Archive of Our Own

The annoying thing about Paul was that he was always so bloody self-assured. For a pudgy goody-goody who got his hair cut short and wore baggy trousers because his dad told him to, he sure was confident. Or at least he always acted like he was. Maybe he wasn’t always actually confident – John had seen his hands shaking before his first gig with the Quarrymen, and he knew that when Paul chewed his nails, it meant he was worried – but still, Paul would never admit it. He marched into Quarrymen practices and ordered everyone around, even when he was the youngest. He suggested improvements to John’s songs like he was Ira Gershwin and had been writing music his whole life. 

Sometimes John felt like he needed to take him down a notch, remind him of his place. If he didn’t, it would be easy to forget that this was John’s band. 

“I dunno, I just think they’re a bit embarrassing, that’s all.” He’d started in on Paul’s wide-legged trousers, because he suspected they were something Paul was self-conscious about. 

They were in Paul’s bedroom, John was drawing and Paul was practising chords on his guitar. He paused at John’s challenge, looking up with a frown. 

“Embarrassing for who?” he asked testily, glaring at John for a moment. That was another thing. Everyone else was intimidated when John started to get aggressive or started to mock them. No one else held his gaze like that. 

John shrugged. “All of us, I reckon. Embarrassing for the band. Bad enough we’ve got a guitarist in nappies.” 

Paul rolled his eyes and went back to practising his B7 chord. “Don’t start on that again. We’re a million times better now he’s with us.” 

They were, too. John had resisted letting Paul’s little friend George join the band, because he looked like he’d just crawled out of his pram – they were supposed to be a rock-n-roll band, for fuck’s sake – but in the end it was too hard to deny. He was good. It was fucking annoying; what were they putting in the water at the Liverpool Institute that grew baby-faced musical savants? 

John watched Paul warily. He was sounding pretty good on that chord, which was…well, it shouldn’t be surprising, he probably hadn’t stopped working on it since they’d learnt it. John wanted to ask if he could give it a go himself, but he didn’t think he had it down yet, and he definitely didn’t want to try and fail in front of Paul.

He was gonna get Paul to fucking listen to him about the drainies, though.

“Nah, I get it. It must be nice to be able to share trousers with your old man. Convenient like.” 

“What?” Paul stopped, and looked up, his thin eyebrows narrowed in irritation. “I don’t share trousers with my dad.” 

“No?” John fixed an innocent look on his face. “Why not, though? If you’re gonna dress like an old man, shouldn’t you save a few quid while you’re at it?” 

Paul looked at him for a moment, and his cross face gradually morphed into a smile, and then he was laughing. “You’re right, you know, it’s dead handy. You should see me in his dressing gown and slippers.” 

And that was another thing about Paul. He didn’t let John get to him. He either gave as good as he got, or he joined in, played along. 

John looked down at his sketch pad and studied the little face he’d just drawn. It had big, droopy eyes and elegantly arched eyebrows. John frowned at it. 

“I don’t know why you’re so scared of him, you know.” 

Because John didn’t understand why Paul seemed scared of Jim. It drove John mad, actually, that Paul wouldn’t stand up for himself. 

Paul put his guitar down, placing it lovingly in its case. John snorted. He was pretty sure Paul never looked at any bird like that. 

Paul got up and started to flip through his records, ignoring John’s comment. “You in the mood for anything in particular? Chuck?” 

“I mean, it’s not like he can do anything to you, you know. He’s just an old man.” John continued to prod. 

“Chuck it is!” Paul said cheerfully, pulling the record out of its sleeve and placing it on the record player. 

“Will you still let him tell you how to dress when you’re 25? 40?” 

Paul sighed and turned around as “Sweet Little Sixteen” started to play. He looked exasperated, and John felt a surge of satisfaction. 

“How about you worry about Mimi, and leave Jim to me?”   

“I don’t worry about Mimi, is the thing. Because I’m not a child.” He cleared his throat. “I’m a grown man and I make me own decisions.” He tried to sound like a grown man when he said it. 

Paul rolled his eyes. “I’ve got it under control.” 

John huffed out a laugh. “Right. By asking how high when he says jump?” 

“By helping make things easier for him and Mike by not causing an unnecessary fuss,” Paul said. Paul thought “causing a fuss” was pretty much the worst thing a person could ever do, which John found mystifying. John loved to cause a fuss.

“One thing not to cause a fuss, Macca, it’s another thing to let an old man tell you how to dress and wear your hair. It’s a matter of standing up for yourself.” 

“I dunno why you care so much, though. It doesn’t have to do with you.”

John paused, thinking carefully about how honest to be. “I told you, it’d be better for the band if we were all in tight drainies. We’d look cooler.” 

And that was the reason. What was the point of being in a rock-n-roll band if you looked like a bunch of nerds whose Dads had dressed them? Half the reason to be in a band was to get birds, and to have people respect you, to think you looked good. 

But also. Well. What if Jim told Paul he had to quit music? What if he told Paul that John was too much of a bad influence? That he didn’t want Paul hanging around John any more? 

If Paul did everything old Jim told him to do, what if one day he dropped John because his Dad told him he should? 

Sure, Paul was a bloody dictator sometimes, and he was such a perfectionist that he made John have to work twice as hard – writing songs, learning chords, controlling his temper. Keeping up with Paul was a constant battle, but John didn’t want to do this without him. So he needed Paul to learn to stand up to Jim. Just in case it ever came to that.  

“Those birds in Sefton Park the other day seemed to think I look alright,” Paul said, gloating a little. “Seemed to prefer me to you, didn’t they?” 

John sighed. Birds did always seem to like Paul. John assumed it was because Paul was friendly and non-threatening, polite and chubby. But Paul liked to act as though he was some kind of Casanova.  

“I reckon they found me intimidating,” John said, because he didn’t have a better retort. He went back to his drawing, and neither of them said anything for a moment. 

“We oughta do this one,” Paul said, tilting his head to the record player, “You sound good on it.”  

John hadn’t even realised he was singing along to “Sweet Little Sixteen,” but he looked over in interest at Paul’s words.

“You think so?” he asked, pleased. Paul wasn’t much for compliments, and he must have sounded pretty good for Paul to suggest that John sing it, instead of claiming it for himself.

“Yeah. Suits your voice. I’ll talk to George about learning it. We can play it at the Casbah booking week after next.” Paul said, his voice full of the mysterious, confident authority that John was both impressed and annoyed by.

And that was it. Paul had heard him singing, thought he’d sounded good, and now they were halfway to performing it. This fucking kid could make you dizzy with the speed with which he decided things. And yet he still let his dumb old dad tell him what to wear. 

“Fine, fine, we’ll learn it. Play again, then, so I can practise the words.”

Paul smiled and started the record over. 

John thought about keeping at him about the drainies, but what was the point? Paul wasn’t gonna listen to him, and anyway, John would rather think about “Sweet Little Sixteen” and how Paul thought it suited his voice. 

***  

“We’re starting with ‘In Spite of All the Danger’ because it’s ours, something we wrote, and it’ll let everyone know we’re different, we’re not just doing other people’s songs,” John said, exhaling smoke in George’s direction. 

Plus, he liked “In Spite of All the Danger.” He sounded good on it, he thought. Paul thought so, too.

John was at George’s house, waiting for Paul to arrive to rehearse for their upcoming Saturday booking at the Casbah. Another lad, Ken, was supposed to play with them, too, but he only showed up to practise about half the time. John wanted to kick him out, actually, but he needed to see what Paul thought about it first. 

“It doesn’t make sense to start with something no one knows, though. We should open with a favourite. ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ maybe, or ‘Glad All Over’?” George said slowly. 

“We’re not gonna do ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ without a piano,” John said in his most commanding tone. It was one thing to take this kind of input from Paul, who had a sense for these things, but George would do well to remember that this was John’s bloody band. John tried to look authoritative; he wished he wasn’t wearing his stupid glasses, but even with them on, he felt he should be able to look authoritative to George. 

“I can sorta, like, mimic the piano part on me guitar,” George answered, shrugging.   

John was about to tell George where he could shove his guitar, actually, but the words died on his lips because Paul came in, and he was wearing tight drainies. 

Paul was wearing tight drainies, and it seemed like they were the tightest drainies that John had actually ever seen, tighter than John had ever dared to wear himself, maybe even tighter than the real Teddy Boys that John saw walking around Liverpool looking cool and intimidating.   

And…Paul wasn’t chubby. Why had John thought he was? He used to be , John told himself, his mind feeling sluggish. He was suddenly unable to think properly. 

Okay, no, Paul wasn’t chubby. The drainies were clinging to him – really clinging, leaving nothing to the imagination – and Paul’s legs were long, very long, and lean. He was taller than John had realised, maybe. He hadn’t thought too much about it before, but…Paul was tall? As tall as John, surely, maybe taller. His eyes travelled up Paul’s long legs to his thighs and – John felt an odd twist in his stomach and looked away quickly, busying himself with tuning his guitar, which didn’t need tuning. 

“Alright, mate, those trousers are looking gear,” John heard George say, but John ignored them in favour of his tuning. He didn’t know why, but for some reason he didn’t want to look at Paul again. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. 

“Went to Mill Street at lunch today, got them taken in,” Paul said. He sounded rather proud of himself. 

“Yeah?” George was clearly impressed. 

“Ian took me, he knows a tailor there, the fellow will take them in to whatever you want,” Paul continued. “Ian said it was time for me to start wearing them tighter.” 

What the fuck? John felt his shoulders tighten. Ian told him to wear them tighter, and he listened? Ian took him? His idiot little school friend Ian James? 

John should’ve been the one to take Paul to the tailor, he thought with indignation. Wait, no. John shook his head, as if he could bump his thoughts loose and shake them out of his head, get rid of them. Why was he thinking about taking Paul to get his trousers taken in? He had an itchy, restless feeling under his skin. 

“Old Jim will kill you if he sees you in those,” George said, and – well, right. That was a good point, actually. How did Paul plan on getting away with this? 

John looked up at Paul then, interested in his response, and Paul was already looking back at him. Their gazes met, and caught, and John felt his face flush, his entire body warm up. He wondered if his reaction was obvious, but Paul looked normal and he grinned, shrugged. 

“He can’t kill me, can he? He’s just an old man.” 

It was what John had said the other night in Paul’s room, and John wanted Paul repeating it now to mean that it was John who had convinced him to wear the tight drainies, not Ian, but he wasn’t sure. Paul could be so bloody hard to read. 

John tried to think of a witty comeback, or a casual comment to find out what Paul had meant. Normally he’d be able to think of an inside joke that only he and Paul would understand, something that would make Paul laugh or put Paul in his place or remind Paul that it was John who he should listen to, not his dad or Ian James. 

But nothing came to him. No, John was too flustered, too distracted by the fabric gripping Paul’s legs, too confused by the incessant refrain hammering in his head, in rhythm with his frantic heartbeat: Paul is tall, Paul isn’t chubby, Paul’s legs are so long, stop looking at Paul, it’s so weird how much you’re looking at him, no, wait, do look at him, look at how he looks in those drainies, actually you know what, never stop looking at him .

He was staring. He balled his hands into tight fists, his nails digging into his palms. He still didn’t look away. 

“Paul, what do you reckon we should start with on Saturday?” George asked, oblivious to the panicked thoughts furiously running through John’s head. 

Why was George so unaffected by Paul’s trousers, John wondered, annoyed. Maybe George had already noticed that Paul was super tall and lean, before today. Or maybe George didn’t care how long Paul’s legs were. 

“Oh, I’ve written out the set list I think we should go with,” Paul said. He put his hand into his front pocket to root around for the paper, and John felt light-headed. Paul’s hand in his pocket pulled the fabric taut against the front of his trousers and John’s eyes were stuck on it, stuck on the tightness over Paul’s crotch, on the way Paul’s hand moved in his pocket, and what the fuck was going on? 

Paul pulled out a paper and George reached for it, but Paul moved around him to hand it to John. John’s fingers brushed against Paul’s as he took the set list, casually, briefly and…had that always happened? Had his pulse always sped up a little when Paul accidentally touched him? 

“He’s got ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ first!” George said triumphantly, reading over John’s shoulder. 

Paul nodded. He was still looking at John, probably wondering why John wasn’t saying anything, was just standing there like a twat. “It’s one of our best, it’s upbeat, we’ll get the crowd right into it.” 

John was having such a hard time getting breath. Something was wrong with his lungs, he thought wildly. They’d been damaged or something. Something was wrong with his eyes, too. Couldn’t stop flickering down Paul’s legs. Stop it. 

He swallowed. He knew he needed to argue, he couldn’t just accept the fact that Paul had written out the set list without asking anyone else. Paul would win eventually, but John had to make him work for it.

It was just hard to formulate coherent thoughts with Paul wearing those tight trousers.

“You’re not the fucking boss of this band, Paul,” he barked, and it came out much harsher than was necessary for the situation. 

Paul looked at him in surprise, his expression slightly wounded, but that wasn’t John’s problem. John felt off balance and it was Paul’s fault for parading in here in those trousers and for saying he wore them because Ian told him to and for not being chubby and for having freakishly long legs and for having a nice, round bum. 

“It was only a suggestion,” Paul said easily, shrugging. “I just wrote out what I thought would be a good order.” 

“Because for some reason you think you’re the only one who knows anything about music,” John said, balling up the set list and tossing it back at Paul. 

It felt good to lash out. Better than wondering what it would feel like to run his hand up Paul’s leg from ankle to hip. Better than wondering how Paul’s face would look if John did that, or wondering what sound he’d make.  

He saw George and Paul exchange a look, their What should we do, John is being a cunt for no reason look, probably. Okay, okay. John didn’t really know what else to say anyway, he couldn’t fucking think . 

“Fine,” he snapped, “we’ll start with Jerry. Let’s get practising, then, we didn’t come here to stand around and talk about Paul’s trousers all night, we came to play.” 

Wait, no. They hadn’t been talking about the drainies anymore. Why had he brought them up again? It’s just that John was still thinking about them. It was odd to mention them randomly like that, though. He shot a panicked glance at Paul. 

“Talking about my trousers?” Paul looked confused, uneasy, like he thought there was a joke at his expense that he was missing. “They’re good, right? They’re what you wan – well, I think they look good, don’t you?”

“Christ, Paul, I just said I don’t want to talk about them, didn’t I?” John could feel how sneering his expression had become, and he could see Paul reacting with wariness. He didn’t want to look scary and pissed off, but it was the only way he knew how to mask the odd feeling churning in his stomach. 

“Fine, let’s practise, then.” Paul’s own face could be quite cold when he wanted it to be. John wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of it. 

They started to play “Whole Lotta Shakin” and it had only been about five minutes since Paul had walked in wearing tight drainies, but John somehow couldn’t remember how anything had been before, like the world had rearranged itself around Paul’s long legs. 

Had he and Paul always stood so close together when they played? Had their eyes always met so many times while they were singing? Did Paul always give John those little glances, like they were sharing a secret, and did it always affect John like this? 

Had John just never allowed himself to notice? His whole body was buzzing from it now, from seeing it for the first time. 

Paul started to sing, and John tried to focus on his guitar part, but his skin felt hot and prickly and he couldn’t take his eyes off of Paul. He’s fucking beautiful and it was such a startling, unbidden thought that he nearly dropped his plec. No. What the fuck? Not beautiful. A nice arse, maybe. Good legs, like a bird. That wasn’t….no, actually none of this was anything that John particularly wanted to dwell on. 

Obviously Paul wasn’t beautiful, that didn’t make any bloody sense because Paul was a bloke, and his best mate, and beautiful was a word you used for birds, not your supposed-to-be-chubby, nerdy, best mate. Who was a bloke, no matter how nice his legs and arse were. Still a bloke.

Between songs, Mrs. Harrison came in to bring them tea, and Paul smiled at her, telling her thank you from under his long eyelashes (was there anything on Paul that wasn’t long, John wondered, and then nearly choked at where that took his mind). But watching Paul flirt with George’s mum, an old lady, made John nearly shout in revelation.

It’s just jealousy. He could’ve collapsed with relief. He was just jealous. God. He was such an idiot. He’d long ago accepted that Paul was better than him at music, and a little more clever, and better at conversation, and had those eyes that probably made birds feel butterflies in their stomach because they were so big and expressive and, you know, kind . Yeah. John had realised that stuff about Paul a long time ago, but he’d never felt particularly jealous – all of Paul’s attributes felt like John’s attributes too, because they were a team.

But okay. Now Paul was showing up in these tight drainies and he looked good, really good, and that was probably why John was feeling so weird. Because now Paul would be absolutely unstoppable with the birds. And John was older and cooler and he probably was just feeling a bit threatened that Paul had turned out to be extraordinary in this way, too. 

That’s normal, then, John thought with relief. Normal to be jealous of your mates for getting more birds than you. That’s all it was. Normal normal normal.

They started “In Spite of All The Danger” and John began to sing. Paul turned to look at him, and even though John had been had been such a prick before they started, Paul smiled at him, looked encouraging and fucking beautiful and right, this was a real goddamn nightmare. 

***

John left rehearsal in a hurry, feeling flustered, his mind racing. He avoided talking to George and Paul; and when he got home, Mimi. In the comfort of his room, without Paul right in front of him in those bloody drainies, all of this would be fine.

He stripped down to his kecks and threw himself on his bed. Eyes closed, he tried to think about all the things he didn’t like about Paul. Bossy. Always thought he was right. Used too much milk in his tea. Let his dad tell him how to dress.

Well, apparently, he let Ian James tell him how to dress now. John scowled. 

And okay, Paul always thought he was right, but in fairness, he was right a lot of the time.

But yeah, he was definitely bossy. And the way he took his tea was disgusting.   

This wasn’t helping. John pulled his duvet over his head, but unfortunately, that didn’t seem to block out the thoughts about Paul wearing drainies, which were flooding his brain at a frankly alarming speed. 

The thing was…well, Cyn was great. She was so great. Smart and posh, kind, beautiful. She was easy to be around, she didn’t make his heart beat erratically or make him want to work harder at music. He never worried about being the funniest or the coolest person in the group when he was around Cyn; she didn’t mind that he usually wasn’t. To be honest, John didn’t really need to worry about that with Paul, either, because it was never in doubt that Paul would always think John was the funniest and coolest person in any group. But that wasn’t the point. Was it? The point was, Cyn was great. John loved Cyn. 

Even Cyn knew that John preferred Paul to her, to everyone; she’d joke about how John and Paul only had eyes for each other when they were all together. 

Well. Those jokes were all fine and good before John had noticed how Paul looked in tight drainies, now they seemed really pretty worrying…god, why was everything in John’s life always so shit. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a ragged breath and tried to remember how things were yesterday before dumb Paul had turned everything upside down. He didn’t want to think about this, about Paul’s arse and legs and eyes and smile and dumb jokes and fake accents and songs and determination and… well, his mind might’ve been trying not to think about it, but the rest of his body wasn’t getting the message, was in fact perking right up, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

Except, well. Actually, he knew exactly what to do about it. He snaked his hand down to his cock and grabbed hold of it, giving it a long stroke and groaning in relief. He tried to think about Cyn.

Cyn. Cyn. Cyn.

He tried, but his head was so twisted with the events of the evening that it worked against him, clouded Cyn right out, like he was fighting a gravitational pull. Instead, his mind supplied him with nothing but images of big doe eyes and long legs and fingers strumming gracefully over guitar strings and hairy arms and crinkly-eyed smiles. 

None of it made any sense, or at least, he didn’t want it to. But it was a proper good wank, the best he’d had in a while. 

***

John stumbled through Lettering the next day, barely able to pay attention; well, even less than normal. He was meant to meet Paul in the cemetery at lunch to write, but he couldn’t face it, couldn’t face Paul and his drainies, so he didn’t go. He went home instead and tried not to think about Paul sitting alone in the cemetery with his guitar, waiting for John to show up. He tried not to think about Paul’s mouth, Paul’s legs, Paul’s bum.

Except that he did think about them because he couldn’t stop thinking about them, because now that he had seen this new side of Paul, he couldn’t stop seeing it, and he’d love to know what he was supposed to do about it. It was like Paul had unlocked some hidden box inside John and now that it was open, he couldn’t put the contents back in. 

The thing was, John had always thought being queer was mostly to do with sex – people who just preferred sex a bit different than normal people did. People who were a little kinky. Some people liked to be tied up and stuff, some people liked it up the bum. Well, how was he supposed to know anything about being queer? No one had ever fucking explained to him. No one ever even talked about it, except to make dirty jokes or to gossip, insinuate things without saying them.

Because now he was thinking – it might be more than just a sex thing. Okay, yes, he had been thinking of Paul’s legs in those drainies in a sex way. His arse, too. His lips. He’d thought about all that when he wanked. He had a pretty good idea of what it meant that he was thinking about Paul’s mouth wrapped around his cock when he wanked instead of Cyn’s. He wasn’t stupid, no matter what some of his horrible teachers might’ve said. He knew what this meant. 

But it was more than just liking sex a different way, wasn’t it? Because this was Paul, and he was John’s favourite person, and the whole thing felt like a problem with no solution. 

For now, anyway, his solution was to avoid Paul for as long as he could. Which he did do, successfully, for a couple of days. But there was one more rehearsal before their Saturday booking at the Casbah, and he couldn’t avoid that.

“Ah, here he is!” Paul announced when John walked in, his way of pointing out that John was late. 10 fucking minutes. John rolled his eyes.

The owner of the Casbah, Mona, was letting them rehearse where they’d be playing on Saturday. They’d decorated it themselves, painted the walls when Mona said she needed help getting it ready for the weekend. It looked pretty good, John thought. It was gonna be a proper show.

Ken had shown up, John noticed, half-heartedly. And George had on tight drainies himself. Paul must’ve taken him to the tailor, too. John peered warily at George, wondering if he was about to have another drainie-related sexual awakening, but no. George looked ridiculous, actually, with his scrawny little legs. John snorted, relieved. Just Paul then. 

“Any leads on a drummer?” he asked. He was afraid to look at Paul, but he sent the question in his general direction.

“Not for Saturday, no,” Paul answered, and he sounded so dejected that John couldn’t help glancing over at him, and fuck.

He was wearing the drainies again, of course he was, now that he had them. Just one look, and a wave of heat ran through John, starting in his lower belly and spreading quickly through his body – all of it making it very, very clear how he felt about Paul in those trousers.

He shouldn’t be looking so closely, he knew. Paul was bent over, fiddling with something on his shoe, and John tried to force himself to look away or to say something or….

“What?” Paul had straightened up and he looked self-conscious about the way John was staring, which started John’s heart beating fast again, because Paul so rarely seemed self-conscious. It was exciting to think he could do that.

“No, nothing.”

“What?”

“No, it’s just – those trousers are so tight, I can see the outline of your knickers,” John said, trying to act like he was being critical of the way Paul looked instead of admitting that he’d been staring at Paul’s arse. 

Paul’s eyes widened and his hands flew to his bum. “What?”

“You got them trousers so tight over your bum, it just looks a bit lumpy from your knickers,” John said, shrugging, trying to seem nonchalant. He hoped he wasn’t bright red.

“What do…other people do? Are yours like that?” Paul asked, gesturing to John’s drainies. He sounded horrified.

John spun around and stuck out his bum. “No one’s ever mentioned it. Can you see mine?”

Paul’s voice was choked when he answered. “I don’t know, I don’t see anything wrong.”

He sounded strange, John thought. He was probably mortified that he was looking at John’s bum. God, if he knew how much John had been studying his. 

“Okay, well,” John said, turning back around, “I guess it’s just your drainies are tighter.”

Paul nodded. He looked so rattled.

“And your arse is bigger, so I guess it stretches the fabric more.” Was that admitting too much? That his brain was fully aware of the relative sizes of their arses?

Paul certainly seemed to think so. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth and shut it again. He looked extremely flustered. “Is my arse…big?” he asked, bewildered.

John was proud of himself for the casual, almost bored, expression he was almost sure he had fixed on his face. He shrugged, focusing on not sounding too interested and also, on not getting a throbber. 

“Just a bit rounder, I reckon. All I’m saying is they’d look better if you wore ‘em with no knickers. Wouldn’t look so…lumpy.”

“Wear no knickers?” Paul repeated, and John waited for Paul to say one of the obvious responses here, why were you looking at me bum so closely anyway or it’s pretty weird for you to tell your mate not to wear knickers or you are thinking about my cock right now, admit it. But Paul just stared at him, wide-eyed. 

“It’d look better, that’s all,” John started playing the intro to “Honky Tonk Blues,” forcing Paul to pull his panicked look away from John and start playing himself.

God, that was almost too revealing. But the whole thing was worth it for how off-kilter Paul looked. Served him fucking right. He’d turned John’s life upside down, he deserved to suffer too, should have to think about how he had a fat arse and how his drainies would look better if he wore him without anything underneath. All of this was only fair.

John tried to make his face look like the face of someone who had never had any queer thoughts about his best mate in tight trousers. He watched Paul, flustered, playing his guitar, singing, seemingly fighting to regain composure, and yeah, it was only fair.

That night, John wanked as soon as he got home, and he didn’t even pretend to think about Cyn.

***

John hadn’t talked to Paul about going to the Casbah together, but going alone didn’t feel right, so he went by Forthlin Road on Saturday before getting the bus, to pick Paul up. It was a big booking for them, after all. They were getting paid and there were proper posters advertising it and everything. Mona said they might have 200 or 300 people there. He and Paul should arrive together, John thought. Lennon and McCartney. 

No one answered the door at first, and John felt stupid almost immediately. He’d no idea what Paul’s plans were, he might be out, might be going straight to the Casbah from somewhere else. It was a silly, sentimental idea, that they needed to go together. 

Just as John was about to slink away in embarrassment, the door opened, and it was Jim. 

“Lennon?” he asked. His tone sounded bewildered at the idea that John would be at his door, as though John wasn’t over there nearly every day. John found it irritating. He found nearly everything about Jim irritating.

“What, you were expecting Macmillan?” John asked. “He couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. But he sends his regards.” 

Jim ignored that, but stepped back to let him enter. “Paul’s in his room. Remind him he needs to take the bins out before he leaves.” 

John nodded and bounded up the stairs, resisting the urge to tell Jim to take the fucking bins out himself. Paul was performing in a paid booking tonight, and anyway, he already did more than his fair share around the house. But John standing up to Jim wasn’t the point – he’d been running his mouth off to Jim forever, it really only made things worse. It was Paul that needed to do it. 

“Heartbreak Hotel” was wafting out of Paul’s room as John walked down the hall from the stairs. He pushed the door open; Paul was at the mirror, fussing over his hair and singing along with Elvis. He was wearing the tight drainies, of course, because John couldn’t catch a fucking break, and a long-sleeved green shirt. He looked good. He looked so good. John’s stomach dropped a little. Was this how it was going to be from now on? 

Paul saw John through the mirror, and he stopped singing and smiled wide in greeting. “I’m glad you’re here! I tried to ring you and tell you to come by. It’s a big booking and all…” he shrugged and turned around to face John. “It seems like we should get there together.” 

It was exactly what John had thought himself. He nodded and Paul beamed and John was so, so fond of him. He felt with total certainty that being queer wasn’t just about a different way of having sex. 

“Jim gonna let you leave the house in those, then?” John asked. He wanted Paul to say he didn’t care what Jim thought, but he knew Paul wouldn’t, and John didn’t particularly want any delays while Paul was sent back upstairs to change.  

“He probably won’t notice, if we get out of here fast enough,” Paul said, as he fastened his guitar case and hoisted it onto his shoulder. “I had to wear them, though. I like how everyone looks at me when I have ‘em on.” 

John let out a surprised laugh. Oh, he wasn’t the only one, then? “God, Macca, the ego on you! You love everyone lusting after you, do you? Thinking dirty thoughts about you in them drainies?” 

He glanced at Paul, ready to continue to take the piss, but the smile fell from his lips when he saw how startled Paul looked. 

“Lusting after me?” he said, his voice oddly even. “Dirty thoughts?”

“I – well, isn’t that what you meant? About people looking at you?” John desperately wanted to look away, but Paul was staring at him intently and he couldn’t bring himself to move. 

“Uh, no. I meant that I look like a Ted. Cool, you know. Like I’m –” he swallowed, “-- someone who stands up for himself.” 

It was just what John had told him. It was embarrassing to dress like your Dad wanted. It was a matter of standing up for yourself. 

Of course that’s what he’d meant. Because, right. He didn’t know about the lusting, the dirty thoughts. 

“What did you – um, you reckon people are thinking dirty thoughts about me, then? Because my trousers are tight?” Paul swallowed, and his cheeks had a faint flush to them. 

John’s lungs felt constricted as he locked eyes with Paul, the moment dragging out longer than it should while John’s brain scrambled for something to say, his chest growing tight with the need for air. He knew his cheeks were probably red, his fair skin was a fucking curse. 

He exhaled shakily. “Yeah…Mimi mentioned ‘em. Said she never knew what a nice bum you have. She’s filthy, that one.” He turned to the door as if he was ready to leave. “Come on, we’ll miss the bus.” 

Paul was silent for long enough that John had to turn back to look at him, which felt like losing an unspoken stand-off. 

Paul studied him for a minute, his eyes dark and hooded, and it seemed like he was trying to decide whether to say something, but then he smiled and shook his head. 

“Nah, that doesn’t make sense, mate, Mimi knows exactly what me bum looks like.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and John swatted at his arm. 

“Oi, too far, pervert!” 

“Well, you started it!” 

Paul flicked off the light and they stomped down the stairs together, guitars hung over their shoulders, nearly identical smiles on their faces. 

When they got to the door, Paul gave John a knowing glance, and then called into the front room, “Dad, we’re off to the Casbah booking now, I’ll be home when it’s finished,” and he gestured to John to move quickly out.  

“What the bloody hell are those trousers you’re wearing?” Jim’s voice, from right behind them, startled them both, and John’s stomach dropped. He glanced at the ashen look on Paul’s face and nearly winced. 

It could happen at any time. Jim could say go to your room, you’re not going out tonight, son or that’s it, that’s enough of the music and the Lennon kid, you’re quitting all of it, and Paul probably wouldn’t argue, he’d just slink up to his room, probably wouldn’t even bother to say goodbye to John, would just get a boring job and sell his guitar and that would be it. All of this would be over. It wouldn’t take long for Paul to forget that he once thought John was something special, something worth holding on to.

“I’ve had these trousers for months…you bought them for me,” said Paul, obstinate, and John would’ve rolled his eyes if it’d been different circumstances. He knew Paul thought he was being clever, telling the technical truth like that. 

“You’ve done something to them. They didn’t always look like that.” Jim’s frown was so much like Paul’s.

“Nah, they just look funny with this shirt, I reckon,” Paul said, once again moving to leave. “We gotta get the bus, Dad, I’ll see you later.” 

“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid, son. Those trousers are too tight. Go upstairs and put on a different pair.”

“We’ll miss our bus, Dad. We’re getting paid for this show, it wouldn’t do to be late.” 

John thought that if he were a dad, he might be impressed with that, a son who was so talented at music that he was already getting money to do it at such a young age, and was committed to being on time, responsible like, – but Jim didn’t acknowledge it. 

“Did you take out the bins, Paul?” Jim glanced at John then. Right, John was supposed to tell him to do that. 

“No, I -” 

“John, you can run along to your bus, I need Paul here a little while longer,” Jim said coldly, speaking to John, but keeping his eyes on Paul. 

“There’s not time –” Paul started to say, but Jim cut him off. 

“Paul, you’re too old to be this selfish, you’re nearly grown, you have to think of people other than yourself.” 

It was Paul’s face that sent John over the edge, got his blood really boiling. Paul’s eyes dropped to the ground, deflated, and he silently made a small move toward the stairs. This is it, John thought. Paul was gonna go change his trousers, and then he was going to take the bins out, and then he’d do whatever other bullshit Jim told him to do, and he’d miss the booking. 

It was complete fucking nonsense, too, the idea that Paul was selfish. Paul did so much for Jim, for Mike. John saw it. He cooked, he cleaned, he took care of them. The only thing Paul ever did for himself, really, was music. And that wasn’t being selfish, not with his talent. He was so…well, John would never say it to him, but it would be selfish for Paul not to play music.

For a moment, John thought about how satisfying it would be to feel his fist strike Jim’s face, to watch Jim stagger backwards from the impact, to see his shocked expression. Maybe Jim would hit him back, too, which would be satisfying in its own way. Show Paul what John was willing to do for him. He made a fist, his hand itching from the temptation.

But no. This wasn’t about John and Jim. This was about Paul and Jim. 

“We better leave now, Paul,” John said in a low voice that was almost a growl. He looked Paul straight in the eye. “You know, if we’re gonna get to the Casbah together.” 

Please come with me. We wanted to go together. Please don’t give this up. 

Paul looked at John for a long moment, his eyes scanning John’s face, and then nodded curtly. “Right. Sorry dad, we’ve got to go now. I’ll see you later.” And he walked out the door without another word, leaving John and Jim, surprised, staring after him.   

“Always a pleasure, Lord McCartney,” John said in his poshest voice, bowing theatrically in Jim’s direction before scrambling after Paul. He heard Jim saying something, but he pulled the door shut quickly. He didn’t want Paul to change his mind.   

They had to sprint to make the bus. John knew he looked ridiculous running down the road in his tight trousers and boots, with his guitar awkwardly flopping on his back, but it didn’t matter because he was so fucking exhilarated. 

Paul had picked him. Paul had stood up to his father, and for the first time, John felt safe, secure. Like now he knew for sure that Paul wasn’t going to let his father come between them one day. 

When they finally made it onto the bus and collapsed into their seats, John, barely able to catch his breath from the run and the excitement, turned to Paul. “That was brilliant.”   

He didn’t expect Paul’s scowl. 

“Why? He’ll go spare when I get home, it’ll be worse than before.” 

“Nah,” said John, shaking his head. “You stood up to him. Now he knows he can’t control you.”   

“Right, just like you wanted,” Paul snapped, looking out the window. 

“Like I wanted?” John asked. Okay, yeah, he’d wanted Paul to stand up for himself. But it was to help Paul.   

“Forget it, John,” said Paul. He was still looking out the window, intently watching the houses whizzing by as they sped along, very clearly not looking at John. 

John wasn’t very good at forgetting things, though. “Don’t see what you’re mad at me for. All I said was that you’re too old for him to be controlling you.”   

Paul laughed, but it wasn’t his normal soft laugh, it sounded bitter. “Right, because you want to be the one controlling me, is that it?” 

The one controlling him – what the fuck? Like there was any hope of controlling Paul. Like Paul hadn’t been subtly controlling John since they’d met, telling the Quarrymen what to wear, showing John the proper way to play guitar, taking over John’s brain with his stubborn ideas and big eyes and musical prowess. 

“I’ve hardly had any luck controlling you, Macca,” John said, trying to pretend that he minded. He’d thought he would, at first – he’d been hesitant to let Paul join the Quarrymen for that very reason – but he never had. He usually agreed with Paul anyway, thought Paul’s ideas were brilliant, and was pretty much always happy to go along with whatever Paul wanted, even if he put up a show of resistance. 

Paul didn’t say anything, he just chewed on his thumb nail and continued to not look at John. The bus stopped and let on an old bird with a shopping bag. She took in Paul and John’s clothes and guitars and headed to the upper deck. John made a face at her for Paul’s benefit, but Paul didn’t see. 

John did briefly consider just letting it go. Briefly. 

“When have you ever listened to me, anyway? About letting George in the band? About wearing matching shirts? About which gigs to do? What part of that was you listening to me?” John said, and he hated that he was admitting embarrassing things just to make his point. He’d always pretended that those decisions had been at least a little bit his  -- but oh well, Paul probably knew better anyway.  

Paul did look at him now, turned away from the window and fixed his big eyes on John. It sent a shiver of want right through John’s body, and fuck, had things been easier before Paul had turned up in those drainies.

“Standing up to my dad, getting my trousers taken in – you know I do whatever you tell me to do.”  

I do whatever you tell me to do. Well, that sentiment shot straight to John’s dick. He fucking wished. And God, it was tragic that an innocuous sentence like that could get him half hard these days.

He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “You said you went to that tailor because Ian told you to.”

Paul scoffed. “Why would I listen to Ian?”

“Why would you listen to me?” John shot back. He wanted to hear Paul say something, anything, along the lines of because I like you better than I like Ian or I care what you think , neither of which Paul would ever say, but he fished for it anyway, because he was the world’s biggest twat. 

Paul’s colour deepened, and he looked as though he was going to answer, but then the bus ran over something and they both jostled, bouncing abruptly, and Paul immediately reached over to secure his guitar on the seat next to him.

“Fucking hell,” Paul muttered. “This bloke’s a worse driver than me Auntie Jin.”

And John knew that was his cue to drop this. He didn’t want to drop it, he wanted to rip open Paul’s mysterious, magical brain and pull everything out. He knew he wouldn’t find any of the queer thoughts that were currently swimming around in John’s own head, but he wanted to hear more about whatever Paul was hinting at: he cared about what John wanted? He listened to John’s opinions?

But there was nothing for it. He’d seen this look on Paul’s face before; when Paul was done talking about something, there was no way to crack through it. John sighed. 

“Is Jin a bad driver, then?”

“Well, only when she’s sober, to be fair,” Paul answered, and John laughed, although he wasn’t feeling particularly light-hearted. Fuck, but he’d really let this kid get in his head.

“Do you have any ciggies?” John asked, although he was pretty sure he knew the answer. Those trousers weren’t hiding anything.

“We’ll get some tonight, after we get paid,” Paul said, and he looked so pleased at the prospect that John had to smile.

***

George and Ken were setting up when Paul and John got to the Casbah. 

“Alright?” George asked, when he saw them, and his perpetually worried expression was somehow more worried than normal. John wanted to roll his eyes a bit because George was such a baby, but then again, he did understand the nerves. He might’ve felt them too, if he hadn’t arrived with Paul.

There was no cause for nerves, in the end; they were bloody fantastic. God, but there were a lot of people there. Over 300, John reckoned. It would’ve been so much better if they’d had a drummer, but it was still good – no, great – with just the guitars. Mona only had one microphone, which was a bit shit, but he and Paul crowded around it and, well, that was okay, that worked. 

And Paul was so fucking good. He was full of energy, working the crowd, and John couldn’t blame the birds for hanging on his every move. He was hanging on Paul’s every move, too.

It was near the end of the set that John noticed. He’d been doing a good job, all things considered, of not staring at the bloody drainies. He knew what happened when he did – he wouldn’t be able to look away until his face was embarrassingly red, his dick was halfway to being hard, and his mouth was hanging open like some kind of animal in heat. Not exactly the rock-n-roll image he was going for. So he hadn’t been looking. Easy not to, since he wasn’t wearing his glasses. 

But the set was winding down and Paul was singing Little Richard and he was wiggling around and John was standing right behind him and what the fuck was he supposed to do? His eyes drifted to Paul’s arse, fully on display in front of him, and that’s when he noticed.

He couldn’t see the lines from Paul’s knickers that he’d seen before. The trousers were smooth over Paul’s entire bum. He squinted to try to see better. No. No lumps. 

All I’m saying is they’d look better if you wore ‘em with no knickers, that’s all.

That’s what he’d said. That’s what he’d told Paul.

You know I do whatever you tell me to do.

The very idea of it – Paul not wearing knickers because John had told him not to…hell, just the idea of Paul not wearing knickers, full stop – hit John with a wave of dizziness so intense that he had to reach over and put his hand on the wall next to him to steady himself. Christ. 

This whole night, there’d been one less thing between John and Paul’s cock, and he hadn’t even realised. It was just right there, right under them tight drainies. And when Paul got dressed, when he was naked, he must’ve been thinking about John , thinking, no, John doesn’t want me to wear knickers, and John was aware that he was making it seem sexier in his mind than it probably actually was, but he couldn’t help it, it was bloody hot in this room and Paul wasn’t wearing anything under his drainies and he’d said he did whatever John told him to and John thought he could die from how badly he wanted him. 

When the last song finished, John couldn’t stop himself, with the adrenaline from the show coursing through him, he moved up next to Paul and wrapped his hand around Paul’s bicep, pulling himself to Paul’s ear.

“You’re not wearing knickers?” he whispered, and he pulled back to look at Paul’s face in time to see his eyes widen in surprise and then harden.

“You told me not to,” Paul whispered back, a wild look in his eye.  

The crowd was still cheering around them, and this was not the time for conversation. Any conversation, but definitely not this one.  

“Stay at mine tonight,” John said, without thinking, and his voice sounded weirdly low and husky and he wasn’t at all sure what was happening or what he was asking.  

Paul didn’t react to that and John had wished for many things in his life, parents and money and better looks and good eyesight and to be the next Elvis, but he couldn’t remember ever wanting anything more than he wanted to know what Paul was thinking right then.

It was forever before Paul answered, so much time that John’s lungs nearly collapsed from a lack of air, and then Paul said, “Jim would lose it.”

John nodded sharply and looked away. “Right. Gotta take those bins out.” He realised his hand was still wrapped around Paul’s arm and he dropped it quickly, wondering what to do with the humiliation flooding through him. Not that it was…well, even he didn’t know what he meant by that invitation. Surely Paul didn’t know, it wouldn’t even occur to Paul, all the thoughts in John’s head, the things John wanted to do to him. 

But still. He felt dumb, rejected. Of course Paul hadn’t really chosen him over Jim. And Paul was right; Jim would go absolutely spare if Paul just didn’t come home without telling him, after walking out like he had.  

“I don’t really care, though.”

John’s head snapped up and his eyes flew back to Paul, who was staring at him, his own eyes steely and his mouth set in a determined line.  

“What?” John couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t care. He can’t do anything to me, he’s just an old man, right?” Paul said, his eyes searching John’s face.  

John nodded numbly, unsure what to say. So does that mean you’re coming back to mine? 

“So, I could – ” Paul started, and then paused. John wanted to shake him. What? You could what?

“I could stay at your house tonight,” Paul finished. 

“Alright,” John said, not trusting himself to say anything else. Paul nodded and turned back to the enthusiastic crowd. 

Okay. Okay. That was that, then. Paul was coming back to his.

***

They rode the bus to Mendips, de-briefing the booking, talking over each other in their excitement. They agreed on pretty much everything: the show had been great, but they desperately needed a drummer. Ken didn’t really add much, he was okay on guitar, but they could do without him. Mona needed to work out how to circulate some air into that basement by next week; it’d been too hard to breathe in there once everyone started dancing. “Thinking of Linking” needed a little something at the end, it stopped too abruptly now. They knew they couldn’t afford an amp, and either could Mona, but it would be so much better if they had one. 

John tried not to think about the fact that Paul wasn’t wearing anything under his drainies. Or that Paul was spending the night even though he could easily go home to Forthlin Road, and probably should, if he wanted to smooth things over with his dad. 

When they got to Mendips, they climbed the stairs to John’s room without discussing it. John didn’t bother to try to be quiet, sure that Mimi wouldn’t wake up. She wasn’t actually any more reasonable than Jim, not really, but she was a sounder sleeper. She took a pill, John thought, though she’d never admit it.   

They got to John’s room, and John had no idea what to do. Paul had stayed over hundreds of times, of course, but tonight felt different. They both stood awkwardly by the door, and John couldn’t stop thinking about Paul saying he did whatever John told him to do. He reached over to turn on the light, but then pulled his hand back, deciding against it. The light might make things even more awkward. 

He put his guitar down and cleared his throat. “I can lend you something to sleep in,” he said. “Something less sweaty.” 

“Right, thanks,” Paul said. “Yeah, you should’ve warned me how hot these trousers get when they’re this tight.” 

John figured that was as good an opening as he was gonna get to finish the conversation from the bus. “You said it was that Ian told you to wear the tight drainies,” John reminded him.

“I did, yeah,” Paul was still standing uneasily by the door, his guitar on his back. It made John nervous. Relax, Paulie, stay awhile.

“But I’m the one who told you to,” John clarified. He sat on his bed, kicking off his boots, hoping that if he settled down, Paul would too. 

“You were, yeah,” said Paul. He looked uncomfortable. John wondered if he was going to leave if John kept pushing this.

“Why’d you say it was Ian?” John asked.

“Dunno. I knew you knew you were the one who told me. But…it’s embarrassing, that I just did it because you said to,” Paul said, his voice slightly defensive.  

“I do things you tell me to do all the time,” John pointed out. Because he did.

“It’s not exactly my personality,” Paul said. “To…do what people say.”

John laughed. Understatement of the fucking year, that. “It’s not mine either, though, twat.”

Paul smiled and put down his guitar. He moved slowly into the room to sit on the bed, and John felt a surge of satisfaction – he was right not to push for it. He knew his experience with cats would come in handy one day. Let them come to you. Cats, Pauls. 

“It’s not, yeah,” Paul acknowledged. “Surprising we get on so well, then.”

John felt like his whole body was vibrating with anticipation, but he didn’t know what for. It’s not like Paul would –

“Then why…” he asked, interrupting his own pathetic train of thought. “Why’d you say you do anything I tell you to?”

He looked right at Paul when he asked it, because John might be a lot of things – unloveable and reckless and queer – but he wasn’t a fucking coward.

Something flared in Paul’s eyes and John knew that Paul wasn’t a coward either.

“Got the tight drainies, didn’t I? Stood up to my dad?” 

John nodded. “Why’d you listen to me? If it’s not your personality?”

Paul shrugged, his eyes flickering to John’s and then away. “Dunno. Don’t mind when it’s you telling me what to do, I guess.”

Since fucking when? But he didn’t say it. 

“And you didn’t wear knickers tonight. Cause I… told you not to,” John said, still finding that a pretty big turn-on.

 It shouldn’t have been sexy, the way Paul turned red at that, but it was. “Right. Well, I mean….cause you said it would look better if I didn’t.”  

“Right,” said John quickly, feeling his face flush. “And it did – uh, look better, I mean.”

Paul bit his lip and John knew it was probably obvious that he was watching, looking at Paul’s mouth. 

“Yeah?” Paul asked.

“Smoother,” John said. God did he sound like an idiot.

Paul licked his lips, and right, there was no way he wasn’t drawing attention to his mouth on purpose. “Suppose it’s good I listened to you, then,” he said, and John nodded. 

“Yeah.”

“If I’m gonna wear me trousers tight, I want it to look good, right?”

“Right.”

“Especially since you said….well, if people are having dirty thoughts about me.” Paul tilted his head a little bit, regarding John carefully. 

“Right. Uh. People are,” John said, clearing his throat. “Like Mimi.”

Paul smiled, and John felt light-headed. “Right.”

They studied each other for a moment, and maybe John was a coward, because he felt like they were on the precipice of something, but he wasn’t at all sure and he didn’t know if he was brave enough to risk it. The room was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock from the hallway, and John’s heart beat. 

“Well, like I said,” Paul ventured, his voice low, “I guess I do just about anything you tell me to do.”

Again with that. John raised an eyebrow. Did Paul want him to test it? He took a deep breath and decided to jump. 

“Come over here, then,” he said, keeping his eyes on Paul. Testing it. He was in so far over his head. 

Paul hesitated for a brief moment, then scooted himself over so that he was right next to John, flush against him, arm touching arm, thigh touching thigh, their heads slightly turned toward each other. 

“Like this?” 

John let out a shaky breath and started to nod, but then stopped, changed his mind. 

“No…closer,” he managed to get out, a sharp stab of panic hitting his chest after he said it. 

“Closer?” Paul pointedly looked down to where their bodies were connected, shoulder to knee. 

John swallowed, determined not to lose his nerve, not to back down. “Yeah. Come closer.”

It was probably just a couple of seconds before Paul answered, but it felt like hours to John. 

“Whatever you say, Johnny,” Paul whispered, and turned completely toward him, putting his hands on John’s shoulders and climbing onto John’s lap, his knees bracketing John’s thighs. 

John found it a little harder to think than he’d like, with Paul now on his lap, his face just inches away, looking down at him expectantly, as if to ask, now that you have me here, what are you going to do with me? Fuck if John knew. He wanted to do a lot of things. His brain was feeling a little fuzzy though. 

He unfroze himself, and tentatively moved his hands to Paul’s waist. When he got no objection, he moved them a little lower so they were at the top of Paul’s bum, the very reason all of this had started in the first place. 

Paul leaned forward a little to whisper in John’s ear. “Like this?” 

The movement shifted how he was sitting and for a second, John worried that Paul would feel how hard John’s cock was and be put off, but oh. No, Paul’s cock was hard, too, and pressing into his, and right. John could work with this. He tightened his grip on Paul’s arse and pulled him in, hard, to get more of that cock-to-cock contact. They both groaned. 

“Like that, yeah,” John finally answered, and he couldn’t believe how ragged his voice sounded, like he was a bloody virgin getting it for the first time. 

“Now, uh…” – he was almost too embarrassed to say it, because maybe it was too far, too queer – “...kiss me.”

It must not have been too far, because Paul’s mouth was on his almost before he’d finished getting the words out. 

Paul’s mouth was on his, and they were kissing, and John didn’t know just kissing alone could be so good, but it was, and Christ, but it was exciting. He’d thought he knew everything about Paul already; he’d spent the last two years mentally cataloguing every detail, every mood, every mysterious facial expression, every different little laugh and smile, figuring out what they all meant. 

But now that they were kissing, it was a whole treasure trove of new things to know about Paul. He liked knowing how Paul’s lips felt and he liked knowing how Paul tasted and how Paul smelled, and he liked hearing the little noises of satisfaction Paul was making and he liked knowing he’d caused them, and well, you know, he just liked Paul , and John felt stupid now that he ever thought any of this had to do with whether Paul was chubby or how long Paul’s legs were. Fuck, this was so much more than that. 

It actually wasn’t just kissing alone that was feeling so good, though, because Paul was grinding into him, moving his hips slowly, causing just the right amount of friction against John’s prick, and it was so good that John suddenly hated all the birds that Paul had honed these skills with. This should only be for John. 

Paul was kissing down his neck now, and his hands tugged at the bottom of John’s shirt. “Get your clothes off,” he said, and John laughed against his shoulder. 

“Thought I was giving the orders,” he said, but he was buzzing from the idea that Paul wanted him naked, from the prospect of the two of them naked together. 

“Right…tell me to take my clothes off, then,” Paul responded, and he pulled back to look at John expectantly. His eyes were glassy and his lips were wet and swollen and John was still stunned that this was happening. 

“Take your clothes off,” John managed, and then couldn’t help making a little whimpering noise when Paul moved off his lap. 

Unfortunately, the whimper didn’t go unnoticed by Paul, who had the nerve to smirk. “Just doing what you told me to do,” he said, and pulled off his top, and gestured to John, who was staring. “Yours, too.” 

John didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled up and quickly started shedding his clothes, as Paul wiggled out of the tight drainies. The room was dark, and John was practically blind anyway, and he was not going to squint just so he could he could get a good look at Paul, naked, with his cock hard – 

“Okay, yeah, that’s better.” Paul said, and he reached out for John, pulling them both back down onto the bed, wrapping his legs around John’s hips, and John stopped thinking.

His mouth clumsily found Paul’s again – Paul’s perfect, filthy, beautiful mouth – and his hands found Paul’s hips and then quickly slid down to Paul’s arse. It felt amazing to sink his hands into it now that they were naked and there was no fabric in the way, it was so round, but still really pretty firm, it was so – 

John realised Paul was laughing against his mouth, mid-snog. He pulled back, offended. “What?” 

“Nothing. Me bum. Only, you said it was too big, and now you don’t seem to have any problem with –” 

John cut him off, “I never said it was too big! I said it was round, and it is –” he grabbed a generous handful of both cheeks to demonstrate his point and Paul laughed again, until John ground up against him, hard, and the laugh turned into a moan.   

Maybe in retaliation, Paul pushed him back against the bed, so that he was on top, John slotted between his knees. He nipped at John’s jaw, trailing tiny kisses to behind his ear and then moved his hips so that their pricks slid together.  

“Fuck,” John gasped. “Fuck, Paul. That’s good.” 

Paul made a soft noise and reached down between them, his long fingers curling around both of them, stroking them together as he supported himself over John. He set a steady rhythm; John’s old bed creaking along with it. John felt like his body was going to combust or that he’d never recover from how good this felt. 

“I’ve thought about this,” Paul breathed, as his hand continued to slide up and down their pricks. “Doing this…with you.” 

John knew you probably couldn’t trust anything that was said this far down the road toward orgasm, but he was still pleased and a little surprised. 

“Yeah?” he was having a bit of trouble talking, he was trying to savour the feeling of how good Paul’s hand felt on his cock.“Yeah…uh, me too, thought about it too.” 

“Right, you told me…dirty thoughts… me in the drainies,” Paul ground out, somehow managing to sound smug even in grunts. 

John couldn’t even deny it, not right now, not while his whole body was shaking against Paul, not while he was moaning Paul’s name like he was in some kind of dirty film.

“Thought about it…” Paul went on, and of course he was a talker, “when you told me not to wear knickers…”

“Please,” John choked out. “Paul…not gonna last much longer.” 

Paul kissed him again, deep and filthy. “Go on then, Johnny. Come for me.” 

To John’s absolute horror, he did, he came almost as soon as Paul said it, with his head thrown back and a shout that was much louder than he intended. His cock pulsed messily over Paul’s hand. He shuddered, breathing hard, and then felt Paul’s cock twitch against his, and the spread of Paul’s release smeared between them onto his stomach and prick. Paul collapsed in a heap on top of him. 

They panted against each other for a moment, recovering, and John brushed a trickle of sweat off his forehead. Paul’s face was flushed and his hair was messy and John studied him carefully, wondering for a moment if getting off together had maybe gotten this need for Paul out of his system. But then Paul smiled at him, affectionately, and nope, if anything, it was worse. John liked him so much. 

“So, was that you doing whatever I tell you, then?” John asked. He was pretty sure Paul had been in control of that entire thing, right down to telling him when to come. 

“It was, yeah! I kissed you when you told me to, and all that,” Paul said, moving off John and settling next to him. 

“But then after that, you started bossing me around again, like usual,” John shot back, although he didn’t actually mind. 

Paul laughed and gave him a little shove. “Get something to clean us up,” he said, and John rolled his eyes, amusement defeating irritation. He didn’t want to get up, so he reached down and grabbed the vest he’d worn to the Casbah and wiped them off the best he could, raising his eyebrows at Paul as he did. 

“Alright, I reckon I don’t do everything you say,” Paul admitted. “Feels like I do, though. I listen to you…well, I care about your opinion more than I care about anyone else’s.”

That was pretty good. John liked hearing that. “That ‘cause you like me better than everyone else?” He tried to ask it in a jokey way, in case Paul said no. 

“No, I care about your opinion because you have good opinions,” Paul corrected, but then he moved his face closer to John’s, close enough that John could feel the soft puff of his breath against his face. “ I got off with you because I like you better than everyone else.” 

John didn’t know what made him happier, the idea that Paul liked him or the idea that Paul thought he had good opinions. He tried to stop himself from smiling, but he couldn’t. 

“Okay then. Let’s start with ‘In Spite Of All the Danger’ next Saturday, then,” he said, testing his influence. 

Paul looked horrified, drawing back. “What? No – why would we? ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ was perfect, and anyway, I told you, it doesn’t make sense to –” 

John cut him off, “Alright, alright, stop. Shut up. We’ll play whatever order you want, love.” 

Maybe something easier, then. “Just come here and kiss me.” 

And that time, Paul did as he was told.