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"Fuck, Macca, that hurts!"
"Quit your squirmin'—"
"It hurts, I said it hurts!"
"An' I said quit FUCKIN' SQUIRMING!"
They are, for the moment, at an impasse.
Well. As much of an impasse as can be reached when the uninjured member of the party is holding pressure on a nasty gash in the back of the other's stupid skull, and the injured one glares as best he can without his glasses and perhaps with a concussion.
An impasse nonetheless.
The first set went off without a hitch, which, thank Christ, is happening a lot more now that they've got a reliable drummer who shows up to both gigs and practices without being threatened with bodily harm. Plus, Paul's fairly certain the tall chap he'd seen Brian talking to in the audience between songs is the club owner, a Mr. Randall. And according to a mate of a mate of a mate's brother, Mr. Randall is looking for consistent talent to fill out the weekend billing.
Paul was sure they'd be getting some kind of offer by the end of the night, but, naturally, dreams of consistency in venue and payment got shot to hell about four minutes into the between-set break.
All told, it isn't the worst a break has gone for them.
Paul is startled out of some combination of a thousand-yard stare and deep, raw, unwavering eye contact when John's fingers wrap around his wrist. There's blood drying tacky on John's split knuckles, and it glints in the spooky backstage light. John's eyes are still on his, and John's fingers tighten just a little.
"Hurts."
John's voice has gone small and soft, and he's clenching his jaw in odd, staccato pulses that Paul swears he can feel where he's holding a hunk of gauze from the sparse first aid kit against John's big, dumb head.
"I'll bet," Paul whispers back, pressing a little harder and tsking his tongue when John hisses and squeezes his wrist, "I've got to stop the bleedin', John, c'mon."
The night was going well. They'd finished That's Alright Mama to close out their first set and jumped right down from the stage, intending to belly up to the bar for as many pints of warm beer as they could slug before the end of their break.
John and Paul didn't make it to the bar.
Some knobhead wasn't happy about the way his bird was making eyes at Paul, evidently. Or, really, Paul isn't sure exactly what happened. Everything kind of blurred together some time between when the fucker was lobbing insults at Paul and when John hauled off and started beating the tar out of the poor bastard.
Regardless, Paul figures the hateful way the lad spat feckin' poof at him is what really set John off.
If it matters, and it doesn't, John certainly won the fight, in spite of getting slammed into the cement floor and whacking his skull against a chair back on the way down. John might have a concussion, sure, but the other fellow hobbled out of the club with a bloody nose, the ugly purple starts of two black eyes, and worst of all, his tail between his legs.
So, John won, and he's also got another bloke's blood all over the front of his best dress shirt as a prize, and his own blood is oozing down to stain the collar in the back, and Paul can't tell in the dim, shaky light, but he wonders if both of John's pupils are blown from prellies and booze or blood loss.
"How bad's it?" John asks for what Paul realizes is the first time since Paul scraped him up off the floor like a squashed bug. "Still bleedin'? Can't be still bleedin', can it?"
"S'a head wound, John, s'gonna bleed," George's voice pipes up as he and Ringo approach with four pints and a handful of ice wrapped in a dirty bar towel.
"Wasn't askin' ye, Hazza," John slurs, and Paul watches the way his handsome face twists up when moving his head to take a drink of beer makes his vision swim, "bloody smarts…"
They chat for a minute while John rests the cloth with ice on his battered hand, mostly Ringo and George filling them in about Brian trying to smooth things over with Mr. Randall, at least enough for them to finish the night and get paid, and Paul is glad to have the distraction as he goes to adjust the gauze and finds it's soaked clean through, and John's blood is all over his fingers. Yeugh, right, more gauze, more gauze…
"We're back on in ten," Ringo says before downing his pint in three impressive, if a little disgusting, gulps, and he lays a heavy hand on John's shoulder as he goes to walk back towards the stage, "shall I have Brian come check on you lot? If he's done pleadin' with Mr. Randall?"
"Don't bother," John says, and it comes out meaner than he intends, which is written all over his face in a displeased moue. He looks about five years old when he pouts, and his tone is less sharp when he continues. "Paul's got me handled."
Paul's chest feels warm at the sincerity in John's tired voice, and he bobs his head as Ringo and George leave them to it with strict instructions to holler if John passes out.
Standard fare.
"You're an idiot," Paul says when they're alone again, shaking his head as he shuffles around to stand behind John, and the shadowed sight of the cut at the crown of John's head makes his stomach lurch, "you need stitches."
"Can't be that bad."
"Is, though."
"Can't be, barely even hit me head! Just a bonk on the way down."
Paul wants to argue. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs that John's lucky his bloody skull is so thick. He settles for just puffing up his cheeks with a big, big breath, holding it, and letting it out in a big, big rush.
And calling John an idiot again.
"S'at nice, Bunny? S'at a nice thing t'call your knight in shining armor?" John asks, and he's so bloody loud when he's drunk, and he cackles to himself as he reaches back to paw sloppily at Paul's hip.
"You're no knight," Paul responds coolly, and mercifully, it seems like the bleeding is slowing up. "And that had nothin' to do with me, so don't go draggin' me into it."
That's not strictly true, and Paul knows that, but what else is he supposed to say?
"Oi," John grumbles, and then he lets out an ugly noise, nasal and throaty, and barks a cough. His hand finds proper purchase on Paul's waist and his nosy fingers trip around until he can tuck two into a belt loop and tug a little. "Don't be daft."
"Hum," is all Paul says in response, and that's all he intends to say, too, until he's unable to move like he wants, unable to shift enough to reach the first aid box, because John has suddenly spun himself sideways on the chair and now has both hands on Paul's waist, holding him.
Holding him tight, too. Fingertips digging in, thumbs pressing hard against the roundest jut of his hipbones.
"Don't be daft," John repeats, but his voice has gone soft again, small and quiet and for Paul's ears only. "S'always got to do with you. Everythin' does."
Paul blinks, looking down into John's eyes, and that's rare, looking down to meet John's gaze. Really, it only happens when John stays sitting while Paul gets up to fetch something, water or more paper or a fresh pack of smokes, during an all-night writing session.
And, of course, when John is kneeling in front of him.
Paul can feel the way his cheeks flush, can feel the rush of pinky warmth prickling at each of his pores, and thinks back to an hour or so ago, fifteen minutes before they'd gone on stage, when he last looked down to meet John's eyes.
It had been out in the dark alley behind the club. He'd done John first, like usual, since John is remarkably more indulgent as a lover after a decent orgasm, and is a full-tilt sweetheart after he gets to shoot off over Paul's tongue and down his throat, his fingers twined in Paul's hair and Paul's hands squeezing where he's got them clamped on the outsides of John's shaky thighs.
Paul'd expected, in spite of John's syrupy, lovey-dovey muttering and pawing and kissing at him as he got to his feet and zipped and buttoned John's trousers with practiced ease, that John would just toss him off quickly, a knee nudging up under Paul's balls through his pants and a big, callused hand working him hard and fast while John grunted filth in his ear and teased him for being so damn easy.
But John surprised him. John smiled at him and bit his lip like the pretty maiden he certainly isn't and winked, slinging his arms around Paul's shoulders and kissing him hard on the mouth, unbothered by where Paul's mouth had just been a moment before, sneaky tongue sliding right in. Then, quick and easy, Paul felt himself being pulled and spun and pushed, felt the roughness of the brick wall through his suit jacket, and as he gasped at the breaking of the kiss, his trousers were open and then John was on his knees.
John'd looked up at him, gaze a little glassy and a lot satisfied, the entire time, only breaking to squeeze his eyes shut and gag when his angle of attack got his soft palate jabbed and when Paul, with a stuttered curse, spurted hot and fast between his lips in what felt like record time.
John had licked him clean from root to tip, which was sloppy and enthusiastic and a little gross, and swallowed and scrubbed the back of his hand over his lips, then had gotten to his feet, did Paul's trousers up, kissed him again, right smack on his panting mouth, and slurred a gi'us a ciggie, eh, Paul-love as he all but dragged Paul to the back door of the club.
Paul offered his crumpled pack of smokes and John plucked two out, stuck both in his mouth, lit them, and carefully placed one between Paul's lips, all as they walked back into the building and made their way to the little alcove behind the stage.
They smoked and tuned their guitars a final time and went out and performed and it had been great, so great that Paul'd had a fleeting thought about making that little before-performance performance a more regular part of their gig routine that he spent John's singing of That's Alright Mama working over in his mind. He was going to pitch it as a half-joke during the break, just to see what John might say.
Paul blinks again, and they're in that same little alcove now, and he realizes there might be a thread tying what they'd gotten up to before the show, John's total lack of a fuse before blowing his stack, and exactly what that fella'd said into a rather ugly knot.
"Macca," John says, and he's whispering, really, speaking so softly that Paul isn't sure whether he actually hears John or just can tell what he says from the feeling alone, "Paul."
"Wasn't about you," Paul replies, and he wishes his voice didn't waver so much, didn't sound so unsure. "What he said, that-that bloke, he… wasn't talkin' about you."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
"Don't be d—"
"I mean it, John," Paul cuts in, his mouth a harsh, displeased squiggle and his eyes hopelessly, achingly devoted, "he didn't say it to you, wasn't talkin' about you, you had no reason to—"
"Crock'a shite, that is—"
"I'm talking, John, Jesus! Can you let me talk?"
Paul watches John's eyes flash as he snaps his mouth shut. He's pouting again, and Paul nearly scoffs and calls him an overgrown toddler, but the way the muscle in John's jaw jumps in the buzzy, blueish backstage light makes Paul feel, instead, like his ribs are being cracked open, like his lungs and guts and whatever else is in there are getting scooped and splattered onto the cement.
He can't quite tell how much it hurts, that feeling, but he's sure it doesn't hurt as much as it should.
"You were sayin'…" John mutters when the silence has obviously stretched on too long. "Cor, tellin' me to shut my bloody gob so's you could talk an' now ye—hmphhhnnf!"
Paul's lips press hard against John's and Paul huddles close enough to smother the affronted grumble John lets out in response. A hand fists around his tie and tugs, making Paul sputter and pull back, only to nearly choke himself until he gets a hand around John's and pries John's fingers off. When he's free, Paul throws himself back, away, out of John's grasp and out of his reach.
John stares at him and takes harsh breaths, nostrils flaring, and Paul stares right back like he isn't afraid, like he isn't terrified of the consequences of what he just did, what unspoken agreement he just shattered by doing something as reckless and queer as kissing his mate on the mouth outside of the designated, private moments when that's allowed.
"That bloke didn't call you a poof," Paul says, and he stands up straighter but doesn't allow himself to move any closer. "No one thinks you're a poof."
And then Paul pushes himself off the crate he'd found himself leaning against and makes a hard right turn and disappears into the darkness, vaguely in search of the others and unbelievably aware of John's lack of calling after him.