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They’re tangled together in bed on a rare night off when Paul first poses the question.
“What color’s your hair, John?”
He asks it like he hasn’t spent hours of his life with his hands tangled in it. Like they haven’t played guitar eye-to-eye with each other for over a decade.
“The fuck are you on about, Paulie?” John mumbles blearily, and disentangles himself from Paul’s arms. He sits up under the sheets and stares blankly at him, as if Paul had disturbed a wonderful nap to ask a rather stupid question. Which he had. Just now, actually.
Paul just shrugs, running a hand through his partner’s wavy hair. A curl catches on his pinky finger and bounces back. “It’s just—it’s almost red, these days. You’re becoming a ginger.”
John squints over at him. “Red?” he asks, scowling, slightly offended by the idea. “You need to get yer eyes checked, son. Where’d you get an idea like that?”
“It’s in those rock ’n roll magazines, you know. Said you were the most-wanted redhead in Britain, that made me notice it.”
Laying across from him Paul can see John roll his eyes, even in the near-darkness.
“Right. I also trust Teen Wankers Weekly for all me hard-hitting journalism needs,” John says. “What would I do without their pressing coverage of The Monkees’ haircuts?”
Unable to help himself, Paul laughs. “Come on, ye have to admit it’s… got a tint.”
He gets a blank, unamused look in return. Not for the first time Paul notices how John's almond eyes can really burn a hole in someone when he wants.
“A tint."
“A tint,” Paul affirms. He wraps another curl around his finger, watches the strands shine in the lamplight. “You’re not fully ginger, but you’re not fully brunette either. Auburn, they call it.”
“I suppose my eyes are blue too. And I’m a double and the real John Lennon got knocked off.”
“The real John Lennon must’ve been a ginger too, then.”
Reaching over to smack him with a pillow, John huffs out an incredulous laugh. A bit of annoyance is creeping into his voice already when he speaks next. “You’ve got some kind of redhead fetish, you have. I’ve told ye already, it’s brown.”
Paul relents, rolls his eyes. “Well, even if you won’t admit it, it’s lovely, your hair. Especially now you’re growin’ it out,” he says, voice softer this time.
A quiet sigh comes from John as Paul twists a hand through it; he's always liked it when Paul plays with his hair (not that he would admit it very often). Always a surefire way to calm him down, at least. He remembers when he first discovered this little quirk of John's, on an early Paris morning all those years ago, and smiles to himself.
Wanting to enjoy the moment a bit, Paul lets them sit in companionable silence for a while, toying with his partner’s auburn waves. John hums and leans into it, content.
Were it anyone else, Paul would have conceded at this point. Gone back to sleep, let the whole thing go.
But it’s John, so of course, he can’t help himself.
“Well, anyway. I’ll admit that in the dark it looks brown. But in the sun? You’re a regular Asher, love.”
John groans, his patience for this topic and for Paul clearly at its very end.
“I don’t think Miss Jane and I had much in common,” John snorts. “Unless she was buggering you in the arse too.”
Always very polite, his John.
Paul ignores the slight against his ex and huffs out a laugh. He runs a hand along the lovely curve of John’s hips, the slight bit of weight that gathers there.
“I’m afraid the buggery’s your job only," he says.
John’s lips quirk up into a mischievous grin. Seeing his way out of the conversation—and ever the hedonist—he reaches over and squeezes Paul’s ass. “I’m always ready to report for duty, sir.”
“Randy git,” Paul chuckles. “You’re never goin’ to admit it, are you?”
John responds by rolling over on top of him and pinning his arms above his head. “Not a chance. Now shut up and let me shag you.”
Typical Lennon, Paul thinks. He leans up to kiss him, smiling into it despite himself.
“Very romantic, Johnny.”
“I try my best, darling.”