Chapter Text
Hamburg, November 1962.
John.
It had all gone wrong last October in Paris, the two of them squeezed into a single bed in a grotty hotel, Paul yammering away about the shows they had coming up. John hadn’t been listening because he’d become preoccupied with how soft Paul’s lips looked and the shape his mouth made when he was smiling. If only Paul was a girl , was the crashing, hopeless, all consuming thought that struck him.
Over a year later he still hadn’t shaken it. Was basically impossible like this, the two of them sharing a microphone, so close that John could smell the cigarettes and alcohol on his breath and see the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead, making all manner of filthy things rattle around his brain when he was trying to concentrate.
“What?” He shouted over the noise as they came to an end of their set, as he realised Paul was talking to him.
“Said it’s not so bad to be back,” Paul shouted back, clapping him on his shoulder. Ringo and George drew closer as well, and John zoned out as they began going over the performance. Pointless really, they knew the setlist backwards, forwards and sideways by now, any mistakes were simply that. It was more concerning that he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Paul’s lips when his tongue darted out over them. It was fucking wrong, he was his best mate and a man . They’d just been spending too much together, that was all. Always in each other's pockets, travelling or practising or writing, that much time with one person was bound to make things weird eventually.
“John?” His name cut through, as Paul leaned in closer to speak as John closed his guitar case.
“Hm?”
“Take my bass backstage will you? I’ll get some drinks in.”
John just nodded and took Paul’s case. He knew the frown that followed from Paul was at his compliance. He should have made a joke about not being Paul’s bloody servant, or the old quip about it being past Paul’s bedtime, but he needed an excuse to catch his breath and refocus. He’d come back and find a nice girl, feel her up in one of the dark corners of the club. Could even take her back to his room in private, now that they could afford separate ones. The thought of that tugged at something in his chest, an unvoiced, pushed down displeasure at the distance from the other boys. From Paul. He didn’t mind sharing a room so much really, but it would be fine. He’d bring a girl back and he’d be fine.
Paul.
Clearly it had been a mistake to think John would cheer up when they got here. None of them had wanted to come back to Hamburg, not when things were getting so serious back home. They’d signed their contract with Mr Epstein a month ago and had big plans, but their stints at the Star Club had already been booked and there was no getting out of it. Besides, anything they could get was worth the time on stage, worth the money, worth the practice. Each time they came back to Hamburg they were better than the last, whether John thought so or not.
He didn’t like to let John’s mood affect him as much as it did, but he’d been walking on eggshells around him for months now, over a year really, and he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Everything had been great in Paris, no one had ever invited him on a trip like that, he’d never had a friend like John, but then when they’d got back John had become distant and then would act like nothing was different, and then suddenly retreat in on himself again. It was giving him whiplash trying to keep up.
The only thing that seemed to ease the tension between them was the music, like it always had. Those times on stage when John finally smiled at him or when they were writing and figured out a new part of a song, their brains perfectly in sync, made everything okay again. At least they had their separate rooms now, so he wouldn’t need to worry about John’s mood all night.
The bartender gave him the drinks he was waiting for and he took the tray to a table at the back, scanning the room for a girl who’d taken his fancy earlier in the night. It was crowded and the next band was coming on, but soon enough George and Ringo joined him, snickering about something.
“God I’ve missed this shit hole city,” Ringo said, sliding into his seat. “There’s a bird walking around with her tits out, out there,” he said, pointing his thumb backstage. “Reckon Lenny’s necking her right now.”
The thing that flared up in Paul’s chest wasn’t entirely unfamiliar these days, although he still refused to call it what it was. He simply didn’t need to hear about his best mate’s sexual endeavours, was all. It didn’t matter that the explosive heat didn’t appear when George or Ringo were telling him about the latest girl they’d taken to bed. He forced it down, sipped his drink, thought about taking another prellie even though it would mean not sleeping tonight.
“Do you think he’s coming back?” Paul asked, knowing they’d know who he meant. Ringo shrugged and Paul sighed. “I’m going back to the hotel,” he decided.
John.
The music made everything okay between them, like it always did. Night three was done, and rather than stay out drinking they’d ended up in John’s room going over the guitar parts for the single they’d be recording when they were back home.
“When we sing, I reckon I hold that high note better,” Paul said, his fingers picking idly over the strings. “Sounds better when you do the melody and I harmonise.”
“Alright, I want to try something with the harmonica as well,” John said. “Tomorrow though,” he added, as he put his guitar on the floor leaning against the bedside table. Paul was sitting at the foot of the bed with one of his legs tucked up under him. He nodded, something bothering him, he got those little lines between his eyebrows when he was annoyed. It made John’s chest go all fluttery for a few moments before the disgust settled in, low and black in his stomach.
“Want to finish that then?” Paul said, nodding at the half drunk bottle of whiskey next to John. He grabbed it and took a long swig, savouring the acidic heat that burned away the ability to feel anything else, before passing it down to Paul. As Paul took the bottle to his lips he stretched out on the bed and tried to knock it out of Paul’s hands with his foot.
“Cut it out,” Paul said, when the whiskey splashed down his chin and landed on his shirt. There was a laugh on his voice though, so John flashed him a grin. This was normal, this was how things were supposed to be.
They whiled away the next hour, passing cigarettes and whiskey between them until the bottle was dry, and John’s cheeks were hot and his head swimming. Paul had loosened up as well, shuffling up the bed to lie next to John as they talked. The only time they talked properly was when they were drunk. When they were sober it was all about The Beatles and songwriting and shows. Nights like this were when all the other stuff came out; their families and Stu and their Mums. If they could really make it, and what if they couldn’t. No one had ever really seen him like Paul did, and he didn’t find it easy to talk about stuff with anyone ever, but on nights like this it would come tumbling out, a nice respite from the fact it felt like there was more and more Paul wasn’t saying to him these days. Probably his own fault.
At some point their shoulders had pressed up together and he stopped being able to think of anything else. Paul was so soft. Not like John, who was all angles and hard lines. Paul had that sweetness to him that girls liked. That John liked. He took a deep breath, pushing the thought away. Then the talking stopped, and when John looked over at him again, he was breathing deeper, eyes closed.
“You sleeping here then?” he asked, kicking Paul awake. The hum he got in return, he assumed was a yes, giddiness washing over him. There shouldn’t have been anything about it to think about. They’d slept next to each other plenty of times before, they all had; at each other’s houses after the late night writing sessions, passed out drunk after shows. Hell, the tiny room they used to share in Hamburg meant they’d done worse things than sleep in each other’s presence. His friend dozing next to him shouldn’t have set him on fire like it did.
“This hotel’s bloody freezing anyway,” he said, a justification that hadn’t needed to be aired. One they both knew was a lie because the room was fine and they’d been in much worse places. But Paul just responded by wiggling under the covers.
“Get under then,” he said. John did as he was told, and they lie there, pressed shoulder to shoulder as Paul fell asleep again in seconds and John tried to make his breathing fucking normal.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed when Paul moved. He’d been aware of every tiny shuffle, every twitch and stretch driving him mad and keeping him awake, so when Paul turned over and pressed his face into John’s shoulder, one arm thrown over John’s chest, he resigned himself to the fact he wouldn’t sleep a wink. It was nothing , he reminded himself. Fucking pathetic to think it was anything else. They were drunk and Paul was just comfortable, could have been Richie or George or some bird in bed with him and he’d have done the same thing.
But in the dark, awake on his own, he could pretend for a moment that it was something more. He opened the floodgates, let the images race through his mind of Paul’s lips, Paul’s lip on his, bodies hot against each other, what Paul would look like on his knees, what Paul would look like if John was on his knees.
When his cock twitched between his legs he forced himself to stop. He should push Paul off, he was sure one shove would have him rolling onto his other side, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.
Paul.
He woke up with his face against John’s shoulder, who had at some point curled his hand around the arm Paul had over his chest. Heat rose in cheeks as he moved away, wishing with everything he had that John hadn’t woken up at any point and seen.
It wasn’t exactly a big deal, they’d all shared beds before, but there was no need for it now the band could pay for separate rooms. Plus it bought back all those odd John feelings in his chest and stomach. Made him all itchy and unsettled, wanting something he wasn’t letting himself think about.
At least it had been normal when they’d been writing. There was always that, always the songs to bring them back to their little world where language was notes and chords, and thoughts buzzed between them in air without needing to be voiced.
He returned to his own room without waking John up, an easy feat because John could sleep through anything, and slept in his own bed until late afternoon. John flitted in and out of his dreams leaving him with an uneasy sense of longing aching in his chest when he woke again.
***
Night six was done, and Paul was dizzy with the perfume the girl on his lap was wearing as she kissed him. He’d taken a second pill, which was a mistake. He wouldn’t be sleeping that night so may as well take advantage of the girls throwing themselves at him, and the bedroom he had all to himself. It had been a good show, and John had been in a better mood the last few days. Neither of them had mentioned the sort of cuddling in bed, and so Paul assumed he was the only one who knew about it.
The girl, Erika, he seemed to remember her saying, had her fingers all tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp and he could feel himself getting hard against her. It was a long walk back to the hotel, but he couldn’t exactly fuck her here. There were cupboards backstage, alleys nearby. That’s what John would do, he thought, press the girl up against a brick wall, wrap her legs around his waist and have his way with her. The fact he got harder was because he was thinking about sex, not because he was thinking about John.
“What the fuck are you doing with him?”
There was some confusion as the girl slid off Paul’s lap and the two of them looked up at John, standing over them looking furious.
“I was chatting her up on our break,” he said to Paul, like the girl wasn’t there at all.
“Were you?” Paul said, throwing in a shrug that he hoped looked indifferent. “I didn’t see.”
“I told you to find me after,” John said to the girl instead.
“You were gone, he was here,” she said in a German accent, actually succeeding in her indifference. “And he’s very pretty,” she giggled and pressed another kiss to the corner of Paul’s mouth. He hoped the club was dark enough that John couldn’t see how turned on he was.
“Get lost,” John said to her.
“What?” she asked.
“You heard me, get lost.”
“John,” Paul said, standing up at the same time as Erika did and trying to grab her hand as she stormed off. “What did you do that for?” he said, anger searing through his body, joining the adrenaline from the show and the clawing need to get off.
“I had her all warmed up, find your own girl,” John said, turning away and pushing through the crowd to the door. Paul got up and followed him outside, desperately needing some sort of climax to the evening and if it wasn’t going to be sex he would get a rise out of John instead, throw a couple of punches around and that would sort them out.
“Quit following me,” John said, picking up speed as he walked down the street.
“Stop and tell me what your problem is then!” Paul shouted at him, drawing the attention of groups of passersby. Thankfully, John did stop but when Paul reached him he gave him a hard shove in the chest that had him stumbling backwards. Someone said something in German that Paul didn’t understand, nor did he care.
Seeing red, he lunged at John himself and gave him a shove back. He hated John in that moment, hated how he swanned around just because he was a bit older, hated how he always had the last say on songs, hated that he hadn’t been able to stop fucking thinking about him even when a girl had her tongue down his throat and now John had ruined that as well.
They tussled with each other for a bit, until John managed to land a well timed punch to Paul’s side, leaving him reeling. People were muttering things around them, they were causing a scene and if Mr Epstein found out about this, they’d be in trouble.
John seemed to be thinking the same thing, and so when Paul pushed him towards an alley he let him, waiting until they were far enough down where it was quiet and dark before taking another swing. Paul ducked out of the way this time, and used the opportunity to get John in the ribs. John doubled over for a moment and Paul stepped forward, worried he had caused more damage than he intended, but it was a double bluff and before he could work out the mechanics of it, he landed on the ground, all the air knocked from his lungs leaving him gasping for breath with John on top of him.
His mouth went dry. John was on top of him.
John was on top of him, legs straddling his hips, looking down with something sparking in his eyes Paul hadn’t ever seen there before.
When he pinned Paul’s wrists either side of his head, he didn’t fight back.
John.
He was going insane, he was sure of it. All the anger at Paul rushed out of his body in a split second and was replaced with something worse, darker; the realisation that Paul was pinned under him and wasn’t fighting back anymore.
Their mouths were so close together they were breathing the same air, and he wasn’t sure which of them actually closed the space but it was hot and hard and nothing at all like kissing girls. There wasn’t much actual movement, not really a kiss at all he tried to tell himself after, just the force of it. Paul pushing up into him and John pressing him down into the ground. It was only when Paul rolled his hips up into him, both of them hard, that John jumped back and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“What the fuck?” he spat. The heat of it sat heavy in his stomach and between his legs. His brain stuck on the thought that Paul was hard as well.
“John?” he was saying, scrambling up from the ground and brushing his hands on his shirt. He looked fucking gorgeous, hair all messed up and eyes blown, mouth soft and slightly open. John should just take him there in the alley, that would show him. Push him up against the brick and kiss every part of him, bite his neck and leave a mark so everyone knew someone else owned him, so girls thought twice about getting into his lap. That had been what had tipped him over the edge, not that Paul was kissing the girl he’d had his eye on, that Paul was clearly enjoying it.
Before he did anything else, and to get away from Paul looking at him like that, he pushed past him and began walking back towards the hotel. That would be it now, Paul would tell someone and then everything would be different, everything would be ruined all because he couldn’t keep his disgusting thoughts to himself. Paul was his friend, his best friend, and the only person who understood the music like he did, and now that would be gone as well and he’d have nothing. No one.
Back in his hotel room he finally let out a cry of frustration and punched the wall, the skin on his knuckles splitting, the pain enough of a shock to bring him back to his body. He stared at the beads of blood that appeared and squeezed his fist to make it worse. He had to stop now, enough was enough.
Paul .
He walked back to the hotel in a daze, and fell onto his bed the moment he got into his room. He could still feel John, the pressure of his lips and weight of him holding him in place. In an alley as well, and not even up against a wall, on the ground like a couple of fucking animals. He was too out of it to be ashamed of the fact he was palming himself through his jeans. So on edge from the kiss and the fact John had been turned on by it as well, that it wasn’t going to take much.
He unbuttoned his shirt and unzipped his trousers, relieving the pressure and wasting no time in taking his cock in his hand. He was already leaking precome so he used that to slick himself up, running his thumb over the slit a couple of times letting himself imagine it was John. The thought made his hips jerk, pushing himself up into his hand. All that had existed for those few seconds had been the two of them, the smell of him, the feel of him, the taste of him. Smoke and sweat and scotch.
He worked his hand quickly, the need to finish tightening every muscle and arousal unfurling fiercely through his body until he came over his hand and stomach, sticky and hot, blood pounding in his ears.
As he came back to his senses, his heart rate slowly returning to normal, he remembered the way John had stormed off after. He’d looked angrier than Paul had ever seen him, and finally the shame prickled over his skin. What had he done? He couldn’t remember who had kissed who or who had moved their hips first, but the way John had looked at him, the same way he’d look at something horrible on the bottom of his shoe, set off a wave of panic. What the fuck had he just done?
He pushed himself up and went into the bathroom, using a washcloth to remove the evidence of the fact he’d just come all over himself thinking about his best friend. He leaned over the sink as the image refused to disappear. John on top of him, his chest broader than Paul’s, hands bigger, that perfect jaw and sharp nose, his mouth-
Paul turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t happen. It was all kinds of wrong.
***
He didn’t sleep, instead wasted away the night practising his bass and writing bad lyrics to songs he’d never finished. Then finally, as the sun started to rise, he passed out and spent the day sleeping, waking up with a mouth like sandpaper and a thumping headache. The memories of last night began to rattle around his head instantly, and he sat up, steeling himself against them. He wasn’t thinking about it, it never happened, and he wasn’t going to let this ruin everything. He would treat John like he always treated John and everything would go back to normal.
He went and knocked on George’s room and they left the hotel together to go and hunt down some food.
“Someone said you and John were fighting last night,” George said as they sat in a cafe lining their stomachs for the night. “What happened?”
“Usual,” Paul shrugged. “He wasted his time getting to the girl he liked, and she ended up with me.”
George snorted. “How was the girl?”
“Never found out.”
“Maybe she’ll be back again tonight.”
“Maybe.” No, tonight he’d make sure John got the best girl in the place. He’d let him lord it over him for the next few days, they’d have a writing session and work on something new and exciting and then they’d be Paul and John again, like they should be. No one needed to know. They didn’t need to ever mention it again.
“Should’ve seen the bird Ringo pulled last night,” George said, finishing his coffee.
“Yeah?”
“Huge tits. John would’ve been proud.”
Paul laughed, but his stomach twisted. Was that what John liked? It hadn’t seemed like it when- no . He pushed the thought away again and concentrated on George, now going on about the set list and Little Richard and the fact he was worried about his voice going before the end of the two weeks. It was soothing, and by the time they’d drunk some more coffee, the sun had begun to set and they made their way to the club.
Ringo and John were already there, tuning up backstage.
“Where have you two lovebirds been?” Ringo asked, grinning at them. Paul tried to catch John’s eye, but he was refusing to look at him.
“Took Georgie out on a romantic date,” Paul said. “Got him some burnt coffee and everything.”
“Really knows how to treat a guy,” George said, playing into the joke while he got his guitar out.
“Did you manage to catch up with that girl last night, John?” Paul asked.
“After he walloped you?” Ringo asked. News travelled quickly, apparently. John frowned at him.
“Nah, not after you’d been slobbering all over her,” he shot back, a comeback that sounded so normal from him, some of the weight lifted from Paul’s shoulders and he could breathe a little easier. Maybe it would all be okay. “May as well have just stuck my tongue down your throat if I’d fancied that.”
George and Ringo both jeered but the words stopped Paul in his tracks, hand in midair over the strings of his bass as heat rose up his back and neck. They must all have been able to see how red he’d gone. He needed to move, do something, say something back but he just stared at John who smiled innocently at him.
John.
He didn’t know why he said it. He’d been promising himself all day to just act normal unless he needed to otherwise. Unless there was some hint that Paul had said something to someone, but when they all got to the club he’d been joking around as though last night never happened. Asking John if he’d got with that girl when they both knew he hadn’t. Trying to what exactly? Humiliate him? So he supposed he’d said it to get a reaction, and the way Paul flushed was the perfect one.
The only problem was, it brought it to the forefront of John’s mind again when he’d made a deal with himself that he was drawing a line under it. Wasn’t going to think about Paul’s perfect mouth or the way he’d softened under John or the way he’d looked at John after, not angry, like he wanted more . He tried to convince himself that couldn’t be the case, but now Paul was looking at him again and it made something in John’s chest squeeze tight and painful.
Luckily, George and Ringo carried on messing around and the moment passed. Then things really were normal as they bundled onto the stage and began their set for the evening. This was well worn territory, songs they’d played hundreds if not thousands of times. Laughing at each other if they accidentally hit a bum note that no one else would pick up on, or grinning at their favourite bits or when they hit perfect harmonies. This was easy, this was them. John and Paul at their very best.
After the show Paul was basically pushing girls his way to the point where John should have been a little offended. He was perfectly capable of getting girls on his own, but it did make him feel better to know that Paul was trying to force things back to the way they were supposed to be. Perhaps they’d be fine, and last night was this funny little secret they’d keep, another part of the John and Paul story that would just be for them.
***
Night seven ended how these nights were supposed to end, girls and beer and George throwing up on the way back to the hotel. Only Ringo had actually brought anyone back with him, the rest of them happy enough with the attention back at the club, and relieved to be able to say they were half way through their time back in Hamburg. He’d stayed clear of taking anything except for the drinks, meaning he managed to get a proper night’s sleep.
Days eight and nine passed, him and Paul were fine, but the fineness had its own dangers as they settled back into their routine. It meant they were laughing more, sharing their stupid jokes, winding each other up and he couldn’t stop fucking staring at him. Remembering the way Paul had felt under him.
At night he touched himself thinking about it, glad no one had to know how quick it got off, letting the fantasy extend in his head. Would Paul have let him do more, right there in the street? He wanted to know what Paul looked like when he came, what noises he’d make, what John’s name would sound like in his mouth. A mouth he wanted on his again and again. He knew something was rotten inside him, that whatever this was he had for Paul was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. Wasn’t sure he wanted to help himself. And Paul hadn’t told anyone. Didn’t seem to hate him. He was still here and they were still singing and writing and running around Hamburg like they owned the city.
Day ten was over and they all ended up back at the hotel after their set finished. Paul had come up with a new melody he liked and was noodling away on his acoustic, trying to put it together, muttering nonsensical lyrics while he worked. John loved watching him like this, may as well have been in another world for the amount of attention he paid everything else going on around him. When he hit on something he liked he’d run it through a few times, building it into the fabric of his hands, then move on.
“Paul and I are gonna finish this, whatever he’s doing there,” John announced, finally getting Paul to look at him. George and Ringo grumbled but slunk off to their rooms or maybe back out to another bar. It didn’t matter. He wanted to be in the idea-space with Paul, that sweet spot where they weren’t separate people; they were Lennon-McCartney, or McCartney-Lennon, whichever way round they’d decided on.
“Show me,” John demanded, picking his own guitar up, mirroring Paul. Paul took him through it. It was nice, not that John ever told him that. The praise was him not telling Paul it was shit, that was how they worked.
They slipped into it easily, into that place where nothing else existed and there was just music and John and Paul bringing it to life, suggesting improvements, finishing lyrics for each other, throwing ideas around and testing them out until they found the one that was meant for this song. He’d start to think that nothing was worth risking this, but then Paul would smile and he’d get that feeling again, all twisty in his stomach, heart racing like a teenage girl.
“We should save our voices,” Paul said eventually. They were both starting to sound a bit croaky, and there were still four nights to get through. John nodded, but he needed Paul to stay. Didn’t want to be on his own. Didn’t want to be without Paul.
“I’ll be off to bed then,” Paul said, clipping his guitar case shut and giving John a long look before standing up. John put his own guitar down. Thought about it. Talked himself out of it. Then Paul’s hand was on the door and he looked back. Why did he have to fucking look back?
“You could stay,” John said. Came out in a strangled whisper and he wasn’t entirely sure Paul had even heard, but he did stop. Turned back to look at John. The only light was coming from a crack in the curtains and the bedside lamp, making everything a soft orange and casting shadows around the room.
“Yeah?” Paul said.
“It’s this fucking hotel, need to talk to someone about the heating,” John said. Lied. It could just be about keeping warm. Not about having Paul in his bed.
“Yeah, the heating,” Paul murmured back. They slipped their jeans off and crawled under the covers. Shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm. John turned the light off and they lay in silence. Well he certainly wasn’t cold, felt like Paul was burning up next to him.
He couldn’t decide on a course of action, didn’t know why he’d done this or what, exactly, the plan had been. Paul didn’t do anything either, they both just lay there until Paul’s breathing became heavy and John guessed he’d fallen asleep. He stole a look, taking in the sight of him all peaceful. Those eyelashes brushing his cheeks, those lips, his slender frame disappearing beneath the covers. For an absurd moment, he thought about just kissing his forehead and somehow that was worse than everything else he’d thought of. Because that wasn’t just about getting off, that was something else.
Paul
He didn’t know how long he lay awake, wondering what to do. He thought maybe John had got him to stay so they could pick up where they left off, but after a while it seemed like John had fallen asleep, and he really was just cold. He rolled onto his side, laying on the edge to try and stop a repeat of the last time they’d shared a bed, although that now felt entirely innocent in light of what had followed.
At some point he fell asleep, and when he woke up again it was still dark. It took him a minute to work out where he was, whose back he was curled around, what girl he’d brought back to his room. He was achingly hard and still half asleep, so on instinct he pressed his hips up into the person snuggled up with him. They shifted, pressing back into him and he had to stop himself moaning. He did it again, and they- fuck. It was John, he remembered, the thought jolting him awake properly and he rolled back over to his side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling as his heart hammered in his chest. God he hoped John was asleep. He should leave, he should leave right now because he didn’t know what this was or what he wanted or why.
“Do you need a hand?” John’s voice said into the dark, all scratchy with sleep.
“What?”
John rolled over, the bed shifting between them and when Paul looked, John was laying on his side watching him.
“Do you-” John’s voice caught. “Do you want a hand?”
Paul didn’t reply, but also didn’t stop him when John’s hand moved under the covers and rested on his underwear. He bucked his hips at the contact, needing more, the desire pooling in his stomach as he pressed up again, every thought about why it was a bad idea being replaced with the simple thought of John . John got the idea, and then his fingers were on the waistband of his shorts, all calloused and rough from the years of guitar playing and it made Paul shudder as they dragged down his hips then found the sensitive skin of his thigh.
Then John’s hand was wrapped around his cock, and Paul had the horrendous realisation that it wasn’t going to take much to send him over the edge, already over sensitive and wrecked by the fact this was what he’d wanted for so much longer than he could admit. Ever since Paris. Maybe before then. Maybe always. John withdrew his touch and Paul whined at the loss of contact, arching up into nothing but then watched as John spat on his hand.
Paul couldn’t believe how much worse that made it, how turned on he was by the idea of John’s spit slicking him up. He began to thrust into John’s fist, aware that he was making noises now but quickly losing any sense of reality beyond the building tension in his body.
“Shh, shh,” John murmured close to his ear. “S’okay, I’ve got you.”
For some reason, that was enough. Paul’s orgasm burned through him and he shot onto his t-shirt and into John’s hand. The afterglow of it buzzed around his body, the world dark at the edges so it was just the two of them, just the loosening of something in him and the spark of something else. He needed more, needed to do the same for John.
He squeezed his eyes tight then opened them as the rest of the room came back into the focus. John was staring down at him, propped up on one elbow. He looked so beautiful in the low light coming in from outside, and was looking at Paul like he couldn’t believe he was real.
“Can I?” Paul said, not quite able to say it out loud. He motioned towards John to show what he meant, his fingers brushing up against John’s own erection, hot underneath the cotton of his boxers and bigger than Paul’s. He needed to know what it felt like.
“No,” John said quickly, jerking his hips away, and it cut into Paul like a knife, sending a shock of embarrassment across his skin that seeped down to his insides and made him hate himself all over again. He lay back into his pillow, now overly aware of how sticky he was. He needed a wash, and John wasn’t saying anything else so he made his decision and swung his legs out of bed.
“Where are you going?” John asked.
“Clean myself up,” Paul said, heading for the door.
“You can use my bathroom,” John said. He could, he supposed, but now it would be all awkward because the balance was off between them. What if he’d misread it and John wasn’t interested in him at all, and he went and told George and Richie how he’d got so turned on he’d nearly got himself off rubbing against John. And it would be his word against John’s that it went further, that John had seemed into it as well. He had to leave.
“Need some clean clothes,” Paul said, hearing the flatness in his own voice.
“Paul, wait,” John said. He didn’t understand this power John had over him, why he did stop when he could have just as easily left. Hope, was the word that sprung to mind. Please tell me you liked it too.
“It’s just a lot, you know?”
Paul let the words hang in the air. It was easier to say in the dark he supposed.
“Yeah,” he replied, sure John could hear his heart racing from the other side of the room. Was sure the whole of Hamburg could, but if he didn’t say something now he was scared he never would. “But I don’t… regret it.”
A beat of silence, then another. It had been the wrong thing to say, of course it had, why was he so fucking stupid? He wasn’t like this with girls, with girls he always had the right words to charm them, make them like him, get them into his bed. He heard the covers shift around.
“Me neither.”
Paul thought about jumping back onto the bed, on top of John, and kissing him until he couldn’t breathe. But John was right, it was a lot, and he didn’t want to scare him off already. It was a delicate thing that needed to be done right, carefully . But he was smiling to himself.
“Night, Johnny,” he said, and let himself out.
John
His hand was still covered in Paul’s come, and he was so hard he knew he’d barely have to touch himself and be gone. He closed his eyes and let the past few minutes play over again in his head.
He’d woken up to the solid warmth of Paul wrapping around him, Paul’s hand on his hip, and then Paul’s breath against his neck sending goosebumps across his skin. Then Paul had begun rolling his hips against him and it was almost enough on its own, the idea of Paul being so turned on he hadn’t even realised what he was doing. He’d pressed back into Paul, figuring he was asleep, just to see what it felt like.
He slipped his hand inside his boxers, trying to get the whole scene straight in his head before he let himself finish. Paul must have woken up, because he’d moved away suddenly. He’d desperately not wanted Paul to panic and leave, had forgotten about how wrong it all was because nothing was more important taking Paul apart. Seeing him, hearing him. So before he could talk himself out of it, he’d asked if he could help.
Paul had been startled, his eyes going even wider than usual, so he’d reached out, testing, just to make sure Paul knew what he meant. If he’d said no, he would have stopped immediately, passed it off as some fucked up joke. The whole thing, the whole past week could have been one big prank. But Paul hadn’t said no, he’d moved up into John’s hand, letting him feel him through the thin fabric. It had taken all John’s restraint not to kiss that pretty little mouth of his, but he wanted to watch as well. And besides, if they didn’t kiss, they could still pass it off as nothing. Just friends helping each other out. It wasn’t that much weirder than them all wanking in the same room, or shagging girls metres apart from each other.
Then the sound Paul had made when John had stopped just for a moment, was enough to make him break that rule almost instantly, made him want to swallow every noise, made him stupid with it. But he’d held fast, had started stroking him to match the speed of Paul’s hips. The fucking noises he’d made, so wonderfully needy, his name on Paul’s lip between little moans and audible breaths.
He’d said something, he remembered. Maybe told him it was okay, that he was there, and then Paul’s body had gone rigid next to him, spilling into his hand. The thought of it was enough, and John came as well, trying to hold the image of Paul all blissed out in his mind as he came down himself. He opened his eyes and let the room stop spinning around him, until he felt still enough to get up and go to the bathroom.
Paul had tried to touch him back. Hadn’t seemed disgusted by John at all, had tried to return the favour. John lent over the sink and splashed his face, noticed his t-shirt was ruined as well and tugged it off. Looked back in the mirror. Paul had said he didn’t regret it. Paul didn’t hate him. Why had he let him leave?
He took himself back to bed and lay in the middle, on his own, wishing he’d told Paul to come back. But truth be told, Paul enjoying it scared him more than if he’d reacted badly. What did it mean if they both felt the same way? What if he never enjoyed being with someone in the same way ever again? What if every time he touched someone he had to imagine it was Paul? No. It was better that he’d let Paul leave. He’d satiated his curiosity and they were both okay with it and that would have to be the end of it.