Chapter Text
John has vast knowledge about all of Paul's odd gestures: years of shared spaces, emotions, memories and a deep, nagging, rooted spiritual-mental connection with Paul. From the incessant chewing of his thumb nail, to the supplicant, spoiled doe eyes that he makes when he wants his tea cup to be served first. But this expression: hazel eyes holding a space of reflection for light entering through the white blinds, taking shape in his irises with specks of green, the younger man holds a faded pale blue paper, this expression for sure is new to his blind as a bat framed glasses eyes, for sure.
They're all in the studio private lounge, comfortably sprawled each to their own place.
Ringo and George are teasing each other on the -new, founded by complaints and whines- mini kitchen, side table tall with four swivel classic red chairs, men playful with a silly dare about who gets to take the shots quicker than the other.
John and Paul are near the window, two sofas facing the other with a small rectangle wooden table in between, fan mail open and piled with an ashtray that should've been cleaned ages ago- once a design could be seen, a russian roulette- but no one cared as the small mountain of ashes and cig butts form a rather ugly pile that contains more stories than the newspaper that Ringo had ditched after a new rumour that he might have been involved with a sexy bartender around the block.
"A lovely lass, she is, but. You know, I only told her she had pretty eyes."
"Daft. She had the same eyes as you! Could've been your cousin." George replies with a snicker.
"Precisely. That's why I liked her so much. These reporters make a fuss out of nothing."
"You know the economy must be going to hell if they are sniffing on us this closely. Fucking hounds sent from Hades himself, they are." John intervenes without getting close, blue pen randomly making lines on his notes.
Ringo laughs softly, irritating George even further.
"Doubt Hades would care if I charmed a lady that looks like me."
"Randy piece of trash you are." George accuses. "I'mma throw you in the ashtray pile, see how you'll fit right in there."
"No need to be jealous! I reckon you were there looking for birds. I say one word to the bartender and you're here making a scene."
"I'm not! And I wasn't! Why don't you shag a mirror if she was your clone then?"
“A mirror is charming but lacks curves, you see-”
John's back to observing the man on the blue couch in front of him. Paul is fixated on the letter, fingers of his left hand tightening around the edges. John holds open his grey notebook, scribbling little nothings while his eyes wander over and over back to the pretty cunt in front of him- another argument, another exchange of not so gentle words, ’why are you playing like that?’, or ‘why are you not paying attention?’- Paul is sweaty after a recording session, coat thrown next to him carefully, legs closed, one foot on top of the knee like a proper Englishman, posture tired, his fringe sticking to the sides, cheeks adorned with glittering specks of sweat, his white ironed shirt now marked in the armpits by the lack of temperature control inside the cabin.
John catches the manner: the younger man’s soft humble smile that turns into a line, lips pressed tight, nervous. John avoids his wandering gaze, quick like a lightning bolt to read his microexpressions, he knew what was coming: Paul checks quickly around the room as if he suddenly wishes everyone to be out, finding John's gaze and trapping it before breaking the contact, back to the letter. It's been a few minutes of him pondering about it, further sparking intrigue in John's conscience. It has become an unavoidable habit, observing Paul.
‘What's got you so flustered, son?’ He wants to ask, but he holds back, basked in Paul's facial changes. A not so subtle darkening of the ears, a blush that turns to deeper shades of pink, sprawling from his cheeks to his nose, as his pupils' blown hypnotic eyes seem like they're stuck on one specific passage. He then clutches the letter closer to his face, hiding his nose, lips and chin with the action. John is suspicious of the way he gulps and then drags his palm around his throat and pulls on the neck of his white shirt like the room is suffocating. The AC is on, though. John frowns and finally decides to step closer.
"What's got you flustered, son?" John finally says it, like an actor that waited for his one line, pretending to be aloof, resting his hip on the armrest of the sofa. Flustered, Paul folds the letter neatly, placing it inside the inner pocket of his nearby black coat, and throwing it back to its spot.
“Uh, you know. Fans can be…” he drags the sentence, distracted. “What are you writing?”
John frowns at Paul's not so subtle method to avoid the question, slightly irritated by his absence of presence. Paul avoids his inquisitive gaze, pulls out a carton of cigs off his chest pocket, left hand placing one to his rosy lips. Patting his pants for a lighter, John pulls out his box of matches and lights it for him, admiring the way the blue flame catches the golden specks on his hazel eyes from the sizzly small light.
“Thanks.” he half groans as one does with a cig between your teeth and the first inhale of smoke. He hands a cigarette to John and returns the favor lighting it and returns the box, throwing the stick away. Only then Paul gazes at the man from head to toe, irritated when he lands on the undone tie. He stands up to fix it right away, but John catches the difference this time. Automatic. No grumbles and mumbles about stage presence. Just silence, a brief expression of tight disapproving lips, his beautifully crafted face denoting a man who is far away in his world of thoughts. It was always a dangerous deal, a silent gemini.
“No longer mad, I see.” John mentions as takes a slow drag of his cig, enjoying the exhalation of smoke that caresses the young man's chest, rising in incense-like swirls, releasing the tension from his shoulders. He feels the warmth of Paul's fingers as he grazes his chest with a slow robotic pace, a knowledge of an action being repeated for the hundredth time. Paul exhales smoke of his own through his teeth, letting the ash fall on his shoes.
“Uh, yeah, no. Why? Tough day, tough cords.” He fixes his gaze on him intently. “Tough bastard.”
Paul pats his tie like ‘all done’, stepping back to sit and John's stomach flutters, uncomfortable.
“Bossy cunt.” John grins but it fades when he notices Paul's gaze sadden, his slender fingers wrapping around the cig like it could console him.
“I'm just trying for it to come out alright.” Paul frowns as he sincerely mutters, eyes to the floor in a sort of childish, half whiny manner. He's tired enough to relax his face again, droopy, absent minded, looking at the clock on the wall. It 's 12 am. They hear a happy howl from the kitchen table.
Ringo and George are whining as their competition increases intensity, voices now starting to have a wavy undertone that signifies trouble.
"Fuck off, I drank two more than you! Consider yourself a loser!" George bickers, making hand gestures to emphasize every word.
"No no, lil’ boy, that's not the case you know. My cup is bigger, see?"
"A liar. That's what you are, a fraud." George points at him weakly with the tip of his finger tapping on Ringo's chest, dragging the ‘r’s of his speech.
"Stop being lame, beautiful. Give me my two drinks. I'll double the bet. If you drop dead weight, my drinks are on your tab this week."
"Ah, I can already taste the beer." The younger dreamily sighs, eyes sparkly under the warm lighting of the kitchen's red lamps with golden toned lighting, taking the bottle and filling Ringo's cup to the brim.
"Aye you bastard, you didn't fill your cup like that."
"Why bother taking the piss on me? I drank two! Two more than you. Fondo! Fondo!” He fakes a Spanish accent, holding two fingers like a peace sign in front of him, his back stretched, inebriated goofy grin, softly yellowish vampire style.
Ringo takes the shot without leaving his sight, blue sapphire eyes like cutting, daring gems directed at George. He didn't break the stare even as he gulped the bitter, strong licorice and anise going down his throat like poison imported from Italy. The popular and revered Sambuca.
"Oh, that's how I like it." George slurs when Ringo slams down the glass, the “tac” noise reverberating like a statement.
All for nothing, though. It's been three more glasses being gulped down, when George falls like the king piece trapped in the chessboard.
“ah, look at that!” A very drunkened Ringo cheers, hands up in the air as he takes a celebratory spin on his swivel stool. George groans in a crescendo, face on the table, cheek squished, a recently lit cigarette hanging from his teeth. He finds comfort in the cold surface of the metallic material as he groans again and sends a prayer to any god listening to give him strength or balance to get up. He finds none of them answer as his body denies movement.
“Fuck off…”
“No no love, w…ait right there.” Ringo slurs, sing-songing as he opens his black suitcase by the door, not a care in the world for the chaos of black socks rolling around now sprawled on the floor, pulling out his camera. The grin on his face is nothing but pure drunken joy that John appreciates, giggling, as he steps to the kitchen, filling the kettle with water. Paul scrunches his nose in annoyance seeing the mess, but goes back to staring at the wall.
“Say Sssambuca, Georgie?” Ringo asks as he holds the camera in front of the skinny, whiny man. Even through his drunken state, Richard feels his chest warmer by the sight. It's a sweetness that he had always felt around the guy, complicity that makes hard days like these lighter. A fleeting moment that he will treasure, once again.
George has strength only to raise up his hand, to pull out his pale, long middle finger, ash falls to the floor from his now turned off cigar. John laughs at this while lighting the stove.
Click.
Ringo has a cheerful loop sided grin as he gets close to George. He tries taking the cigar off his lips but finds that George is biting it hard enough not to let it fall, like a pacifier, eyes half open, half closed, the drool threatening to spill on the table. Before that can happen, Ringo hugs him tightly and firmly forces him to stand up, putting himself under his arm, holding his waist tight.
“Come on, Georgie. Your bed awaits.”
“No… Rin… my sheets are…” his words are mumbled slurry, but Ringo admires how he still doesn't drop the cigar even as his head hangs like a ragdoll, his straight curtain of shiny dark hair covering his eyes.
“Ye’, I'm afraid I saw them.” he turns around briefly to say good night to the guys. “See ya in hell tomorrow, brochachos.”
“No tea then?” John offers.
“If I drink anything else my guts will be painted on the wall.” Ringo giggles. George instantly recoils, as if the words had triggered a nausea reflex in his own body. Ringo rectifies his posture, pulling him upwards. “Let's go, kiddo.”
“Good night then.” John waves and the door closes. He can hear the dragging, the silly ‘move, you cunt, we can't sleep in the hall’ reprimand.
Paul gets up from the couch and slowly picks up every pair of socks that he can eye, placing it on his left arm with an absent-minded fondness, then dropping them back in the suitcase, the zipper sound echoing on the silence now shared between them. He sits on the spot Ringo was on and serves himself a shot of sambuca, taking it in one gulp.
It burns, he realizes. The sweetness of it swirls on his empty stomach. He fills the glass again on a rush before he can meditate on his actions. The effect is immediate, engulfing him with a calmness that only alcohol provides.
John is distracted placing two mugs near the kettle, Paul notices. The soft shadow of his back muscles, the way his dressing pants are tighter. He wouldn't mention it, but John gaining a bit of weight makes him ogle him just a tad more than usual.
‘He is always so…’ he thinks to himself.
“I don't want tea, thank you.” He says instead.
“Oh? Sorry for assuming. Its a habit.” John turns around after turning off the stove, opening the buttons of his dress shirt and rolling it up to his elbows.
“You didn't ask me, though.” Paul mutters with a slight hint of annoyance, a third shot being served in the cup that George was using, pushing it towards the older guy.
“I suppose you're not asking me either.” John takes the shot instantly, his nose crinkle making Paul finally smile. “You should've joined the guys if you had the wish to get utterly wasted.”
“Didn't want to play with them.” Paul drinks a third shot and sighs. John raises an eyebrow and extends the glass for him to refill.
“Why? Afraid of winning?”
“Shut up and drink.”
“Cheers.” They clink their glasses.
John hisses after his second shot.
“Lord, this will kill me.”
“Come on now, we are almost done with the bottle.” Paul giggles as he lays his chin on his arm, happily nestled on the table.
It's charming. John can't resist it when Paul indulges in his little addictions, and saying no to him would mean succumbing to the power of those doe eyes pleading for him to comply. It's annoying to the maximum, so he just does as he wants, for he knows something deeper has unsettled his usual aura. Paul hands him another full shot, his trembling hand pushing it towards him, and with flashy grin that hides another little giggle from his charming rosy lips.
“Very generous, huh.” John takes it either way. It burns so much that it makes him close his eyes. He rubs them with his thumbs under the glasses, his tears relieving the itching of his eyelashes. He coughs about three times.
“Sod off.” Paul inhales, then exhales as if he could vanish the weight off the day. He looks back at the clock. It's almost 1 am now.
“If I may say, sir.” John applies his fake posh accent. “Your attitude today has been grumpier than usual. That pretty head of yours is growing the most exquisite garden.”
“Sod off…”
“Ah, the marguerites in the corner of your reddened ears are splendid sir.” As if to make a point, he touches one, flicking it softly, teasing.
Paul grumbles and hides his face in his arms.
“Will you stop your whimsy for a second? I'm trying to get hammered enough to sleep.”
His voice sounds muffled, hidden in his arms, but John rests his palms on the table, watching his black hair gleam under the golden lights, until Paul looks up, frowning, his lips pressed together as if he were holding back a grumble. John understands then: that irregularly dilated pupil, even in the lamplight; the small but no longer concealed tremor in his ring finger.
“Ah, I see your nose candy had you on a thread.”
Paul visibly pales. He didn't have much today, he was trying to cut it back, little by little. He felt the burn of embarrassment cover his cheek, and then a wash of anger covered him. How? How does John know everything about him? How is it so easy for him to recognize the signs that he tries so much to hide?
He was afraid of John, truly. There were days that he thought John was another half of himself that tortured him with sly grins and anger fueled passion. That same passion is making his heart beat faster under the scrutiny of those framed honey eyes, his standing posture compared to his slag pisses him off beyond words. John, the better drinker, the better smoker. How could he ever compete? How could he ever win?
He could insult him, wish for him to go to hell where he was hand crafted by the claws of highest regarded artisan demons, how they shaped every inch, atom and drop of the blood inside the breathing man he constantly wishes to be approved by, heard by, touched by. This realization haunts him, how much he worships John Lennon, how much he would give to rip the intrinsic roots off his chest where John makes his heart beat. It would take a powerful sorcerer to do such a thing, how much magic would it take to break them apart, when it seems like they were sewn by the same satanic seamstress? How could they delete the scarification on his bones with his initials on him?
“It's none of your business.” He replies so weakly, he knows, John's growing smile only confirms it.
“You’re right. Now… Tea? If you sleep like this you'll hate yourself in the morning, you know.”
Paul gets up after a ‘psssht’ sound as if he could give less of a crap about it.
John still turns the burner back on, listening to Paul closing the bathroom door. His gaze lands on the coat. Aha.
Like a thieving child, he approaches the sofa and opens the letter as if it holds the perfect secret to annoy Paul for the rest of the week. His smile is undeniable; the handwriting is in capital letters but brimming with emotion.
He listens as Paul lowers the lid and opens the sink faucet.
Dearest Paul McCartney,
I dared not to write this letter but after a few drinks I might have gathered the courage…
“What the fuck are you on about?”
John's eyes are glued to the words as he lifts a palm in a “wait a second” manner, trying to shoo away the indignant man.
“Stop it John, you're incorrigible!”
“ah, your lovely lips, so kissable. The impossible dream…” John recites, giggling.
“John, I swear-”
“This is what got your knickers in a twist, a naughty letter? Did they write something too explicit? Let me read it too, I do indulge in erotica sometimes, you know.” He teases.
Paul is now reaching for the letter but John avoids him, giving his back. The hazel eyed man is so angry that he clenches his fists, frustrated, then rubs his face with his palms, pushing his hair back.
“The soft shadow of your eyes, what am I supposed to do?” He exaggerates the gestures, deepening Paul's shame.
John is now silent as he reads the rest of the letter.
If only our bodies could speak what the heart yearns
Your lips and mine dance as i lick you
I want to taste you, taste you from head to toe, my dream lover
“Forever in love, all yours… Frank.” John reads aloud, but his words are a monotone.
“Yes, now give it fucking back, you prick. That long nose of yours gotta be all in my business? You just couldn't resist, couldn't you?”
He tries to snatch it from John's hand but John pulls it away, a blank expression on his face that surprises Paul, catching him off guard, even beyond his pure ire.
“A fucking queer sent this to you, huh.” John bites his tongue trying to control his tone as he eyes the man in front of him, his vicious eyes burning. “You read it over and over… Even planned to keep it.”
John folds the letter carefully. The kettle is blowing softly, the beginning of its whistle cutting through the kitchen, so he goes to it.
“Yes! I mean. I wanted to write some of the words, you know. Maybe write a song to it-” he is stumbling his words, but irritated, he looks at John in the kitchen, the man pulling out a blunt off his trousers. “He's a good writer! I don't care if he's queer, just sod off–”
John's pulse accelerates. He doesn't think twice. He places the letter in the fire. It consumes the flimsy paper quite quickly, and he holds it close for him to light the blunt, vicious anger coiling on his chest.
Paul desperately runs towards him, trying to rip the paper off his hand. It's useless, the ashes fall to the floor, victims of John's cruelty.
“NO! You bastard! You senseless prick!–”
John harshly grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him closer to his face, a snarl that Paul has only seen once or twice, in very specific, very dangerous situations.
"Writing a tune to that lad, were you? And then what? Reply to his letter? Fucking marry him, would you? You fucking queer, making a fool of yourself." He grunts with the cigar hanging on his teeth
"I'll never forgive you for this!" Paul grunts, grabbing onto John's wrists, the movement makes the cigar fall to the floor.
"Oh so Frank has your heart now?” John mocks. “Or maybe you already know him, don't you? That's why you're soft over his stupid ass words, his queer ugly calligraphy, is that it?"
"John, please-" John shakes him, Paul's head spins, the buzz making it worse.
"Shut up. You ever dare say you will make a song with these man's lyrics and I'll leave the band, Paul. I'll fucking leave.”
It's like using the sharpest blade and digging it right into his soul. Paul feels himself torn to pieces with the idea of it. What would a world without John be? One where his melodies don't dance along together, one where John's eyes don't meet him in a shared microphone, close enough to kiss?
But the audacity, that's worse. Two prideful men in one room, a burning kettle sizzling with noise.
“You're bluffing.” Paul gulps down the sambuca after taste of saliva now mixed with the weakness of his knees, the prospect of his abandonment breaking his heart. “I just liked… I liked it. That's all.” he said softly.
"Oh you like it? You like that this man wants to kiss you? That he wants to shag you, that's what you're saying?"
"No! Stop putting words in my mouth."
"No, I suppose not. You'd rather have this man's cock in your mouth instead, wouldn't ya?"
Paul pales, horrified with the vulgar insinuation. He snarls under John's tight grip. His left hand goes to the kitchen handle, the pressure of the kettle makes a whistle so loud that he's afraid it could wake the guys up and he brushes against John's waist in the process.
"What's it to you? Why do you care so much, you berk?" Paul provokes, a devilish grin catching onto the rising fire on John's gaze. "If I said I wanted him to kiss me? You want the truth, John? You can't handle the truth."
The smack that lands on Paul's cheek reverbates on the kitchen, the burn on his skin increases the dizziness to a tenfold. He doesn't think twice, flustered, groaning, he returns the unkind gesture with a closed fist directly to John's jaw, pushing him back a step, and a mug crashes with John's elbow push.
It starts a push and pull of limbs, Paul grasping onto John's wrists, avoiding every hit while keeping his face off his knuckles radar, pushing back and forth, both men falling to the floor, Paul panting with the effort on top of him, nails digging onto John's pale skin.
“How dare you, you selfish, manipulative freak!” Paul yells indignantly, John's drunkened anger making him move his hips like a lizard trying to scramble away from his sick hold, Paul tightens his knees around the hips so he won't get up, locking him into the position.
“Let go of me! Hit me like a man, you fucking coward.” John hisses.
“I don't want to! You're out of control, you wanker!"
"I bet you must be happy, now! You've done it! Defending your queer little fanboys honor. What an honourable man, James, a coke head knight in shining armour!"
John gathers the strength and flips the position until he has Paul under him, his hands around his neck, the horrid scratches on his arms now furiously red. He clenches his jaw and observes the man under him with a deep seated fury.
"All bark and no bite, kitten. What would your fanboy do if he were in my position?" He digs his thumbs into the slender neck, Paul's face is reddening, the hold on John's wrists faltering, nails digging half crescent bloody moons.
"J-John..." He whimpers, trying to swallow. His throat is dry, but his eyes are devoid of the anger he felt, the mortification running through his skin like a newfound mask to wear. "Please..."
John doesn't let go, one of his hands crawls to his jaw, his thumb near his lip, forcing him to open his mouth. John himself is open mouthed, breathing ragged.
"The audacity... To do this to me..."
"John. Please… let's have our tea."
John's veins are visible on his ire induced face. There's a line of saliva pooling on the edge of his lower lip, threatening to fall as he is trapped in the pleading eyes of his songwriting partner.
His hold softens, yet, in a perfect line, the drop falls slowly, landing on the corner of Paul’s lips. John is frozen as Paul sticks out his pink tongue shyly, licking the warm drop slowly. He doesn’t even notice as he is doing it automatically, but all the wrath that John felt melts, transforming into lust, invading his senses completely, a lascivious nightmare he wouldn't be able to escape from.
Since when has he been under Paul's spell? Observing him closely, he soaks up every detail, the flutter of Paul's long eyelashes, the delicate hands, long fingers that were harming him now lowering to his exposed arms, the tip of his fingers a soft caress that he savours, his body hair rising in awareness. He doesn't want to think, he keeps salivating on the face of the taller man under him, aware of the warmth that evokes in them.
Paul drinks from the string of the saliva falling onto his lips, open and compliant, thirsty for him, from anything he can receive from John, savouring.
Paul's hands go up to John's face, tender and fearful, opening his lips with his thumb even more, mesmerized with the openly flowing thread of drool connected to his mouth. He drinks every bit that falls like a cascade to his hungry dessert, the softest of moans escaping from his own lips after he swallows, like Adam tasting the forbidden nectar, instead of an apple it tastes like cannabis and nicotine, Sambuca and John's taste, John's saliva, John's signature savor.
John feels Paul's warm, lustful exhalations caressing his skin like a kiss that will not arrive, for neither of them is willing.
“Everything but kissing me… You wouldn't want that, wouldn't you, John? A queer that wants to kiss you. But Frank would do it. That's why I kept the letter.” His voice is so low and indulgent that it almost doesn't deter John's character.
Almost. The reminder stings so hard that John's temper spirals all over. He gathers a good amount of saliva on his mouth before spitting it right onto Paul's with malevolence flaring, then closing Paul's mouth with his hand, fingers covering his jaw and pushing it closed, wrapping them around his lips as if to silence him. Paul's mouth might be closed, but his gaze isn't silent.
Paul is contemplating the beast he unleashed without care, the amber daggers of John's eyes, the deep frown. It's the hurting dog that he provoked with sticks and rocks. John feels the subtle intentional touch of those intoxicating lips on his fingers, it burns him, that severed tie that pulls them together, the temptation of a kiss that would have the power to make him submit.
He dances with the fantasy for seconds that feel like eons. He would be damned if he heard another word about this fella, if he hears Frank's name once more, he swears he would find the man and make him disappear off the face of the earth just for daring…
Daring what? To do what he wants to do now, to Paul? To nibble him from his neck to the sinful bow of his lips, to mark his teeth and paint that luscious skin in purple, possessive marks, a map of his obsession?
He feels the tremble on his knees as he sits on Paul's stomach, the heat emanating from Paul warming the skin of his thighs, rising through his buttocks into his entire body, cock half erect. He doesn't know that if he moved his hips lower he would find the same desire straining Paul's pants. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.
Aware that Paul has completely surrendered, he is suddenly fascinated. He doesn't know if it's the alcohol that compels him to run his hands over his face, touch his hair, his black silk like strands tangling between his fingers, the curved arch of his flushed ears, his perfect eyebrows.
“John… Don't leave me.” Paul pleads, avoiding his gaze, forcing his eyes to close as the words bubble from his vulnerable sloshed mind. “What am I to do, without you?”
“No… No. No, Paul, I–”
“You said it.” he confides, opening up his deepest wound to the older man. “You… you're gonna leave me, John, you're gonna leave, and I wouldn't know what to do with myself, I'm nothing–”
“Paul! Stop. I mean it. You're rambling.”
“You said it, you selfish bastard!” Paul's nostrils flare, his jaw clenched.
“I didn't mean–”
“Shut up. Sod off. Sod off! Get off of me. If you want to go, just do it. Just fucking abandon me, why would you stay? I've been nothing but pathetic for you since the moment I met you, I am but a shadow that just… Just fucking… Argh!” He gathers strength in his rage to push the man off his chest, throwing him to the side. John lands on the swivel chair, pushing it far back, screeching.
Paul tries to stand up, finding himself trembling, but it's no use. He places his forehead on the floor, angry, wasted and humiliated.
“Paul…”
“Fuck off now, John. I don't want to see you. I don't wanna think of you!” He yells to the floor, his tears starting to fall. He uses his palms to make an impulse to get up and finally does so, standing up, sluggish, knees weak. He eyes the mess on the kitchen and finds that he couldn't give less of a fuck about it at the moment. He snatches the almost finished Sambuca bottle.
“Good night, John.”
John is still staring at the door after Paul leaves.