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“I don’t know what you’re on about.” Paul said then redirected his attention towards his guitar, fingers shyly strumming uncoordinated chords.
Always looking away from him. Bloody coward, his McCartney.
“Like hell you don’t.” John set his own guitar aside so it was now standing next to him, supported only by the wall behind it. “You’ve always known exactly what this, us, was about.”
Paul didn’t respond but kept playing some unnamed, future #1 Worldwide, another Mccartney/No Lennon original. John wanted to grab it and smash it against the man’s skull; maybe – and that was a hard maybe – that would get his point across.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Macca. I don’t buy into your act.”
“What do you want me to say, John?!” the guitar-playing stopped so Paul could now use his hands to get his point across. John always thought if he locked Paul’s hands behind his back, if he couldn’t use them, the man would simply not be able to talk .
“I want –” His voice choked, making John feel even more pathetic – as if that was even possible. What did he want? For Paul to acknowledge John’s feelings for him? For him to confess the feeling goes both ways? To confess that, no, he didn’t feel the same and end this fucking game they’ve been playing for more than a decade? What did he want? And how could Paul know if he didn’t know it himself? “I want –”
“Because I don’t know, mate, but I thought we almost had something here, y’know?” he gestured at the space between them. “We were playing the same songs, our songs, without having to say anything. It was almost like – y’know.”
Oh, John knew. Almost like old times, was what Paul was trying to say. If John closed his eyes, even now, he could see the same man in front of him, twenty-one, in his girlfriend’s basement, with his mouth slightly open in an o-shaped form as John played him the first traces of their omen, that piece-of-shit song that would change their lives forever, locking them in that delicious cycle of money, media and sex. Just like old times.
His broken heart had other ideas, though.
“No, Paul, ” he drew out the other man’s name like it was poison, like fucking Clorox in his mouth, that Paul of his. “I don’t know what you mean. Ain’t that the game we’re playing now? The Who Plays Dumber game? Always knew that was your favorite.”
“John!” Paul exclaimed, but it was more of a waiver than an angry proclamation. He looked frustrated, holding tightly to the neck of his acoustic guitar, and even though he hadn’t met John’s eye since John put his guitar down, he thought Paul wanted to cry. But he wouldn’t, he – they were both too sober for that.
“Why does it have to be like this, man? I thought – I thought we could put this behind us. All of it. The lawsuit, the anger, the fucking song !” Paul let out a dry, spiteful laugh as he mentioned the songs. He would never forgive him for ‘ How Do You Sleep? ’ and John knew it and he hated himself for it. John ‘ I Have No Regrets ’ Lennon regretted ever writing that fucking song, ever knowing Phil Spector, ever trusting Allen Klein, ever –
He regretted her sometimes. Just like he regretted being born. But it was no use dwelling on it: not like he could change either of those things, anyway.
“All the bad stuff, Johnny, we could just, just –”
Start over.
But John didn’t feel like starting over. It would never feel like starting over; not with Paul. There was way too much shit behind them, too much past . You can’t love someone like John loved, loves Paul and start over as if nothing ever happened.
But, oh . Nothing ever happened, did it?
How can you start over when it never really began, McCartney? Tell me, baby, how do you sleep?
John finally let out a loud sigh. Why did Paul even come over? Of course he called while John was asleep and told May to keep it a secret. Surprise, Surprise (Sweet Ghost of Lifes Past) . She told him she was going out and that they could be alone and Paul probably told her they could write again, then. What a great idea. May could be so gullible sometimes.
When the ghost did come over, John thought it went something like this :
Knock, knock.
JOHN: Who’s there?
PAUL: Your estranged best friend and the man who has been ignoring the way you’ve been looking at him for the past decade!
JOHN: Oh, come on in, my old friend/lover/everything/nothing at all, make yourself comfortable! Can I offer you anything? Some warm tea with me fucking heart in a platter?
PAUL: Sure! Thanks a lot, Johnny, hope you don’t mind if I accidentally break it for the millionth time, d’ya?
JOHN: Not at all, Paulie! You can do it as many times as you’d like, as it’s obviously not affected the way you could still change my life with the wave of yer fucking hand after all those years!
PAUL: That’s marvelous! Now where’s that tea you offered? We gotta get the gear moving if we’re gonna be milking songs out of each other again!
Christ, she was right. He was too bloody dramatic for his own good.
How they actually found themselves in this position, however, – sitting down on the couch, eyeball to eyeball, jokingly hitting the chords of ‘ I Saw Her Standing There ’ and some pretentious Joni Mitchell song – was beyond John’s understanding. It was natural, it was right, just like –
After they made themselves comfortable, John left the living room for a brief moment to get their coffee, in spite of Paul's protests for tea: "While in Rome...". However, while pouring the hot liquid into the May's carefully picked porcelain, John could swear, on anything that was still sacred, the chords of ‘ I Want You ’ were coming from his living room.
I want you
I want you so bad
I want you
I want you so bad
It’s driving me mad
It’s driving me mad
“Can you sing it?”
“What” Paul looked up from his bass to meet John’s eyes. Long time no see , he thought.
“Try singing it this time, see if it fits ya.”
The bearded man eyed him suspiciously. The last three weeks had been absolute chaos and their relationship was definitely not going where John planned. Not at all. Maybe he was getting panicked. Maybe Paul wasn’t reading his mind. Maybe he was losing his cool a bit. Maybe.
“You sure about that?”
John let out a snicker. “It’s a jam session, Paul. Doesn’t matter who’s singing it now.”
“But it’s your –” He broke the eye contact when John just glared at him as if saying ‘ I Can’t believe you’re gonna piss me off right now ’. Sometimes it was best to just nod and agree with whatever he wanted. Sometimes it has to be just like I want it to, Macca, you should know that by now .
The song started and, this time, Paul was the one who wanted him. He wanted him so bad. He wanted him so bad, it was driving him mad, driving him mad.
If John had closed his eyes then, he doesn’t think he could’ve opened them again.
It didn’t sound as passionate in his voice, though. The pure yearning that escaped John’s lips with each word was replaced by Paul’s stronger, firmer (and better) voice, but without any sort of conviction. Maybe for an outsider, maybe for the cameras, maybe for fucking Lindsay-Hogg, but not for John. For him, Paul’s version didn’t have the same feel, the same want. Want .
He thought making Paul sing the song, the man would tell him something, anything. If Paul We Don’t Have To Talk About It McCartney wanted to communicate through songs, so be it.
I’ll give him this another chance. I’ll give him as many chances as he needs. I’ll give him anything he wants. Anything he -
Oh.
Maybe someone doesn’t want anything from John, after all.
I want you
I want you so bad, baby
I want you
I want you so bad
It’s driving me mad
It’s driving me mad
After John came back from the kitchen and confronted him about hearing it, Paul denied it.
And now here they were, fighting again. Just like old times.
John let out what seemed to be his millionth sigh that evening. “We just can’t do it, Paul, okay? What even is there to come back to? There's nothing left in the end. We wasted it, whatever it was.”
Paul (finally) shot him an incredulous look. “Of course it isn’t, Johnny! We are, I dunno, what we had, have, it's -” He paused.
He couldn’t say it. He wouldn’t say it. John's heart skipped with hope.
“What we have is special. It's us. And you damn well know it.” Paul said, not looking away. “I’m not playing games, John. Sod The Beatles, I want us back, whatever it is.”
John just stared at him.
There was a fly in his hair. Fuckin’ New York summer.
John digested what he heard. But it wasn’t that easy, was it? Was it?
No. Not with him still being John Lennon, it wasn’t.
“Fuck, Paul!” he ran a hand through his own desperately- needing-a-haircut hair and started pacing his and May's tiny living room. “It’s not that easy, y’know, it’s not that fuckin’- ”
“Why the fuck not, John?” Paul stood up, and oh, no. John didn’t like where this was going. But it was like driving, talking to Paul always felt like driving, with John having to keep his eyes on the road, where he was going or he would crash.
He always was a terrible driver. But who was he even the one at the wheel this time?
“Because, because you know what I want, Paul!” He screamed. So he wasn’t playing games? Fine. John wasn’t either. “You know what I want, and you know you can’t give it to me. Simple as that, bud.”
No answer, but Paul didn’t look away, even for a second. John couldn’t place the feelings of the man before him before he turned away.
“I - I don’t know -”
“The fuck you don’t.” John hissed. He started this and he was going to finish it. Just like he did with The Beatles.
(But Paul started and finished that too, didn’t he? Oh, silly John, you never had any say in anything. )
“What was my last mistake, Paul? Because apparently, my first mistake was taking my lucky break, whatever the fuck that was, and breaking it in two with the woman I loved," John was spitting his words now, saliva coming out of his mouth as he freed them. "but what was my last mistake, Paul?”
John would get a rise out of him, one way or another. The boy should’ve seen it coming when thinking of stopping by unannounced.
No answer. Paul still had his back to him. What a bloody fucking coward.
“Gotcha.” But there was no humor in his voice, only that special tone of bitterness he saved for Paul and all things Paul-related. “You should go on now, son. Your love must be awake and waiting for you! ”
John started walking towards the bedroom when a hand in his shoulder turned him around.
Green. Paul’s eyes were green. Sure, there was a bit of brown in there but, for John, Paul's eyes were always big, bright and green.
And they always hit him like a drunk driver’s headlights.
Nothing happened for what felt like mintues but were probably a few short seconds, until Paul moved his hand upwards to curl around John’s needing-a-goddamn-haircut hair and then it happened.
John didn’t think he had ever kissed someone before. When Paul’s lips touched his, he felt naked, innocent and inexperienced. Like a virgin.
Now who would’ve thought someone could lose his virginity more than twice?
His mouth kissed Paul back but it didn’t feel real, not like John was actually kissing him but more as if their lips were but two puzzle pieces finally - God, finally - placed together, right where they were supposed to be, from the start.
Then, realization hit him. This was happening. This was him, John Lennon, kissing Paul McCartney. Lennon was kissing his McCartney, his Paulie, his Macca. This was happening. This was here.
Now that he knew it was real, John was burning up. Heat took over every cell in his body like a volcano in eruption, ready to destroy, eat up everything around him with its fire. And, of course, Paul was the driving rain; kissing him as if the rain, the lightning and the thunder could possibly repair the irreversible damage he was causing his oldest friend. Guess I’m not the naive one now, am I, Macca?
His body was already out of his control, his hands traveling everywhere they could reach, wanting making Paul their master, their own religion, their own instrument.
Bass. If Paul was an instrument, he would be a bass guitar. John always knew he was utter shit at bass but if anyone could see him then, he would have Entwistle to shame.
He doesn’t remember much after feeling Paul’s lips on his neck, kissing his collarbone; he just assumes his brain went into short-circuit, ‘ats all, really.
As he lays in bed, waiting for Paul to come back from the bathroom so he can ask him when they can have another go at it so he can mentally photograph everything and put everything inside his brain, John tries, but gets nothing but flashes of what just happened less than five minutes ago:
Paul gently (?) pushing him against the bed, John undoing their belts, telling his lover (!) the vaseline is by the nightstand even though he doesn’t have to because, unlike his own, Paul’s eyesight is just fine (he probably took off his own glasses once that thought crossed his mind) and the man doesn’t question him and grabs it (with shaking hands?) and asks John:
“So you’ve done it before?” Paul’s voice is breathy as a result of their ridiculously long kiss plus the effort to open the bottle in his hand. That it might be a result of anxiety never crossed John’s mind.
“What? Sex? Sure, how d’ye think the kid got here?” He was smiled and lifted his arse so his pants could finally come off.
Paul gave him a stern look as he briefly left the bed so his own pants and briefs would come down and, nope, John still could not accept this was happening.
“John.”
“Hm?” His eyes forcefully dragged upwards from Paul’s dick to his eyes.
“d'you make it with another fella?”
“Why?”
“John!”
“Fer chrissake, yeah, okay, I did! Now,” His voice muffled by his shirt being removed “can you c’mere already?”
“When?”
John’s eyes left Paul’s body for the first time in what felt like hours so they could roll to the back of his skull, a ( definitely not pleasurable) groan being heard from his throat as he did so.
Paul chuckled softly as he took his shirt off. He climbed back into bed, atop of John and started kissed the man’s neck while stroking his own cock. Ah shit. This was happening. “I just wanna know, mate, ‘s all.”
1963, he thought, with Brian holding his arse down to the mattress and kissing his shoulder. Are you okay, John and Oh God, John being the only sentences uttered for the rest of the night, until the initial pain turned to pleasure, until he rock his hips back to meet Brian's thrusts and John could finally understand the appeal of all this for queers.
Eleven years ago. And I never told you. Thought I’d freak you out, disgust you, make you go away. I’m sorry.
“A couple months ago, okay?" He heard himself answer, instead. "With a friend of Elton’s. They’re all queers, in case you didn't notice?” A dry chuckle was heard, either his or Paul’s; he couldn’t tell anymore because there was suddenly a mouth fast sucking the inside of his left thigh and he saw black.