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When the Beatles arrive at the Deauville hotel in Miami, they have to push their way past a wall of near-deafening noise as fans scream and claw hysterically against the fences. Someone manages to shove a hand through somewhere and yanks Paul’s hair – he’s barely able to bite back a yelp. John casts a glance over at him and their eyes catch, a tiny bubble of peace in the pandemonium. He moves a bit closer to Paul, pressing their shoulders together.
It’s remarkable, the way that such a small thing makes him feel so much safer. He takes a deep breath, pleased to find that he can do so more easily now. He even manages to throw an enthusiastic wave over his shoulder – setting off another surge in the screams – before squeezing past the rows of police officers into the closed off hotel lobby.
It’s still pretty packed with people inside, but at least they’re businessmen and staff rather than frenzied fans. A self-important looking man in a three-piece suit greets them politely, his American accent distinct and brash on Paul’s ears. He holds himself in a stiff way, face settled just an inch away from a sneer, clearly thinking himself far above all of the nonsense going on around them.
John ducks his head down next to Paul’s, his breath hot against his ear. “I wonder if it hurts him to sit down, with that stick up his arse.” He’s not particularly quiet. Brian, who’s standing right behind them, hisses something chiding at him while Paul chokes on a snicker.
They’re led upstairs to their rooms, two between the four of them like usual. John sticks close to Paul, leaving no question as to the arrangement for this stay.
“You boys get settled,” Brian tells them, once the pompous American man has finally left them. “Mal’s had your things brought up to your rooms. We have three days until the show, and of course I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves, but please remember your manners – the world has their eyes on you, and I don’t want –”
“Yeah, yeah,” John interrupts, reaching forward to clap Brian on the shoulder. “We’ve got it, don’t worry. No causing trouble.”
Brian breathes out, a wispy little sigh. “I’m not so mad as to expect that to be possible. Simply refrain from it wherever possible, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mr. Epstein,” Paul says earnestly, but when Brian turns to look at George and Ringo, he and John share a smirk behind his back.
Missing that and apparently satisfied with whatever it was that he’d seen in the faces of the other two, Brian gives a decisive nod and smiles congenially. “I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast, then.”
“Night, lads,” John says to George and Ringo, sounding unmistakably giddy. It could just be the excitement of it all, being in America for the first time ever, the warmth of the air, the beaches, the palm trees. It could be the luxury that is surrounding them, the adoring fans, the fact that everybody around them seems more than ready to bend over backwards to please them. He could be giddy for any of those reasons, sure, but Paul can’t stop himself from wondering if it’s something else entirely.
Paul’s giddy, too, but it’s more because of the way that they’re still pressed up close against each other than anything else. An uncomfortable squirm wiggles through his gut at the realization and he quickly tries to put it out of his mind.
He steps back slightly to put a little space between them as John pushes open the door to their room. They stumble in, kicking their shoes off as they go. Paul is staring up at the ceiling, painted with an intricate mural, when John suddenly stills, causing Paul to crash into his back.
“Christ, what?” he demands, before seeing over John’s shoulder what he must have seen and pausing too. The bedroom is grandiose, lavish in the way that most places they stay are now, though he’s still yet to grow used to it. There are two beds.
It shouldn’t give him pause, it shouldn’t give either of them pause, but it does all the same. They’re very used to sharing beds – most of the time they do, actually. For most of their lives, because it was simply all they could afford, or the only option they had. Even now that they’re so successful, they’ve usually ended up in rooms with a single larger bed.
They always gripe and groan about it, dramatically bemoaning the fact that they’re stuck with each other. It’s funny, though, neither of them have ever brought it up to Brian or anyone who organizes their accommodation for them.
And yet they were given a room with two beds this time anyway. Which is great, of course. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t want more space. It was thoughtful of them, to arrange it this way. They’ve conquered America now, they’re worldwide stars – it would be downright odd if they still had to share one bed.
So why does he feel so strangely disappointed?
“Finally, my own bed,” Paul eventually manages, nudging John’s shoulder with his as he walks past him into the room. “Won’t have to deal with you hogging the blanket all night.”
John hesitates a moment longer, clearly as thrown off as Paul is. “You’re the one who hogs the blanket and we both know it, you filthy liar.” He plops down onto one of the beds and sprawls out on top of the sheets.
A thread of tension hovers in the air. They don’t acknowledge it. Paul lies down on his own bed and tries not to pay attention to how vast the half-dozen feet of space between them feels.
“Wish we could get a couple of birds up here right about now,” he mutters, watching John’s hands as he runs them across the plush sheets.
“There are plenty willing, right outside.” John flicks his tongue out between his teeth suggestively and waggles his eyebrows. Paul looks away, hating the way that he can feel heat rising into his cheeks.
“Oh sure, I’ll just walk right out into the street and hope I somehow don’t get torn to pieces.”
“I’m only saying, it’s not like you’re starved for options. If you’re that desperate.”
Paul glares at him. “I’m not desperate. Fuck off.”
“Sure, well, you’ve got hands, don’t you? Suppose you’ll survive.”
Paul feels his face heat even further. “Yeah, yeah. Turn the lights off, will you? I’m going to sleep.”
John cackles. “Sleep. Right.” He reaches over and switches the lights off, but Paul can see his head still angled towards him in the half-light.
He burrows himself under his blankets and turns his back to John. He’s touched himself in the same room as John before – same bed, even. They’ve jerked off side-by-side, more times than he can count. Sometimes they even whisper names of women to each other while they do – or they used to, he supposes, more recently its only been gasps and moans. Suddenly he feels uncomfortable about the whole idea of it, though, still thrown off by the distance between them and the way that they’d both reacted to it.
He wishes that John was next to him, that’s the problem. He doesn’t want to wish it, doesn’t even want to acknowledge that he’s wishing it, but there’s always been something uniquely thrilling about feeling John’s warmth beside him. Jerking off and knowing that John can feel the sheets shifting under the movements of his arm. And then sometimes they wake up with their sides pressed together, or their ankles interlocked, or even with their arms thrown over each other.
The bed feels awfully cold, so far away from John.
Paul sighs and turns over to lie on his back, a confusing mix of emotions making his stomach twist. He’s horny as hell, and there’s frustration and that same disappointment about not getting to share a bed with John, and then there’s also a thick roll of unidentifiable panic. His thoughts are edging awfully close to something that he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
He can still sense John looking at him through the darkness, too. He wishes that he was closer to him. He hates that they have separate beds.
He ends up falling asleep without getting off, somehow unable to push past the weird feeling prickling along his skin.
They have a few days free in Miami before their performance for the Ed Sullivan show, and they take full advantage of them. Paul finds plenty of birds to keep him busy – no reason for him to need to get off on his own. At night, though, it’s usually just him and John, alone in the room in their separate beds, and then the weird disappointment comes creeping back in. He keeps himself as distracted as possible to get his mind off of it, cramming in as much sex, alcohol and partying as he can into the twenty-four hours of the day.
The four of them revel in the luxury showered on them, the fancy food and huge private grounds and the beach and swimming pools. It’s everything that they’ve wanted, everything that they’ve ever been working for. Paul is so happy, of course he is, but he has a weird feeling that something is still missing.
He wonders if he’s alone in feeling it, but then sometimes he notices a slightly perturbed knit to John’s brow, and he has a sneaking suspicion that he feels the same way.
“What is it?” he asks, on the third day, when he sees the look creep across John’s face again while they’re swimming in the pool.
John’s eyes flicker over his face and then he shrugs dismissively, leaning back against the side of the pool. “Dunno, really. Just – this is all a bit mad, isn’t it?”
Paul hesitates. “Yeah, I suppose. Hard to believe it’s all real.”
“We made it, we really made it,” John returns, but he doesn’t say it quite in the way that he’s supposed to say it. He’s trying for a grin, but it falls short, twisted to the side into a half-grimace.
There’s a moment of silence, and it occurs to Paul quite suddenly that they’re somehow completely alone, and there’s not even any screaming in the distance for once. The quiet is almost disorienting, after so much noise and bustle.
Something unspoken hovers in the air between them, but Paul can’t seem to find the words to say anything. Instead, he wades through the water over to John and leans against the side of the pool next to him.
John finally speaks again. “It’s – I thought maybe it would feel different than this.”
“Different how?” Paul dares to ask.
“I don’t know. Just –” John lowers his voice to a hushed, ashamed whisper – “better somehow, I guess.”
Paul worries his lower lip between his teeth, not sure what exactly he means, if he means it in the way that makes sense to Paul, if he feels like something is missing too.
He draws a slow breath in and then allows himself a quick glance over at John. He means to meet his eyes, but when he looks up he finds them lower than they should be. He feels momentarily as if he’s been struck hard in the chest, heart skipping a beat, breath catching.
Unthinkingly, he wets his lips with his tongue and John’s eyes immediately snap back up. His cheeks pinken and Paul feels his own face growing hot at the implication of it, at the sudden terrifying want that surges up in his chest.
He can’t shove it back down fast enough, can’t ignore it. It’s unmistakable.
Paul wants to kiss him.
John clears his throat and takes a sudden step back, saving Paul from doing something potentially unforgivable. “Oh, never mind. It’s nothing, it’s probably just how crazy everything is right now.”
“Yeah,” Paul manages feebly, not quite able to recall what exactly they were talking about. “Yeah, probably.”
His heart is still racing, something near panic buzzing thickly under his skin as he watches John walk away from him. The bright light of the midday sun beams down on him, making his skin glow a warm honey-gold and illuminating water droplets rolling down the smooth planes of his back in glistening rivulets as he climbs out of the pool. Paul wants to put his mouth all over him.
“Right, well. Gonna go see where everybody else has got off to,” John says, waving his hand vaguely over at the doors. He’s clearly meaning to sound casual about it, but Paul easily recognizes something akin to discomfort in the jerkiness of his movements.
“Okay, uh, I’ll be along soon,” Paul replies, but John’s already banged in through the door, not waiting for his response anyway.
Alone in the pool, Paul lets himself slump back against the wall and sink down in the water until it’s up to his chin. He exhales sharply, only then realizing that he’d been holding his breath. He feels shaky, off-kilter in a way that he rarely does. He’s always tried not to think about it too much, to avoid acknowledging the wanting as much as possible. Now, though – alone in a pool in the fanciest place he’s ever been in, surrounded by adoring fans, on top of the bloody world – he suddenly finds that he can’t hide from it any more. The realization hits him hard – he wants to kiss John, he wants to touch him. He misses the warmth of John’s body beside him in bed at night. He doesn’t want them to have more space between them, he just wants to get closer and closer and closer until they’re not a single millimetre apart. He wants – Christ, he wants to fuck him. He wants it all.
Well, shit.
Paul does his best to put his revelation out of his mind for the rest of the day, focusing on the big show that they have that evening instead. It works, in a way, but backfires in that Paul finds himself sick with nerves, crouched over the toilet behind the stage only minutes before they have to go on. He always gets nervous before going on stage, especially as their crowds have grown and the pressures have mounted. He’s never felt quite this nervous, though. Terrified would be the more appropriate word. Even their previous appearance on the show, a week ago, before which he’d been nearly paralyzed with fear, hadn’t been this bad. He’d known then that it was a big deal, of course, but hadn’t found out until afterwards that they’d had 73 million live viewers and had broken the record for the most watched television event of all time. The knowledge that they’ll likely have almost as many viewers this time leaves him sick to his stomach.
John finds him there, slumped over in the bathroom. He laughs at him, but only in a good-natured way that makes him feel better rather than worse. From there, he somehow manages to effortlessly draw him out from his panic without ever actually addressing the fact that there’s anything wrong. It’s an ability completely unique to John, the way that he can set Paul at ease. He makes a few rude jokes about the staff and the audience and Ed Sullivan himself, and Paul finds himself laughing along in no time, following John out of the bathroom and down the elevator through the crowd to the stage entrance without even thinking about it, getting there just in time.
Once they start singing, it’s all simple enough from there – they fall into their usual rhythm and everything feels simple and intuitive enough. It’s hard to hear themselves play through the screams from the crowd that even Ed Sullivan himself can’t seem to control, but they get through their set without any major problems, and they’re finished and off stage again almost before Paul even realizes that they’ve started.
They’re all buzzing after the show, once again on top of the world. Paul feels loose-limbed and elated as they celebrate in the hotel lobby, where a party has been set up in their honour. He drinks glass after glass of champagne and revels in the attention and adoration that’s being heaped on him by pretty much everybody who’s there.
It doesn’t take long until he’s surrounded by women who are fighting for his attention, to get him to take them back with him. Though he once couldn’t have ever imagined it, the appeal of it is already starting to wear off, after over a year of it being like this by now. Still, he picks out a bird who he finds particularly attractive and draws her into a conversation alone with him. He starts his normal routine of flirting, chatting her up, pleased to find that she’s all over him almost right away. He could ask her back to his room now and she’d say yes, he’s quite certain of it.
As he’s thinking about it, though, he glances over at John across the room and sees that he’s already looking back at him. They hold eye contact a few beats too long – the girl with John is saying something to him, her hand on his arm, but he seems completely unaware of it.
Paul swallows, throat suddenly dry. He realizes that his own bird is talking to him too, and then realizes immediately afterward that he actually doesn’t care what she has to say. “Sorry, love, I have to go, I’m afraid,” he cuts in, interrupting her. “Good night.” He catches a glimpse of her gobsmacked face as he turns away, but he’s already refocused on the only person who’s ever been able to hold his full attention for long.
“Enjoying the party?” Paul asks when he reaches him, hoping that his nervousness isn’t as obvious as he feels like it is.
“Not one other interesting person here,” John comments, not bothering to lower his voice. The girl that he was talking to shifts uncomfortably behind him, but John’s only looking at him. Despite himself, Paul feels a hot rush of pride fizz up into his veins.
He downs the rest of his champagne and sets the glass down on the table next to them, then turns back to John and raises his brows. “Shall we?”
“Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
They push their way out of the lobby, disentangling themselves from several people that try to grab their attention as they go – John with curt rebuffs that Paul mutters half-hearted apologies for as he follows after him, trying not to grin.
They stumble down the halls to their room, both a little drunk, making fun of all the desperate hangers-on at the party. Neither of them comment on the fact that they haven’t brought any girls back to fuck tonight, despite their many options.
It’s late, but they end up on the floors with their guitars, working on songs for a while, sitting with their knees touching, far closer than they need to be.
Eventually, though, they need to get into their beds, and the distance between them instantly feels massive. Paul scowls up at the mural on the ceiling as John climbs under his own covers across the room, wishing that he didn’t want so badly to be touching him.
“It’s a nice room, really,” he says, pretty much out of nowhere.
There’s a brief pause and then John sits up on his bed, facing him. Paul scrambles to do the same, accidently shoving his blankets to the floor in his haste. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?” John asks, when Paul’s settled across from him.
Paul curls his hands into the sheet on the bed, trying to keep them from shaking. He’s half-relieved and half-frightened to find that, like usual, John is thinking in the exact same way as he is. “I guess we just got used to it, the way it normally was.”
“Can afford nicer rooms now, I suppose.”
“I would hope so, assuming Brian’s not keeping all our money for himself.”
John laughs, but cuts off abruptly. Quietly, he mutters, “Almost wish he would.”
Something drops low in Paul’s stomach. Is John really saying what it seems like he’s saying?
The idea that John might be thinking the exact same way as he is in this too makes both elation and terror sing through him, so intertwined that he couldn’t possibly separate them.
Hands shaking, he bends down to scoop up his blankets off the floor, using the distraction as an excuse to avert his eyes from John. “Probably be better to be rich though, eh?”
He’s not looking at John, but somehow can still sense the way that his expression shutters. The room feels a few degrees colder all of a sudden, and Paul lies back down, pulling the blankets up around him.
“Yeah, of course,” John replies, voice tight and cool. “Well, good night, then.” He reaches over and flicks off the lights, plunging the room into darkness.
Paul’s stomach twists as the terror that had been guiding him only a moment earlier fades into something quieter, less all-consuming. He stares up at the ceiling in the darkness, feeling very cold and not the least bit tired. Regret is pulsing thickly through him now, and he rolls over onto his side, facing John’s bed. Once his eyes have adjusted, he can see that John’s back is turned to him. He’s not asleep yet, Paul can tell – he’s so used to sleeping beside him that he can easily recognize the changes in his breathing patterns.
He stares through the darkness at the muscles of John’s back under his stretched sleep shirt. There’s a strange feeling rising up into his chest, some mixture of regret, apprehension, and a desire stronger than anything he’s ever felt before.
The apprehension swells until it’s almost painful, and he has no idea why until he suddenly realizes that he’s started speaking.
“Come over here, John, why don’t you?”
There’s a moment of silence. Paul lies completely still, motionless, astounded by his own audacity. John doesn’t say anything at all in response, but then there’s the subtle shift of blankets and the faint but unmistakable sound of his footsteps as he pads across the room. Paul finds himself holding his breath as John approaches, gaze directed back up at the ceiling and too scared to look over in case it somehow ruins things.
Cool air hits the bare skin of Paul’s legs as John lifts the sheet to slide in. He shivers, but then the bed dips under John’s weight and his warmth settles close enough to chase the chill immediately away. Carefully, wordlessly, John readjusts the blankets around them, making sure that Paul is fully covered. He lets himself look at him again then, squinting through the darkness to see the soft line of his jaw as he lies back against the pillow, face turned towards Paul.
It’s not the same as sleeping together in the same bed like they used to – those were usually just singles, like both of their old beds in their childhood homes, and this is a spacious queen, giving them much more space to spread out.
They don’t make much use of that extra space, though. As if by some wordless agreement, they both shift in closer, until their arms are touching. He can feel the knobbly bone of John’s wrist against his forearm, and, without thinking about what exactly it is that he’s doing, slides his arm up a few inches until the back of his hand is resting against John’s.
It’s so quiet, so still, but inside he feels like he’s melting down, his heart pounding, stomach flipping, skin heating until he feels like he’s burning alive – he’s trembling, he realizes, shaking horribly as he locks his pinkie around John’s thumb.
John’s breath catches. It’s a soft sound, barely perceptible, but Paul couldn’t possibly have missed it, not with the way that every fibre of his being is tuned towards John.
Paul isn’t even sure who it is who makes the next movement, but somehow, one by one, their fingers slide together until their hands are clasped. John squeezes his hand so tightly that it hurts, then, and Paul can hear his breaths now, coming fast and sharp and ragged.
He allows himself one last moment of hesitation – is he really going to do this? If he does, he knows that there’s no going back.
He also knows that he’s never going to want to, though.
He squeezes John’s hand back.
Just as he had known it would, that’s all it takes, it’s all that John was waiting for. The moment that he squeezes, John surges forward on the bed, closing the last bit of distance between them, takes Paul’s face into his hands, and kisses him hard.
The kiss is filthy right away, open-mouthed and hot. Paul gasps wetly into John’s mouth and receives a low groan in response, John’s grip tightening on his jaw.
Paul wraps one hand around John’s waist and drags him even closer, pins his body against him. He slides his other hand up his shirt, tracing his fingers up along his muscles until eventually he can feel John’s heart pounding lightning quick under his palm.
They kiss like that for what feels like both an eternity and a single second at once – Paul loses track of time, of reality, of even his own name as he rolls his body against John’s and kisses him over and over again, following some completely base instinct that he’s never quite allowed himself to fully give in to before.
God, it feels so good, he never wants to stop.
He thinks he must have he said that aloud, or at least something like it, because then John is making a sound halfway to a sob and murmuring, “Yeah, yeah, yes, Paul.”
That’s what does it, for some reason, what has him taking John’s hand from his face and shoving it down into his underwear, reaching forward to do the same to him. It’s the sound of his name as a desperate plea on John’s lips, the reverence in his tone.
He’s pretty sure he’s babbling incoherently as John starts stroking him, but he figures it’s probably alright given that John’s doing the same thing.
“So good, Paul, more, more, fuck. Needed this. Need you. Want you, want you, Paul, Paul,” he moans against his mouth, and Paul cries out and comes so hard that he sees stars.
John’s not far behind him, still groaning out nearly unintelligible praise and pleas as he comes over Paul’s hand, head tipped back against the pillow now as Paul works his lips along his jaw. “Yeah, Johnny, c’mon, I’ve got you.”
“Paul, Paul, love you, God, I love you,” John gasps, and Paul freezes, mouth open against the soft patch of skin just south of John’s ear.
After a couple of seconds, he starts coming back to himself, and Paul feels him go stiff underneath him as he realizes what he’s said. He’s still frozen himself, overwhelmed from everything that’s just happened and how fucking good it had felt on top of the shock of what John had said and the fact that he’s just realized that he wants desperately to say it back.
John shifts away a bit, snapping Paul out of his thoughts, and he slides his hand out from John’s pants to hold his hip instead, keeping him from moving any further away. John makes a tiny scared noise that sounds almost wounded, nothing like anything Paul’s heard from him before.
“Shh,” Paul hushes, careful. He lifts his head and slots their lips together again, softer now, presses warm, slow kisses against John’s mouth, drags his lower lip gently in between his and sucks until he finally feels John relax underneath him, sigh softly, kiss back.
He draws back an inch to look into John’s eyes. “I love you too,” he whispers, relieved to find himself able to say the words without difficulty. He’s never said it before to John, not even in a platonic way. It’s not a thing that men are supposed to say to one another, back in Liverpool at least, not if they’re not queer.
Bit of a lost cause in their case, that.
“Oh,” says John, uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden, head ducking down to settle into the crook of Paul’s neck. He slides his hand up from John’s hip to the back of his head, curling his fingers gently into his soft brownish-auburn hair, cradling his head.
His heart is still racing, but he finally feels himself start to relax too as he settles down against John, coming down from the high of his orgasm. He slowly becomes more aware of the heavy weight of fear in his gut, but John is so soft and warm in his arms that he can push it aside, focus on how right it feels to be curled up together in the same bed again at last.
A tiny part of him wants to ask John what the hell they’re supposed to do now – he’s married, for Christ’s sake, he’s married and they’re both men and it’s illegal, what they’ve just done, what he wants to do every day from now on as long as they’re able. He wants to ask, but he doubts that John has any better idea than he does. Besides, right now he’s tired and content and so, so comfortable. It can wait until tomorrow, he decides. They can figure it out tomorrow. For tonight, he just wants to fall asleep with John, letting himself love him and not feeling wrong for it.
So Paul tilts his head to the side and presses a kiss to the top of John’s head, and then does exactly that.