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House parties had never been Paul’s forte.
They were loud and overly social; he was a social butterfly at the best of times, but the constant polite demeanour he felt he had to uphold in the company of his peers who weren’t George Harrison - the childhood best friend who, of course, knew him as the bastard he truly was and could not give fewer shits about it - was physically and emotionally draining. Parties, no matter how fun, exhausted him. His constant need to be liked by everyone he came across meant that he could not relax and let go: even when he was five drinks in and the alcohol had lowered his inhibitions significantly, the anxiety still came up strong every single time.
He could not be comfortable unless he was in the confines of his or Geo’s bedroom. The closed-off quality that those four (eight, really) walls had, gave his brain a break and offered him the freedom to be as disgusting, mean, or snarky as his heart desired. George never cared, only loved him more for it; and George being unable to care meant that Paul would feel less inclined to care.
But house parties? Letting loose in the presence of others? His unbearable politeness and need for approval would peek their heads ‘round the corner without having made plans to leave, and he hated every single second of it. George disliked it as well, aptly calling Paul’s party-anxiety “The Appearance of Stick-Up-’is-Arse-McCartney”, which Paul understood very well. Every time he stepped over the threshold of a public place, it was like he morphed into an entirely different person, someone he himself had come to despise. And even if he hated that godforsaken nickname - that was, surprisingly, not a Harrison-original - he was perfectly aware of the accuracy of it. It was infuriating and tiring that he simply could not force himself to carelessly dance around without feeling as if he was doing something terribly wrong and everybody was staring at him.
Sadly, George, though raised well, could morph himself into a monstrously mean form if he so required. His dislike for stick-up-’is-arse-McCartney meant that he would disregard the anxiety as if it were a used, snot-soaked tissue and he was the one who’d blown it full, and thus would always try his utmost best at getting Paul to ignore it as well. In other words, he’d put Paul in situations that were completely and entirely out of his comfort zone, pushing him to enjoy himself in true Hazza-fashion: gently, lovingly, and with an annoyed scowl.
“I seriously don’t get you,” George said grumpily, “it’s nothin’ too serious. Erry-one’s too fuckin’ pissed to care anyway. Relax-”
Coincidentally, this “relaxing” was the exact thing that would give Paul the urge to strangle the life out of his best mate. George was too casual about most things, took everything with a grain of salt. He knew that the lad was into meditating and yoga ‘n all that shite, and perhaps that explained his unbelievably chilled-out demeanour about situations such as these, but he wasn’t.
Especially now, drunk as he may be.
“The problem,” Paul bit out, a bit too buzzed for the words to be truly harsh, “is that it’s a ridiculous thing to do. It’s bloody insanity, Haz, and it’ll be social suicide, alright?” he took another heated sip of his rum ‘n coke and angrily noted that he was up for a refill, but he wasn’t done scolding George yet. Alcohol could wait. “You’ll be responsible for me murder, George. You hear that? Me murder.”
George rolled his dark eyes and dragged his free hand through the enviously thick locks growing from his stupid head. His hair was flawless, as always. “I’ve no use for yer dramatics, Macca,” was his answer. “Jus’ go over there and do it.”
He didn’t get it. George didn’t get that his “dramatics” were a totally necessary and okay thing to have. If he’d had two more drinks, he would’ve been nearly crying. But Paul had only had four cups of the shitty, pre-mixed rum ‘n coke Ivan - their current host, and a good mate of theirs - had graciously lined up in bottles on the drinks table, and that meant that he could only be shocked, offended, and a little panicky.
Betrayal was swirling in his gut. He couldn’t just-
“I can’t just waltz over there, George,” he spluttered. “That’s- I can’t-”
“What,” George shot him a grin, raising his impressive eyebrows a bit. He looked an awful lot like his mam, like that. “No-one here is queer? Is that what you’re sayin’? Willing to bet that the straights are the minority ‘ere, son.”
“‘s not my point, George!!” he felt like he was being hysterical. He was being hysterical. “It’s just - Georgie, I can’t just-”
“Even though I’ve dared ye to?” his friend asked, voice still an annoyed deadpan. At Paul’s deadly glare he smirked and rolled his eyes. “C’mon now, lad, no-one will judge ye. He’s cute, right? You said so yerself-”
“George.”
“-multiple times-”
“George.”
“-over the course of the past two years-”
“George!”
“-what?” Geo asked innocently, taking a sip of his beer. The bastard. “Just tellin’ the truth, y’know. Recounting the past, telling history, and so well too! I should be a teacher-”
“I hate you,” Paul moaned dramatically, ignoring the wide, dangerous grin on his best mate’s face. “Ye’re a menace.”
George placed his hand over his heart with a gasp. “Thank you so much,” he cried, and he held up his beer as if it were an award. “I’m sure none of you will believe me when I saw how much of an honour this is… I’d like to thank me mam for birthin’ me, me da’ for lasting long enough in bed for me mam to have children with ‘im, again me dad for emptying ‘is balls-”
If George’s goal was to calm him down, he’d succeeded; Paul couldn’t help but snicker, his hysterics and annoyance melting away and being replaced with a weird mix of cringe and amusement. Of course, the only thing that could shake him out of his state was the thought of his second parents having sex.
“My only wish after this beautiful and well-deserved win,” George then continued, dark eyes shining dangerously in the red-green-and-blue coloured lighting, “is for my bestest mate in the whole wide world, James Paul McCartney, to actually do my dare-”
“I hate you,” Paul said, even though he really didn’t, just a little bit at the moment. George could be right infuriating if he tried. “So much. So so much.”
“I love you too,” George crooned. “Now go do it.”
“Geoooorge,” he was whining now. Downright whining. “I can’t just- it gives me anxiety, alright?”
“‘cos ye’re anxious to kiss ‘im.” With an evil, fanged grin, George pointed his beer bottle in the direction of the target. “And I don’t blame ye.”
Paul followed the line of vision clumsily, feeling his heart race at the sight of the “him” in this story. He was standing close by, close enough to be admired but not close enough to hear their conversation, and he looked gorgeous. One of his friends said something that was probably funny, and as the group shook with laughter, he threw his head back and cackled, hair bobbing at the motion. God, he was beautiful. The profile of his face was nearly too much for Paul to handle, and just as he was imagining what it would feel like to run his mouth along that goddamn jawline the boy turned, locked eyes with Paul, and grinned.
For a brief moment, Paul felt as if he was in hell. That he’d died, descended down to the boiling cellar of Earth, and had been greeted by a demon that looked exactly like George Harrison who then proceeded to torture him in ways that he knew would break Paul one day. Like John Winston Lennon smiling at him at a party, a couple of feet away, completely unknowing of the potential that he’d probably be kissed in the next hour or so.
Paul turned back to face his best mate so quickly he almost lost his balance, and glared.
“You’re mean,” he informed George, whose grin only grew wider. “I’m- I’m not mentally equipped to handle this dare. At all. There’s no way on bloody earth that I’ll actually-” he caught himself just in time, leaned closer to George, and lowered his voice, “kiss him tonight.”
“You’re just sayin’ that ‘cos I’m pushing you out of yer comfort zone,” George replied, and Paul hated to admit that he was right. “Just approach ‘im, love. He’s been staring at you every time you weren’t staring at him.”
Blood rushed to his cheeks and he crossed his arms tightly in front of his chest. “George-”
“I’m serious,” George shot him another smile and gently combed his fingers through Paul’s hair, ruffling and smoothing like he was born to be a hairdresser. “I may bullshit a lot, but I wouldn’t lie ‘bout something like that.”
“I guess.”
George grinned brightly at him once more before tilting his head back and downing the last bit of liquid in his bottle, smacking his lips after swallowing. “Oh, would ye look at that- I’m out of drink. What a pity. I shall grab a new one from that table over there, and-” he gasped theatrically; Paul couldn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes fondly. “Is that Pete? I’m gonna go talk to Pete. You have fun bein’ boring and scared by yerself, Paulie darlin’, and don’t forget to kiss Johnny tonight lest I wreak havoc on yer vinyl collection. Ta!”
Without further ado, George loudly kissed his cheek before making his way towards the table of drinks, twirling elegantly around the leather-clad Pete Best and giving the boy his most charming grin.
“Bastard,” Paul muttered as quietly as possible, sending unnoticed death glares in his best mate’s direction. The nerves, forgotten during their banter, slowly started to return: only now it was not merely because of the dare, it was because he was alone as well. He generally stuck to George like glue at parties, because George was generally rather unnerved by being social when drunk, but the bastard had left him for another man like the cheating, sad little arsehole that he was. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have any other friends, but they generally disappeared as soon after arriving like the will-o’-the-wisps after you’d stepped into the treacherous bog.
He watched George flirt obnoxiously with Pete, obviously having no qualms with how lonely Paul was feeling at the moment, and contemplated whether it was possible to divorce someone you never married.
And then, for the umptieth time in his life, he made the bright decision to put on his mask and be the social butterfly he was destined to be. He steadied himself, threw back the last of his shitty rum ‘n coke, and walked swiftly in the direction of his oblivious target.
John was still standing in the same corner as before, with a bunch of his mates Paul knew vaguely. They were chatting amongst themselves, each appearing to be at various levels of intoxication; John seemed the most sober, steady and calm, smiling politely at something the brown-haired lad next to him yelled in his ear.
“Macca!” a lad named Shotton said a bit too loudly, as soon as Paul’d come close enough to be noticed. He was grinning slyly, leaning forward to enthusiastically pat Paul on the shoulder. “Hullo, mate!”
“Heya, Pete, lads,” he replied, voice immediately deeper and accent rougher. He could be right posh around Georgie - something that once started out as a way to make the other laugh and had slowly begun to incorporate itself in their actual speech - but there was no way he’d speak the Queen’s English around these lads. They’d never let him forget it, and he’d rather not end up with another shitty nickname, thank you very much. “Booze’s garbage, innit?”
“Ivan’s a stingy bastard,” the boy next to Pete laughed, “with ‘is pre-mixed bullshit. Only the beer is decent. Good thing we pre-gamed, ain’t that right, Johnny?”
John laughed handsomely, and Paul’s palms became a bit sweaty. He hated George, hated him with his stupid hair and stupid dare and the way he could get Paul to do anything if he only pushed a little harder than usual. Of course, he was able to rationalise that this was Geo’s way of helping him approach the bloke he’s liked a little too much for the past two years, and of course Paul could appreciate the intention. And in theory, it was a fantastic plan; Paul would snog John and either get over his crush because the lad couldn’t kiss, not get over his crush but get into a relationship instead, or he’d get miserably rejected and be forced to get over his crush anyway. In reality, however, it was detrimental to Paul’s general well-being and state of mind, and he’d have to dig a grave to dump his and George’s bodies in should this ridiculous dare go incredibly wrong.
“Enough to make a horse stumble,” John said with a smile, tapping the opening of his bottle of beer against his temple, and the sound of his voice made Paul’s traitorous heart skip a beat.
“Impressive,” he heard himself pipe up, not sounding all that impressed. “Very impressive.”
It was then that John turned to finally fully acknowledge Paul’s existence, looking him straight in the eye and cocking his head to the side. His wavy bangs, long enough to brush his eyebrows, swayed slightly at the movement; the look in his eyes was daring, excited, amplified by the glassiness that came with intoxication.
“Well,” he declared, voice a tad too loud to be sober, “you’d know, wouldn’t ye? Mr Stick-Up-’is-Arse-McCartney?”
Of course, John would be fully aware of the nickname - Paul wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who came up with it in the first place - but it stung a bit, even if it seemed like the jab was all in good fun. Desperate not to show his displeasure, he mentally re-fastened his mask, grinned his bright and charming grin that George’d dubbed his “PR-smile”, and winked. “‘course, love.”
John giggled obnoxiously, ignoring the snorts behind him. Paul’s heart fluttered a bit when he spotted the flush on John’s cheeks.
“So, I see the word has reached y’all, then,” Paul tapped his fingers along his empty cup. He could use some more, but he didn’t want to walk away now. “‘bout my chill demeanour.”
“Yer no fun demeanour, yeah,” John drawled. He leaned in close enough for Paul to be able to smell him: booze, cigarettes, and a musky deodorant tinged with sweat. It was weirdly intoxicating; Paul wanted to bury his nose in the crook of John’s neck and sniff it all up. His hands started to sweat a little more. “Could see it from miles away, son. Ye look like ye don’t wanna be ‘ere.”
“Do wonder why.” He shot John another smile. The grin he got in return made him feel oddly triumphant. “I’m only gettin’ insulted here.”
John shuffled closer, close enough for his own arm to brush Paul’s. Electricity zapped over his skin - it was a miracle he didn’t flinch. “I do apologise for not letting ye feel welcome enough, Macca,” he crooned, beery breath brushing over Paul’s face. “Want me to do anything ‘bout that?”
His traitorous gaze shot down to John’s mouth before he forced it to focus on the lad’s eyes instead. “Well, you could start by getting me another drink.”
It was at that moment that Paul felt he might actually have gone to heaven instead of hell after dying, because John then threw an arm around his shoulders and led him away from the group with a cheeky “anythin’ for the princess”. And, though the pet-name irked him more than he expected it to, he allowed John to guide him towards the drinks-table.
He smelled even better now that they were touching. John’s arm was heavy and warm and made him feel safe in a way that it shouldn’t, because John barely had an inch on him. The biggest physical difference was John being more broad-shouldered, more muscular in that buff way George and Paul weren’t. He remembered drooling over John in a t-shirt a couple of months ago, staring at the lad’s flexing biceps as he ignored Geo’s amused snickering. He’d wanted to touch him, then, wanted to trail his fingers over that soft, freckled skin and see John grin at him like it didn’t tickle.
That arm was around his shoulders now, and when they arrived at the table, Paul subconsciously pressed himself a little harder against John. He didn’t seem to notice, just threw back the last bit of his beer and put it in the nearest stacked crate, though his grip did tighten a little bit.
“What d’ya want? Beer?” John asked. The fingers of his free hand thrummed against the plastic sheet covering the wood, eyes trained on Paul’s face curiously. “...somethin’ else?”
“Rum ‘n coke,” he answered, watching how John nodded and reached out for the last bottle of pre-mix on the table. “Don’t wanna mix.”
“That always ends in trouble,” John poured the drink into the cup Paul was clutching in his fingers with care, though he nearly spilled a bit at the end. He quickly put the bottle down and shot Paul a grin so cheesy and adorable Paul’s heart melted a little bit. “Though trouble can be fun, don’t ye think?”
Paul raised his cup in toast and took a big sip: it tasted just as shit as before, just warmer. “Not when ye’re huggin’ the porcelain throne, love.”
“Good point,” John said with a funny little smile. In one smooth motion his arm slid from Paul’s shoulders to his waist, and his free hand plucked the solo cup from his grip. Paul could feel his heartbeat in his throat. This was absurd. “Good thing I rarely throw up.”
He watched as John tilted his head back and gulped some of the liquid in the cup down. His Adam’s apple bobbed every time he swallowed.
Paul wanted to bite John’s neck, suck marks on the skin, see the bruises bloom before his very eyes. He’d never been this into someone before.
Jesus Christ-
“That’s disgusting,” John rasped after he’d had his fill, pushing the cup back in Paul’s hands with a grimace. “How can you drink tha’-”
“‘s not that disgustin’,” he muttered, “just didn’t feel like beer today.”
“You have terrible taste.”
Paul couldn’t help but smile, a warm feeling blooming in his chest when he saw John grin back. He really was too cute. “I’m sure I do.”
Paul didn’t remember how he ended up in John’s lap. But he did, somehow, arse squished between the side of the armrest and John’s left thigh, legs slung over John’s, perched like he belonged there. He leaned a little heavier against John’s shoulder, smiling half-heartedly at Pete Shotton drunkenly ranting about worms having intercourse and feeling John chuckle.
He wasn’t plastered yet, just trapped in the realm of that pleasant kind of intoxication that made him a bit sleepy. The party was floating past him as if in slow motion; every time he turned his head, the lights followed just a second too late, and voices were just a bit too muted for him to properly listen.
John’s arm tightened around his waist, pulling him a bit closer to John’s chest. It was nice. John was comfortable and warm, and when John turned his head to grin at him, he returned the smile just as enthusiastically.
“I know Pete’s boring right now,” John said in a low murmur, barely loud enough for Paul to understand him, “but I swear he’s funnier usually.”
“He’s amusing.” He reached for the striped material of John’s t-shirt, pulling lightly and enjoying the sound of John’s breath hitching way too much. “Never knew worm porn could be that interestin’.”
“That’s Shotty’s best power,” John replied. He raised his hand, calloused fingertips - did he play the guitar? - brushing over the back of Paul’s. “Wanna get out of here? The noise is doin’ me head in.”
“Where would we go?”
“Garden,” was John’s one-worded answer, and he perked up from his slouched position when Paul hesitantly nodded. “Awesome. Let’s go then.”
He was drunker than he’d thought; steadying himself took a bit too much effort, and John, who’d apparently glued himself to Paul’s side, seemed oblivious to being used as a pillar for Paul to regain his balance. He was walking before Paul could say goodbye to the lads, dragging him along.
“Use a condom!” was the last thing Paul heard Pete yell, and his cheeks flushed with heat at the rumbling laughter that followed. John ignored them, though he did mutter something about “those fuckin’ bastards”. His hand was flexing a little, squeezing Paul’s hip before letting go like he was trying to process he was actually touching Paul. Paul, in turn, felt like he’d have goosebumps and pebbly nipples for the rest of eternity.
The garden wasn’t empty. It was summer, after all, and though the cool of dew hanging in the air clung to everything, it wasn’t yet cold. Several guests littered around the neatly kept landscaping like trash on the side of the highway, drunk and high and quietly falling into fits of laughter every so often. Paul spotted George almost immediately: he was talking animatedly to one of their mates, Ritchie Starkey, nearly stabbing the lad’s eye out with his cigarette in his obvious enthusiasm.
Paul stifled a laugh.
Ritchie noticed him first - George was standing with his back towards him - and lifted his hand in kind greeting. When George turned around and spotted him, he barked out a loud, happy laugh, jumped in place a bit, and started waving.
“Is that Harrison?” John sounded curious, though a sharp edge laced his tone; one that Paul vaguely recognised as guarded jealousy. “That lad you always hang ‘round with?”
“Yeah, that’s Geo.” He was way too pleased that he’d spotted John’s jealousy. This wasn’t normal. “He’s me best mate ‘n all. Endlessly annoying, but I’d trust ‘im with my life.”
He waved back dazedly, smiling at George’s wide, white grin visible in the limited lighting of the garden. He supposed he was kind of lucky with having George as his best friend; it was basically due to his unbelievably annoying nagging that John was stuck to his side like velcro, after all.
“Oh.” There was a brief moment of silence as John took a deep breath, and Paul relished in the feeling of John’s chest pressing against him a bit more. George, not even trying to look subtle, started to make weird fluttering motions with his hands and pouted his lips, mockingly blowing them kisses and shrugging off Ritchie - who, while in stitches, was attempting to get George to calm down - in the process. Paul briefly wondered whether George was drunker than him, being so unnecessarily obvious about what he wanted them to do, and his palms started to sweat again.
“So, he’s not- there’s nothing else-”
“No,” Paul sighed out. “Oh, God no. Not George.”
“Okay,” came the quiet reply, and John yet again tightened his grip on Paul’s waist, “cool. Let’s sit.”
“Let’s,” Paul said, and he let himself be guided towards a nearby bench.
The wood was damp, water immediately soaking into his trousers, but he ignored it for the sake of sitting close to John who immediately shuffled close enough for them to be touching ankle to shoulder. Paul was pretty sure he’d gone to heaven, even if the entire touch burnt.
“I hadn’t really asked you yet,” John murmured, taking a half-empty carton of cigarettes out of the pocket of his jean jacket and flicking it open. “Why did you come tonight?”
“I don’t like parties,” Paul answered. He accepted the ciggie gratefully, hoped that he wouldn’t cough his lungs out. It’d been a while since he’d smoked. He only smoked when he was drinking, anyway.
“Which is why I’m confused why you’d be here, Mr Stick-Up-’is-Arse.” John clamped his own cigarette between his teeth, putting the carton back in his pocket and fishing an age-weathered, engraved zippo out of his pocket.
Paul watched John swipe the zippo to life, lighting his ciggie in less than a second and then holding the flame out for Paul to use. He carefully put the cigarette in between his lips, leant forward, and inhaled; the smoke burnt all the way down, but he didn’t cough, and John capped the zippo with a twinkle in his eye. “George dragged me along.”
“Does that often, then, your George?” John asked. “Forcing ye to socialise?”
“He’s makin’ sure I don’t become a lonely, sexually frustrated hermit.”
John barked out a laugh, smoke rising up in the chilly summer night. “I’m sure that’s helping.”
“He tries,” Paul chuckled, and he took a long drag of his ciggie. The taste, as always, was appalling, but the nicotine mixed well with alcohol. “Neither of us mind when it’s just us getting drunk at home, but he thinks it’s annoying that I’m crushing on someone and that I’m not doin’ anything about it. Dared me to kiss them, he did, jus’ to get it over with.”
John stiffened. Paul could feel it. It was incredible, really, how negatively he could react to the suggestion of Paul being involved with someone. It was also incredible Paul was able to admit his crush to his crush, even if it was vaguely done, but he blamed that fully on the rum ‘n cokes he’d slammed down.
“Who’s that, then?” John asked, leg bouncing in place, cigarette being sucked to death. “Lucky bird, I bet. Though, considerin’ ye’re not doin’ anything about it and I haven’t seen any girls around you now, not so lucky in that regard-”
And right at that moment, Paul thought “fuck it”.
He pushed his anxiety deep down until it was somewhere near his toes, took another drag of his cigarette, and swung his legs on John’s lap. The alcohol in his system fuelled his sudden bravery - he was certain he couldn’t have done this if he’d been sober - and he tugged lightly at the boy’s collar, and John turned to face him like he was a dog on a leash and Paul’d just commanded him to look at him.
This boy he was sitting on was hot, available, and appeared to be willing. Though Paul was an oblivious bastard at the best of times, he could notice flirting from miles away and John had been flirting with him, touching him, playing with the hem of his t-shirt and grinning brightly at his laughter and blushing at his smiles. It was adorable and exhilarating, and John’s lips were moist and bitten and stained a pretty pink, and Paul’s entire body was screaming to feel that mouth against his own. It was painful to the point of him having to swallow down an embarrassing little whimper when John’s tongue snaked out to nervously wet his bottom lip, wanting to bite and lick and holy shit-
He couldn’t be bothered with playing it cool, and he didn’t care if it was too fast for the plotline he’d created inside his head.
Paul dropped his cigarette in the grass.
“Hey,” John protested weakly, “I gave you that-”
“You’re kind of an idiot, you know,” Paul said, cradling John’s face in his hands as if his skull was made of glass and tilting his head with a tiny little smile. “But you’re right. You are lucky. You’re really fuckin’ lucky that absolute-bleedin’-morons are just my type.”
He leaned forward, pulled John towards him, and pushed their mouths together.
John melted against him almost immediately, and as his previously cigarette-holding hand suddenly gripped his side and pulled him closer, Paul could hear the burning stick of tobacco sizzling in the damp grass.
They were kissing. They were actually kissing and Paul sucked John’s bottom lip into his mouth, bit down, relished in the sound of the high-pitched whine coming from his partner. His right hand slid from John’s cheek to his sharp jaw, squeezing; as if he’d pushed a button, John obediently opened his mouth and welcomed Paul’s tongue with enthusiasm.
John tasted like a dream, like beer and cigarettes and pringles out of all things, delicious and sweet and exciting in that unknown way that made his heart race. His entire body tingled, burnt wherever John’s hands went, and he got shakily tugged even closer until he was fully seated in John’s lap. There was no question about it: he was snogging a boy in Ivan Vaughan’s parent’s back garden, in public, and he liked it. He shouldn’t, his sober self would have wiggled out of John’s lap as soon as he’d gotten pulled into it and disconnected their lips with one last chaste kiss; but he wasn’t sober, tempted with intoxication-induced bravery, and he felt like he could kiss John forever if he’d like.
John moaned, low and rumbling, and Paul felt over the fuckin’ moon.
Still, the incoming sobriety nagged somewhere at the back of his head. Paul pulled back for a second to breathe, to think, and John pressed his forehead to his neck with a groan before mouthing at the skin there. “Jesus Christ-”
“We’re in public, Johnny,” Paul sighed, raking his hands through John’s messy hair. It was soft, a bit greasy with hair wax. “Love this feeling, would totally vote for this, but it might be more fun in private-”
“Who cares,” John mumbled, lips brushing the spot he’d apparently deemed a perfect place for a hickey. “Erry-body’s drunk. They’re jus’ jealous.”
“We should arrange a date.”
John stopped, lifting his head from Paul’s neck. His eyes were big and amazement was clear in his irises. “You think so?”
“Yeah.”
A grin started to spread on his face, bright and happy and cheesy, he pressed a clumsy, wet kiss to the underside of Paul’s jaw, breathed a “I’d really like that, Macca” against the wet spot, and made Paul shiver in delight.
Now, he guessed he wasn’t really sober enough to be opposed to some more public display of affection.
Not really.
“You’re welcome, y’know,” George slurred happily as they cycled home, trying their hardest to go in a straight line. But it was hard, because they were tired, had each had their fair share of alcohol, and Paul’s phone was burning in his pocket. His contacts glinted with pride of having obtained a fresh, new number, tagged with a cute nickname and a sappy emoji. Tonight turned out to be grander than he’d expected it to be. George, of course, because why the fuck wouldn’t he, could tell. “There’s no way you’d ‘ave grinded on ‘im in public without my interference.”
Paul sighed through his nose, smiled a little. His mouth was still tingling. “You’re the best, Hazza.”
“I know.”
“Humble, too.”
“That’s me. So, now that I’ve oh-so-happily brought McLennon together-”
Paul nearly fell off his bike. “McLennon?”
His shock went ignored as George blabbered on happily, releasing the handlebars and cockily spreading out his arms like a year seven having recently learned to cycle without hands. “Can you and John be my wingmen next time? There’s this German exchange art student who’s really fit and he’s been eyin’ me up for weeks now, and I’m pretty sure he’s in a couple of John’s classes ‘cos they sit together sometimes, and-”
“Maybe,” he answered, “I’ll manipulate John into it.” And George hooted with joy into the early morning.
Paul cackled.