitation. "Well, come 'ead!"
"What, me?" John wasn't startled so much as suddenly very flattered. His mad, wonderful best friend wanted to play with him. John's heart thumped oddly once in his chest before he rose to join Paul and they both descended on the piano before anyone could object.
Those few patrons who still possessed the capacity to do so had gathered around the piano to watch; some frowned in disapproval of the Newfangled Rock Music, some were genuinely impressed. But it was an audience, and one song had turned into several, and Paul was absolutely ecstatic now, in full Little Richard Mode, beating out an adrenaline-inducing baseline on the left side of the piano as John wove a melody on the right. Paul threw his head back in a howl, grinned manically at John, and suddenly John realised that Paul had not acknowledged their little audience once all night.
Paul was playing for John.
John's hands faltered on the keys as he stared at his partner, but Paul didn't miss a beat. Leaning into John's space, Paul ran his right hand in a flourish up and then down the piano, eyes locked on John's, seeming to follow the twisting paths of thought until John regained his senses. They shared a smug look as John took up the melody again. God, we're good. John felt wildly happy, but not quite wildly drunk enough to excuse it. Paul could charm anyone, go anywhere, had all the money one could ask for, could be with virtually anyone right now, and yet here he was in a godforsaken little pub playing his heart out for John-fucking-Winston-Lennon. Of all the best friends, John decided he had the very best.
On the heels of this thought came the visceral wrench of grief; he'd thought something similar about Stu just five years ago. His morbid thoughts had often included the possibility that he was somehow cursed, as silly as it sounded. Like he was fated to fail at long-term relationships, or Death would end them for him. He was surprised when his uncle had died, then Julia, and even at the loss of Stuart. Surely by now he should be the kind of person to whom sudden bereavement was no stranger. But Paul-- in his heart of hearts, John lived in fear that he would look up at any moment, and Paul would be gone. Just like that. At times, John found himself looking across the stage when he couldn't hear his friend, glancing across a room when he'd lost sight of him, or listening for his breathing at night in darkened hotel rooms.
And here Paul was, next to him, their shoulders pressed together in solidarity, and Paul was warm and energetic and so very much alive-- and John's insides clenched around the thought that one day Paul's life would suddenly end, and John would have to wake every day and face a world without Paul. Horrified, he felt his throat tighten-- stupid Village Ale, making him maudlin and all-- and excused himself at the end of the song, saying he needed some air.
Once outside, John took several breaths and felt in his-- Paul's-- jacket for a cigarette, but came up short.
"What?!" John whirled and saw Paul leaning back against the wall, one foot propped up against the brick in the classic Ted pose, a burning cigarette in his mouth and an unlit one in his hand, those doe eyes widening in offering. John accepted it gratefully.
"Out of matches," Paul mumbled, lowering his lashes to peek at John coyly, and John quirked a smile.
"Give a mate a light, then?" John prompted dutifully.
Paul gave an affirmative half-shrug, his eyes meeting John's once more; that was John's invitation to lean in and light his cigarette off his friend's. Paul stared back at him, his eyes very wide and very dark, reflecting the red glow of the embers, and John quivered, knowing that it had very little to do with the cold and everything to do with the secret, illicit thrill of being this close to Paul.
This was a ritual as old as their friendship. John couldn't remember precisely how long it had been going on, but as the years went by, and the distance between them closed, and their gazes locked for a second longer each time, it had become evident that this was something inherently theirs. That they did this only in each other's exclusive company was not lost on John and neither, John hoped, was it lost on Paul. John could hardly believe it was, though, since they were still looking into each other's eyes, the seconds ticking further and further from any amount of time they could reasonably explain away.
John took in a breath, fighting the chill that crept up his spine, when Paul suddenly shivered. John almost grinned then, amused by the idea that maybe Paul had shivered because John wouldn't allow himself to do it. Seemed like something Paul would do, shivering for both of them, and John felt an integral connection with his friend then and, emboldened, moved in and leaned up to whisper in Paul's ear. "Cold, Macca?"
Paul stiffened immediately, and John leaned back, worried for a moment that he'd gone too far, misread his friend somehow. But then Paul relaxed, dismissively tossing his head. "Nah," he shrugged, a little too nonchalant.
John moved swiftly, planting one hand on the wall beside Paul's head. "Good," he declared and leaned in, searching Paul’s eyes for a brief moment, and kissed him.
It only lasted a moment. John kept his eyes open, shocked at his own temerity, unwilling to block out any of it. Paul's skin was rough, his lips dry and just a bit chapped, and best of all they were warm, and so was Paul and that was so very good.
John pulled away reluctantly to gauge Paul's reaction; his friend seemed to be frozen in place, eyes closed and lashes stark against his cheeks. His lips were parted just slightly, rapid breaths puffing white in the cold air, and John could still feel those lips against his, exhilarating and new but somehow familiar all the same. He longed to keep hold of this moment, to grasp it tightly with both hands until he could manage to stay here, where the air was crisp and clean and quiet, and Paul was so breathtaking, hair and skin mimicking the monochrome of moonlight and shadow, so still yet so alive and so his.
Paul opened his eyes. They were still standing far too close, close enough to feel the heat off each other, and Paul took a long drag off his cigarette, eyes never leaving John's. He blew the smoke upwards, and John had the fleeting thought that, in this cold, there was no difference between smoke and breath. But then Paul dropped his cigarette, ground it out with the toe of his boot, leaned in, and kissed him back.
It was even better the second time: this time Paul was everything but passive, kissing with raw abandon, and John responded in kind, grabbing desperate handfuls of Paul's coat, heedless of his cigarette, which fell to the sidewalk, rolled, and went out.
Paul hauled John closer still until they were pressed tightly together from shoulder to thigh, but it wasn't close enough. John made a noise which even to his own ears sounded positively wanton and clung tighter, the pressure of Paul's mouth on his forcing his head back.
The rush was incredible; the kiss was rough, their teeth clashing almost as much as their tongues, and John deliriously regretted ever thinking of kissing as a means to an end, if kissing could be like this.
A burst of laughter just inside the door brought them apart, and they let go of each other just before it opened and a couple of drunks staggered out into the cold. John and Paul watched them bumble away, then John snickered. Paul looked over, caught his eye and snickered too, and suddenly they were laughing, doubled over howling at the sheer absurdity of the whole situation, two blokes snogging each other outside a pub, and not just any blokes, but two Beatle blokes, and wouldn’t the press go to town with this one? John chortled. Mad, the pair of 'em; with luck only the night would notice, and the night, cold and strange as it seemed, didn't care about the doings of two blokes, Beatles though they be.
“Come on,” Paul took John by the wrist, and the two of them set off in a random direction, giggling madly, away from the closing pub, away from the prying eyes-- away. They ran until they reached a clearing just past the edge of town, where the moonlight sharpened the shadows of trees and highlighted a row of old wrought-iron benches lining the back of a churchyard.
“Like our old stomping grounds,” John observed in his Nostalgic Old War Veteran voice, and looked over at Paul; Paul didn't show any sign he'd heard, and instead gazed at their surroundings, detached, as if lost in thought. John reached over and pulled a cigarette out of Paul's jacket pocket, then reached back inside to find the matches he'd known all along would be there.
Having failed to elicit a response from Paul, John lit the cigarette and took a seat on the plainest stone sarcophagus the 19th century ever dreamed up. He used his sleeve to brush some stray leaves from it, making room for Paul to sit as well. But Paul merely stared off into the woods, long enough that John wondered if he too could see the lined trunks and branches with the same odd clarity that set this night apart. But Paul didn't move, and after a moment, John became concerned.
“You kissed me,” Paul remarked distantly.
“You noticed?” John drew on his cigarette.
“I kissed you back,” Paul stated plainly, though it was almost a question. His gaze was still far away.
“You did,” John said, uncomfortably aware of Paul’s potential volatility in moments like this.
There was a long pause, and finally Paul turned back toward John, and John was immensely relieved to feel their gazes lock again in that familiar way. Paul strode toward him purposefully then, and snatched the cigarette from John’s mouth. “I want to do it again,” Paul demanded.
John felt heat uncoil in his stomach at that authoritative tone. "Right then," he said, intending to be cheeky, but finding his voice suddenly rough. "Come 'ead, McCartney. Show me what you've got."
They smiled secretively at each other, and Paul hoisted himself up onto the stone slab next to John. And then they sat. Paul didn't move any closer, and John waited nervously for Paul to do something. John’s breath sounded too harsh in his own ears, the sound seeming to rise up to dissolve in the dark. He listened and waited for what felt like ages until he couldn't quite stand it anymore, and nudged Paul's thigh with his own.
"Well?" John asked. "Chickening out, are you?"
Paul started, looking over at John as though he'd been dragged out of some thought fathoms deep. John raised a questioning eyebrow, and Paul smiled, lips curving sweetly. "Nah," he said, reaching a hand out to grasp at the collar of John's coat. "Just thinking."
"That's my job," John informed him. "Can't have too many deep thinkers about, you know. Not healthy." One of me's enough. He tilted his head at Paul, deliberately mimicking one of Paul's coy mannerisms. "Show me what you've got," he repeated, and Paul obliged.
This time was more deliberate, both of them leaning slowly in, their lips finally meeting in the center, hot and eager but searching, exploring. John raised a hand to cup the side of Paul's face, and Paul ducked away, breaking the kiss, laughing breathlessly.
"S'cold," he murmured by way of apology, taking John's hands and putting them inside his coat.
John laughed too and kissed him again, letting his palms roam the soft cotton of Paul's shirt, in contrast to the rough tweed of the coat which now rubbed against the backs of his hands. He could feel Paul’s warmth under his shirt, feel the muscles shifting under his skin, and when John let his mouth slide down from Paul's lips to that pale throat, he found the pulse beating at the underside of Paul's jaw.
Paul let out a low, private laugh, his fingers combing gently through the hair at the nape of John's neck. "Your hair's getting long," he said softly, the vibration of his voice buzzing against John's lips.
John had barely noticed; the small annoyance of hair in his eyes had barely registered a blip in John's universe. But Paul had noticed, and for one giddy moment John felt as though he were spinning, drunk on love for his friend.
"I like it," Paul continued, his words coloured by a hint of flirtation that sent an inappropriately strong jolt of lust through John's stomach. Paul put his hands on John's shoulders, pushing him back just far enough to look into his eyes. "We are the fucking kings of rock n' roll."
John let out a surprised laugh and grinned openly at his friend. Paul grinned back, reaching up to slip off John's glasses and slide them into his pocket; John let this happen, intently staring into Paul's eyes. Then Paul's hands went to John's hair and they were kissing once more, deeply, carelessly, the tension between them urgent and electric. John hauled Paul's shirt up and out of his trousers, letting his hands slip underneath, running them over skin that was incredibly compelling, thrillingly hot. Paul shivered, arched against him, and despite a marriage and what seemed like hundreds of groupies John knew that in his life he had never been so hard.
They broke from the kiss, panting, and John let his head fall back as Paul left a trail of kisses along his cheek and down the line of his throat. John moaned, and in response Paul sank his teeth into the crook of John's shoulder, sending the most incredible rush of heat over his skin. "The fucking kings," John said, low in Paul's ear, and Paul laughed an indulgent laugh.
Then Paul was running a confident hand down John's chest, pausing deliberately at his waist, rubbing gently at the skin just under the hem of his trousers. John took in a sharp breath, the air deliciously cold in his lungs. "Paul," he said quietly, surprising himself; he felt quite brave, humming the name into the night like an acknowledgement that only Paul meant anything right now. Paul kissed him, gently nipped him.
"What do you want, luv?" Paul murmured against his lips, voice full of mischief and promise. Desire hit John low and left him panting, and he crushed his lips to Paul's. But Paul cupped his chin, forced him back, and, with a sly smile, repeated himself. "I said, what do you want?"
John's mind flooded immediately with images of heat and hardness, the feel of warm skin and the sounds of ragged breathing, and had no idea how to vocalise any of it. John must have seen and heard these things in Paul at least a thousand times, and yet had never caused them himself.
"You," John answered finally, tightening his hands on Paul's back. Paul paused, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat. Then, he pulled away, sliding farther onto the stone, sweeping off the rest of the leaves with one wide motion of his sleeve. John imagined them swirling, fluttering down and being swallowed instantly by the utter darkness that was the ground; he pulled up his feet, shivering a little at the cold that had seeped through his clothing at Paul's absence.
"Alright," Paul said, breaking into John's thoughts. John looked over; Paul was leaning back on his hands, legs in graceful disarray. His face was unreadable to John's nearsighted eyes, a pale blur diffusing fuzzily into shadow.
"Alright?" John asked, hesitant.
"Alright," Paul repeated, one hand undoing the fly of his trousers. "Have me."
Sudden humiliation burned at the back of John's throat, made worse by the fact that he wanted this, oh did he want this, wanted Paul to use him, to fuck his mouth, pull his hair.
"Hmm," John said, a bit of nastiness creeping into his voice. "I haven't done this since art school."
John had a brief humourous vision of Paul's cartoony "surprised" face-- wide eyes, round mouth, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline-- but truly, he didn't need his glasses to gauge Paul's expression now: stony, his eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw set. A cold silence stretched between them, and John was beginning to regret his words when Paul spoke again.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
John felt a flare of anger. "What does it matter? He's dead."
Paul took in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. He reached out, framed John's face with his hands. "But I'm not," he said quietly, tracing John's cheekbones with his thumbs.
John let out a bitter laugh. Paul kissed him once, a soft, warm brush of lips, and John felt a sudden pang of sadness for Paul's death. Even though it hadn't happened yet it would, tomorrow or next month or thirty years down the line. Death was swift and indiscriminate and inevitable.
But Paul was kissing him again and John surrendered, letting Paul push him back onto the stone, shivering at the warmth of Paul at his front, the coldness of the granite at his back. He clung to Paul, threading his fingers tightly into Paul's hair. John could feel Paul getting hard against his hip; he groaned, thrusting upwards, making Paul gasp.
Don't leave me, John mouthed silently into Paul's shoulder when Paul leaned down to kiss and nip at his neck.
"I'm not going anywhere,” John heard him say, and John had to close his eyes against the knowledge that Paul meant it, even if he'd never be able to prevent it.
"I'll do it," John said impulsively, breath hot against Paul's lips.
"What?" Paul pulled back, sounding puzzled, and looked John in the eye.
"I'll do it," John repeated, feeling absolutely surreal knowing what he was about to say out loud to his best friend. "Suck you off, I mean," he continued, trying to ignore the shaking in his own voice. "Come 'ead." He pushed at Paul's shoulders. This is normal, he told himself. This is normal, because we are the kings. We are John And Paul, and this is normal, because we say it is.
Paul let out a shuddering breath, climbing off John and leaning back on his elbows. John crawled over him, sliding a hand up his thigh to rest at Paul's open fly. He squeezed Paul's erection through his shorts, and looked up to make sure Paul was watching him. He was, eyes half-lidded and needy, lips parted and wet.
When John bent his head, took Paul into his mouth, Paul hissed, thrusting upwards. John growled in the back of his throat and held Paul down by the hips, willing himself to relax. This was only Paul, not someone he needed to impress. But a large part of him needed to be better than anyone Paul had ever had before, better than all the girls lining up to get on their knees for The Cute One, better than the strippers in Hamburg, better than Dot or Jane. As he began to bob his head faster John had to make a conscious effort to still his nerves, terrified that after this was all over Paul would just blame everything on some randy impulse and back to the girls he would go. He probably craved their softness, their compliance, the way they smelled and - John let himself wallow in a moment of self-pity - the way they weren't a sad waste of space like John Lennon.
But then John felt a light touch to his temple, and Paul was petting him almost deliriously, running urgent fingers through his hair, urging him closer, faster. John complied, and Paul choked out his name, sounding absolutely, desperately infatuated. "John..."
John, busy with his tongue, looked up with an inquiring hum--Paul gasped--and faltered. Paul's eyes were huge, glassy, somehow visible in the blur of the world, and they stared down at John with a frantic expression that just might have been the most erotic thing John had ever seen. He stared back for a second, an hour, a year, unmoving, until Paul's hand tightened convulsively for a moment in his hair.
"John," he begged, voice breathy and high. "John, Johnny, don't stop now."
That was the best thing John had ever heard, Paul's voice, breaking as though he could cry with frustration, calling John's name. Me, and no one else, John thought fiercely. Mine. And there was power, suddenly, in being on his knees before his friend. There was power in being the one Paul needed right now. John looked at that flushed face, the lips parted and pouting in appeal, and shivered with a white heat that went straight to his groin. Hot and needy and not a waste of space, not right now--John's breath caught on the gratitude welling inside him.
"John?" Paul's eyes began to clear; he looked at John with the beginnings of confusion and concern, and John by way of reply let go of Paul's cock and surged upward to claim his lips instead. Paul's mouth was open for him, his body giving and pliable as John bent them both back to lie on the cold stone, and they kissed, wet and deep. John tried to pour all of his gratitude into the kiss, tried to fill Paul with that same overwhelming heat; Paul responded with an equal frenzy that set John's head spinning, sent his hands down to fumble with the fastenings of his own fly. And then, both finally bare and open, John shoved his hips forward so that he could feel Paul, and they gasped into each other's mouths as they moved, Paul's leg going over John's, one of Paul's hands tightly fisted in John's hair while the other scrabbled at the stone. Bracing himself, still moving, John reached down blindly, found Paul's hand, and laced their fingers together.
They were panting too hard to kiss now, their breath mingling dizzyingly in the space between their mouths. Paul tensed, squeezing John's hand tighter and tighter, and John watched in fascination as Paul bit back a groan, teeth worrying his lip, eyes wild and dark and still fixed on John's own. He watched Paul come undone, mouth falling open, head falling back, both arms going convulsively around John's shoulders, holding him tighter, tighter, until warmth exploded between them.
Paul clung tightly to John's jacket with both hands, murmuring "John, John," and again, hearing his name said so gently in Paul's mouth sent a heat that was only mostly lust through John's blood. A frantic moan built in his throat, and Paul urged him on with a hand to his hip, reassuring him breathily, "Yeah, that's it, babe, that's it..." And oh, the wonder that Paul knew how John coveted those words; that Paul knew John Winston Lennon in all of his pathetic, needy glory, and still wanted him, here: cold stone, cold air, hot breath and skin, and Paul's eyes watching....
John fixed his lips to Paul's and came, messily, feeling wonderfully, thrillingly exposed, his mouth open against Paul's, Paul's arms clutching him tight.
They lay together for a long while after, their pulses slowing, breath evening out, exchanging slow, tender kisses as if they were trying to come down gently. John could feel his head clouding as seconds passed, could feel the world slip back behind that hidden, invisible barrier, and fought against the sensation with all of his senses, listening for the sound of wind and trees, looking at the silky hairs spread out beneath him on stone, feeling the heat of Paul’s body, savouring Paul’s taste in his mouth. This night would be preserved forever, John determined, etched crystal clear in his brain, to be recalled at need, recalled always. And in the meanwhile, they would postpone the end of this, this whatever it was before they went back to their dull, ordinary, unmerciful lives. Lives, John thought, that didn't have room for soft kisses, or aching desire, or the love for his friend that curled, hard and heavy, in the space under his heart.
And I do, John thought, saying the words to himself for the first time. I love him. He half-expected some sign from this weird, clear night to acknowledge the momentousness of this idea, and listened hard for a mad instant, awaiting the storm in the trees, or the voice in the wilderness that would witness this event. But he heard only the sound of his breath mingling with Paul's, and the quiet rhythm of his own heartbeat and smiled wryly against Paul's lips.
Maybe it wasn't so momentous.
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