Chapter Text
John’s only doing this, he reckons, to bring his boy back to him.
It's a purely selfish endeavour that he knows he couldn’t justify if pressed, but he can’t help himself. Right now, when he thinks Paul’s name, an acrid flavour coats his tongue. Seeping into the spaces between his teeth and across the back of his throat and up, up past his tonsils and adenoids—burning through his nasal cavity, dropping back down and filling his lungs. Before, the same feeling tasted of sugar, warm spices, molasses, heat. But not anymore.
No. Now, it tastes like bile and feels like drowning.
It’s an unconscious thing for Paul—it has to be—his eagerness for approval, thirsty yet tentative; trying to take in big, heavy gulps of the stuff before anyone notices. It’s so consistent, his need to be good. His appetite for praise so deeply rooted that John's pretty sure if you were to cut him open and take a sample of blood, tissue, or marrow to view under a microscope, that each of his cells would have a unique plea inscribed, tailored personally to the observer, begging for their praise. Their adoration.
He just makes it so plain to see; honestly, it should make him ashamed. John could practically smell the desperation in the air when they were still playing any tiny club who would take them—when the end of a set would be guaranteed to have them wringing out their shirts. It would seep out of him alongside his sweat as they played, perfuming the air of stuffy clubs in Liverpool and Hamburg. The pale green, tender seedlings of his longing seeming to mature and go straight to flower while on the continent. He could feel it thrum between them when their eyes would meet across the stage, their mutually held stare spanning metres or centimetres. When their pulses were throbbing and pupils blown, so hopped up on preludin and so delirious from lack of sleep that John could swear Paul's harmonies would turn into siren's song—begging for a hand tugging at his hair and filthy words whispered in his ear and fuck, he’s so powerless against it that it can’t not happen.
Their first time is quick and hungry.
That’s really all John can remember of it. The cold damp of the brick wall radiating against the back of his neck and the burning hot skin of Paul’s back, his sides, his chest, and christ- his arse beneath John’s shaking hands. The way the clicking of their teeth together shot straight down to his dick, making him pull Paul closer to rut against him in his leathers.
How the same sensation made his head pound, vision swimming from drink, and brought the icy feeling from the air to settle in the bottom of his stomach. He remembers the groan he drew from Paul’s lips, plump and parted just so, when he pressed his thumb against the slit of his cock, smearing precome around the head. Wrapping his hand around the shaft and using the now slick pad of his thumb to tease over his frenulum. At that, Paul’s head buckling into the crook of his neck, his heavy breath hot and wet against John’s skin. The high-pitched keen he let out when John reluctantly dragged his spare hand out from the warmth underneath Paul’s shirt and fisted it in his hair, pulling his head back so as to look him in the eyes while stroking his cock. How when it came to it, Paul couldn’t keep his stare as his eyes practically rolled back into his head before fluttering closed, and how his gaze was drawn back to that goddamn mouth again; how those lips looked when-
“God, fuck Johnny–” Paul stammered, barely louder than a whisper “Ah– your hands…”
Paul’s words have an immediate effect, lighting a fire underneath him and conjuring such a hot, bright, blinding light that he could feel himself scorching—burning, the grip on his bicep cultivating parasitic thorns of Paul digging into his being. Instinctively, John knew they would never let go.
His own hips stuttered forward in response, rocking his bulge against Paul’s bony hip with a whine that a less drunk version of him would have good reason to find humiliating. Paul’s eyes blinked open, his brows betraying a mix of shock and wonder; as though he hadn’t even considered what he might be doing to John, fucking prat. With a groan, John tightened the circle of his grip around Paul’s tip as he stroked upward and gave another strong tug against the younger’s scalp. Paul’s jaw went slack, mouth hanging wide open and eyes screwing back shut.
“Yeah baby? You like it when I jerk you off?” The words tumbled out of John’s mouth before they had the chance to pass through his brain, teasing a high pitched hum out of Paul which he answered with a low, dirty one of his own. “Oh you do, huh. Naughty boy. You like Johnny’s hand around your cock? Fuckin’ dirty whore.”
Paul’s answering gasp bounced off of the walls of the alleyway, a sharp contrast against the relative quiet which surrounded them. Out on the street there was shouting, as always. Stumbling drunks and footsteps passing in raucous groups, loud music spilling out of opening and closing club doors, poor souls retching into gutters. But back here, sequestered away beside waste bins and illuminated by the cool glow of the moon high in the sky, everything outside of the two of them was swallowed by the night.
John let out a strangled moan, grinding his cock against Paul with purpose now, rocking in tandem with the rhythm of his fist. “Yeah, tell me– fuck. Wan’ you to say it Paulie. Wanna hear you.”
Paul’s head nodded tightly, thrusting up into John’s fist erratically “Yeah, yes– uh-ah, Like it s-so much,”
“John, I’m-”
“Yeah that’s it, baby. Be a good boy and cum for me yeah? You gonna cum for Johnny?”
Mere moments later, a pair of twin sensations rolled over him; the grip around his arm growing almost painfully tight, and Paul’s cum spreading over his hand in several hot spurts. It spilled between his fingers, molten—melting his skin like a brand. A silence opened up between them as their two frantic, panting breaths reduced to one. Frenzied and desperate, John dropped his hand from Paul’s hair to his arse, pulling him even closer so that he could rub up against him faster, firmer, until he spilled into his briefs.
He remembers how when Paul came he was nearly silent, only letting out a choked breath and a shaky sigh. How John himself couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut while he chased his orgasm, Paul just standing there and taking it, dazed and letting John use his body to get himself off while whining in between whispered obscenities.
Maybe he remembers more than he lets on. So what.
He hardly remembers the days that followed, certainly. The two of them kept a wide berth, that much he’s sure of, but everything else is a mystery. Where he spent his nights, what he did and with whom he did it, where all those bruises came from; lost to time. He can remember Not Acknowledging Paul, Not Looking at Paul, and certainly Not Talking to Paul. And from all of the Not Eye Contact they were making, John is sure that it wasn’t only him.
His days were taken up, mainly, by latching himself to Stuart—joining in when he taunted Paul—and making a right nuisance of himself until it was time to get back on the pints, which was his cue to broaden his menacing to the general public until it was time to perform. Obviously, they sounded shit, which proved only to make everyone angrier.
Especially Paul.
A few days of this cold war (four? five? He really couldn’t say—wilful neglect of sleep causing nights to bleed over into indistinguishable days) was all it took for Paul to boil over.
Some uncharacteristically barbed comment was slung, and then his hands were clutching Stu’s collar as each of them scrambled at each other’s throats right there; on stage in front of the jeering, indistinguishable crowd of working women and skeevy sailors eager to watch some blood be shed. Staggering at each other with reckless abandon until they were rolling about on the floor—feeling it creak underneath them—both trying to throw the other off while keeping him in his clutches, mutual mortification refusing to let either of them go.
When they were pulled apart, George’s spindly arms wrenching Paul away and Pete’s reasonably built ones holding back Stu, John’s feet made moves towards Paul before his brain could talk him down; grabbing him by the arm and marching themselves outside. Shattered from the waning adrenaline, Paul could only struggle weakly against John’s grasp.
They spilled out of the back door and into the cold night and John pressed Paul back against the wall of the club, crowding him. Before Paul could gather himself enough to push away or hit him or yell at him or something else unbearable, John pulled him in by the back of his neck—pressing the younger’s face into the crook of his shoulder and pressing his own face to the space behind Paul’s ear.
He took a deep breath in, tightening his clutch around the squirming body in his arms, and let out a long, shuddering sigh.
Time changes like this—minutes could have just as easily been thirty seconds, warping and melting the shape of every passing moment. The arms which previously fought against his body came to wrap around his back, taking up handfuls of his sweaty shirt. Paul smelt like stale body odor, fresh, salty sweat, iron. The stink of liquor radiating from each of them—ketones puffing out on their breaths carrying a nauseating tang. Both bodies keeping score of their masterful avoidance tactics, a hard week’s work at the bottle.
In the end, it was the cold air wicking down wet tracks along his cheeks that made him realise he was crying.
“John-”
“No, you don’t- fuck. Paul, you don’t get– you can’t. Please.”
Moving on instinct now, both pairs of arms growing tighter, tighter against each other. Willing the flesh to give way to the ineffable Thing connecting them, burning twin holes through their bodies, desperate to get out and touch.
Paul’s head tilts, and his lips press a kiss against the heated skin of John’s shoulder, exposed where his shirt collar has been pulled away from his neck.
You’re mine, it says.
John pulls himself back, eyes filled with something wild and unbelieving. Something frantic meeting Paul’s steadfast, a nervous but determined demand.
He leans in and their lips meet, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his lips a moment later; when he realises they’ve met in the middle.
Yes, I am.
From then on, John made sure to attend to Paul regularly. Wind him up, and then bring him down. A concentrated interplay of both of their energies, needing to get it out of their systems, if for nothing else.
(If not for both of their sakes, then for Pete and George’s. Poor lads.)
—
When he watches Paul now—sees him glisten and shine under the stage lights, sweat dripping and catching light like iridescent scales; he’s every bit the siren he saw unleashed back then, still singing. John feels a fucking idiot for not hearing the rest of his song, for missing the subtext. In retrospect, it seems unbelievable to him that once he realised he didn’t immediately crawl off somewhere to die.
It seems so obvious now and John feels like God is playing some cruel joke on him specifically, by making him both nearsighted in vision and, apparently, in his perception of Paul. The fact that it took him so long to catch on to—fuck—to Paul slipping away, that the damage had already been done. He runs circles in his mind, going round and round atop the same reasons Paul would leave him; inventing new ones. He's too stifled, out in Surrey. Not creative or exciting or inspired enough, he isn't keeping up.
He thinks about Wooler incident, the guilt and embarrassment of causing such a scene at Paul's fucking party, christ, no wonder I lost him still nagging at him more than a year on.
He’s been out of control since Julia died. Since his dad left. Hell, since he was born, it feels like.
Everything he does is out of balance, a drunken stumble manifesting far after any hangover. One foot in front of the other, two left feet. Everything he tries comes out jumbled, deformed, ugly. Twisted and gnarled, he ruins what he touches. Maims, melts, macerates.
He feels cursed.
Trapped in puppets’ strings, bound by a curse damning him to push too far, dig in too firm, claw too deep. To make hurt where it can be made. To push everyone away.
Everyone, except for Paul.
Paul, who can give it as good as he can take it, and who takes it damn good. Paul who, when they play, takes every bit of abuse in stride. Practically gloating, with how he wants to be taken down a peg; far enough up on the rungs that he can afford to be brought down. Paul who whines and sobs and begs, please Johnny, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’ll be good.
Paul who holds him afterward while John tries not to cry, but can’t quite manage to meet his eye as he thumbs over the back of his neck, behind his ears.
Paul who always leaves hungry.
So it’s no wonder really that Paul would be so inclined to yield for the first gentleman who not only shows an interest in him, but in examining him as something precious, witnessing him, cracking him open because he can tell there's something beautiful inside begging to be brought into the light. And when this gentleman happens to be older and taller, firm in a way which exudes authority but not humorless enough so as to be stifling, and who will actually deliver complements rather than rely on bright-eyed glances and the implication of devotion, well, it's no wonder Paul can’t help but take a bite.
And Paul only has one mouth. One set of eyes working in tandem. His hands are two, sure, but they move together with a singular focus. Bit of a one-track mind, is Paul.
He’s an angel in the studio, wide eyed and waifish and infuriatingly natural. Maddeningly alive. Mouth open, jaw slack, revealing the shiny, red and wet interior of his mouth as he bobs in place. Not like how he bounces when they perform, no. He’s inside his head, entirely self-possessed. He moves and it’s as though he’s made of a gas denser than atmosphere, the drop and sway of his hips moving with a different gravity than the world around him.
Denser, heavier, but intangible still. John thinks that if he were to reach out to grab him, he would pass right through.
But George Martin—somehow George Martin finds a handhold.
The world starts showing in third person one day, and suddenly he’s watching himself realise in real time.
They aren’t taping yet, just back from lunch, and Paul is already lost. Off with the fairies, hah, noodling about on his Hofner, absorbed by the round low end. The heavy bottom of the soundscape inside his head spilling out into his ears. Stood upright, straight-backed, eyes so low, so fixed on the fretboard that they almost appear shut. Lips parted.
Obscene.
From the corner of his eye, John barely catches it. How Big George’s hand lingers a little too long on the round of Paul’s right shoulder. He definitely catches how it slides to the back of his neck, thumbing at the nape. How his long, elegant frame engulfs Paul’s left side, head leaning into his space. There's a respectful distance left between their bodies, entirely inconspicuous to everyone but the two of them and John, transfixed.
But it’s in the way Paul’s head twists to his left to meet George’s eye, the way his pink tongue darts out to wet his lower–then upper lip, leaving his mouth hanging open and slick. The dark sparkle his wide, cow-like eyes take on, all fluttering lashes and pleading innocence.
He knows that look, knows it with as much certainty as he knows anything.
It can’t last more than a few seconds before John tears his eyes away, completely taken out of his conversation with Ringo. He mumbles something about needing to use the loo and knows he probably interrupts poor Rich, but he’s clattering through the door and down the hall to the closest bathroom stall before he can think too hard about it.
He finds himself in the Ladies loo, wondering how he’s going to talk himself out of this one, dry-heaving between hysteric gulps of laughter with his heads in his hands. The grip he has in his hair—the sharp, burning tug at the roots—reminds him of Paul. He chokes on his own breath, gags, heaves again. Nothing comes up but his eyes burn all the same, his sinuses block, filling with thick, sticky mucus. He says a small thank you to whatever force has made it so that they’re only tracking an instrumental—working on the overdubs—because there’s no way he could manage a decent vocal now.
The bathroom door swings open and he scrambles, puts the toilet lid down and sits atop it, pulling his feet up to hide his decidedly masculine shoes as the click, click sound of some unsuspecting woman's heels echo throughout the small room.
Sitting upright, perched on the toilet seat with his knees pulled to his chest, he cranes his neck toward the ceiling. Tries to find some levity in the situation, its absurdity, use it to steady his breathing—but he can't. He may as well be taking in lungfuls of water, breathing in through his mouth to bypass his blocked nose. He's choking on it. Feels it bubbling up inside of him, not water at all anymore but something thicker. Nastier. Boiling hot, scalding him from the inside out. From a couple of stalls over, the mystery woman starts pissing.
How fucking dare Paul, stepping out on him like that. Like John has been a means to an end this whole time, keeping Paul's bed warm and keeping him satisfied while he looks for someone better. How fucking dare George—taking advantage like that, he must be. It's not right, John almost wants to laugh. It's like he's making a habit of it, George is—making moves within the company. He and Cyn had been on holiday with George and Judy just a few months back, and the notion didn't offend him then—that George would take up with his assistant—it was obvious that their relationship was deeper than their circumstance. But now all he can see is a pattern. A pattern with only two instances, sure, but twice is enough to make him sick to his stomach. Hot, acrid bile churning and sputtering back up his esophagus. Furious.
He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and lets the dull pain engulf him, feels them throb. The hot thrum of blood through paper thin skin, feels the pressure inside his head build and build until he wants to scream. It buzzes through his fingertips, clenching and relaxing his fists—nails biting into his hairline. He can feel it pumping through him like this, with his eyes closed. Can feel his heart beat, sending it through the whole of him. It does nothing to calm him down.
There's still work to be done today. He knows that it's his job, that it's his responsibility to get out there and play. That he should pull himself together and light up before rejoining the rest of them and let it take him away; high enough that he can get through the session without causing an even bigger scene and go on his merry way after. Let his anger come out somewhere else, somewhere where he's far, far away from George Martin. He doesn't know what will happen when he gets home, what he'll do. There's a good chance someone will get hurt, and it will be his fault. He wants to believe it'll be himself. He knows from the look in Cynthia's eyes when he enters a room—watches her scan for the nearest exit, for the things that might get in her way—that it probably won't be. Her fear makes him angry, too. He feels far too sober to think about this.
He sits up with a jolt, unlocking and swinging open the stall door hardly a moment after his shoes hit the ground. The woman shrieks from where she stands at the sink, water splashing everywhere as her wet hands flail and panic, catching the running tap. John says nothing—doesn't even look at her—just barrels out of the room.
His footsteps come down quick and heavy as he makes his way back to studio two. Everyone is stood around now, band and technicians all well and truly back from lunch and looking a little put off. George Harrison exaggeratedly checks his watch. John walks over to his coat silently, draped over the back of his chair—goes and roots around in his pockets for the cigarette carton he's got his stash in.
"Alright John?" Ringo asks and John tenses. Thank god it was Ringo. If it had been anyone else he'd have done something awful.
"Just gonna pop out for a smoke, won't be a minute." John tries to keep his tone casual, normal. Keeps his eyes firmly on his coat. Aha, there we are—he takes the carton in hand, palms his lighter between the cardboard and his skin.
"We've not got any time John, with 'yer fit just then." Little George deadpans. A petulant rage ices over John. He's just trying to do the right thing, make it all easier for them. There's no fucking way little George Harrison is going to turn him into something nasty. Not when he wants so badly to just be good, normal for a little longer for everyone else's sake. Then he can go home and be awful in private, let himself wallow in it—be consumed by it.
"C'mon Hazza," John pleads, not wanting to even speak the name 'George' right now. "I'll only be a minute,"
"We've already been waiting on you for 10 minutes, wherever you fucked off to. It's not right to keep us longer." He maintains. It's not like he doesn't have a point, John knows. There's really not a lot of ground for him to stand on. He wants to scream.
"You'll be alright John, we'll just get through a few goes and then we'll stop for a fiver so you can have your smoke," Paul placates. Tries to, anyway. John closes his eyes and sucks in a sharp breath, nearly chokes on it.
"Look I just- I've got to, I need-" He stammers. The idle chatter that populated the space has quieted now. Everybody is looking right at him.
Then from behind the window of the mixing desk, through the loudspeaker. "It really would be best to get a move on, John. We still have a lot to get through today."
And that's it.
"Oh fuck off George, I didn't fucking ask," John snarls. Feels stupid for it, because he did sort of ask, too, but the anger flashes wild through him like raw electricity. Like lightning—pure, untamed current striking the first object that stands out on its way to the ground.
"Pardon me?" George speaks again over the intercom sounding a little offended, sure, but also having the gall to sound concerned of all things. Like he's got reason to be worried for John, like he can see into him—see the bits that are scared and small and see how they push and pull inside of him. See the bits only Paul has ever been allowed to see.
He really can't help himself, now. The bubble containing his decorum bursts and he finds that he doesn't really care to, either. "Don't act so fuckin’ surprised George,” he sneers, “I know what you're up to, you and that one. ‘S a fuckin’ disgrace. Disgusting." John gestures pointedly to Paul, who looks more shocked than he has any right to be.
"John, what-" Paul pipes up, starts to stand from where he's sat down—where he's sat now that George is back in the booth—his brain supplies, running circles over itself.
"Don't you fucking start, christ, I can't do this. I have to get out of here," he babbles, hands wringing—nails biting into his palms.
"No– John, wait-"
It occurs to him now, in the midst of it all, that he's never been this angry before and known exactly why. When he almost beat Bob Wooler to death, he didn't really know what it was that drove him to keep punching—blow after blow. Only that he was angry and off his fucking tits and it felt right. Felt like something he should do. Like he was making things right.
This doesn't feel like that; he doesn't feel righteous in this anger. He needs to leave.
"Fuck you, you're all cunts, the fuckin’ lot of ye'." John shouts, hoping it needles into every single person there and knows it won't—knows this production isn't even all that novel, coming from him—as he makes for the door, hurriedly shrugging on his coat. He catches the leg of a chair with his foot and lets it drag. Kicks it into a sheet music stand which gets sent off-kilter, clattering to the floor. He can hear Paul behind him, spitting out empty and unfocused apologies as he sets off after him.
John doesn't look back. He doesn't look back no matter how badly he wants to see Paul chase after him, which is not at all. He's almost through the doors to the reception, is striding down the hall when Paul gets him by the elbow and drags him into a neighboring room—an unbooked studio.
“What the fuck was all that about now John?” Paul's grip sears around the crook of his elbow, pulls him in closer than he means to. Uncomfortably close, the side of Paul's hip knocks into John's.
John can't help but scoff. It bursts out of him, gritty—tearing through his chest as it does and leaving raw, tender edges to snag on everything they touch. “Don’t fucking act like you don’t know, fuckin' giving it up for anyone now are you Paulie? Shagged your way through all the girls in London, had to move on to the men too, aye?”
Paul's eyebrows furrow, the picture of innocence with his wide, pleading eyes—acting every bit incredulous. "What the hell are you on about?"
"What is it, am I not good enough for you anymore? Had to get Mr. Martin to bend you over instead? Christ, I bet you'd let 'im bend you over the mixing desk right there, let everyone watch through the window." John jeers at him, trying to avoid that image bleeding into the edges of his mind's eye as Paul's cheeks flush—mouth parting in offence.
It feels like a gargantuan effort, yanking his arm free of Paul's grasp—he takes a few paces and walks in a small circle, rocks on his heels; facing away from him. Even through the suede of his jacket he could feel the pads of Paul's fingers lick against his skin, white hot and enveloping—flames lapping up his arm. The impression of them lingers, burning through layer after layer of skin even though they're long gone.
"John- what? you're being ridiculous. Where the ‘ell is this coming from?" Paul's voice bounces around the room, knocking against the panelling and bouncing off the ceiling.
John sways back around to look at him, performative and fake in a way he knows will grate at Paul; leave him disconnected, untethered, upset. Good, let him doubt. "Yeah, no. You're right Paulie—I'm gone crazy. Butter wouldn't melt in your little mouth, would it sweetheart?"
"You're not being fair y'know, makin' all these assumptions,"
"Paul." John deadpans, crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. It's petulant, impatient for the sake of it, and inherently disbelieving.
"Stop it, you don't know what you're on about." As a protest, it comes out weaker than Paul means it to, lacking conviction. Gives John a direct line of sight to that soft spot—sweet and vulnerable and the kind of place that he knows would make Paul purr if he gave it the right attention; a perfect target to zero in on.
"Tell me there's nothing going on then, say it to my face. C'mon. Tell me you're not letting our dear Mr Martin bugger you,"
Paul's jaw clenches, bottom lip drawing upward as his chin twitches. He's so close.
"I know what I bloody well saw, Paul. Was practically grinding up against you and sniffing your hair, 'e was. Should be locked up, fuckin' pervert."
The second it comes out of his mouth, John knows he's struck true. He feels the space between them flare violently, finally, after piling on fresh fuel for what feels like an eternity.
"Well you're bloody seeing wrong now, aren't you? An' even if he was, what would the fucking problem be, John? Am I not allowed to shag other people or summat?" It's a beautiful thing, Paul forgetting himself. He's always a beautiful thing, but Paul like this, approaching the boundary into becoming something truly caustic, is a sight to behold.
There must be a glimmer in John's eyes, something that shines back at Paul and reminds him of the game—how he’s playing into it. It makes him falter, withdraw. John sees it happen—he sees as Paul puts his walls back up, all at once. Like a box erecting from beneath the ground, closing him in nice and neat. Like he's sprayed down the dry slash just waiting to catch alight, to be set ablaze by the spark in his eyes when it burns just bright enough. He wets the pile so that the ember dies on contact. His eyes wet, just a little. John watches him put himself away. Watches Paul's protective, preventative measures. Hates him for it.
"I just don't get what the big deal is—would be, if I was, anyway." Paul says, lazy and unbothered in a way that he clearly isn't.
Paul's walls make him want to tear them down. Have at them with his hands, claw at him until they're both bloody and raw and entwined. Makes him want to dig his heels in deeper.
“It’d be fucking pathetic is what, jesus christ. I knew you were a whore but this is something else. What– he promise you the next A-side if you let 'im stick it in? It's not right you know, carrying on with his own artists like that. 'S fuckin' disgraceful." John rambles. The words come out before he lets himself think them, lets them just slip off of his tongue one by one—barely connected, an inflammatory game of mad-libs.
"John," Paul steadies, putting up a steely facade of machine precision.
"Paul," John mocks, widening his eyes and putting on his best pout. He feels the soft insides of his lips rub together; thinks about the way Paul's lips feel on his—that natural pout he's mimicking.
“You should come ‘round mine tonight,” Paul says, gravely serious. There's a fog come down over him—not heavy and grey or cold and white but some other thing—something thick and heady, thrumming with implication.
John wants to be mad at it—he is mad, actually. He's fucking furious and desperate and sad. Paul is offering an olive branch and the driving force behind him wants nothing other than to snap it in half.
But he looks into Paul's eyes, just for a moment—sees the reddened edges of their whites and the thick curl of his eyelashes—and he’s helpless, really.
Hours later, as John is letting Paul guide him down by his shoulders, pressed up against the side of John’s naked torso to kneel at George Martin’s feet—the cold seeping in through his trousers where his knees and shins rest against the hardwood floor—he'll point to that when he asks himself why.
Definitely no other reason.
—
John doesn’t go home that evening. Stupid now, to even entertain the thought of it. The idle drive to Weybridge would be too threatening to his frantic mind, anyway. But there's still time before the session is over—'till the rest of them get done—so he heads to a pub. When he’s had his fill, he goes to another.
He drinks pints, not daring to opt for anything stronger. He only manages a few in the end—wasting away the hours and letting each beer grow warm before it gets finished. The time routes the edge of his anger and he feels it as it wanes, taking with it the incessant need to drink and leaving a great hollow in its place.
When he steps out on the street it's dark outside, and he’s in a cab before he can think about it.
—
Paul's not had the place long, this new spot on Cavendish Ave. It’s still a novelty to pull up into this new neighbourhood where John doesn’t yet know the houses, the cars, the people and the wandering animals. It’s just another thing he’s behind on, another part of Paul he doesn’t know. Every wondering gnaws at him.
And really, that won’t do.
There’s a part of him that feels that it's his right—to be beside Paul. To be inside him. To nestle inside of his chest, behind the safe haven of his ribs. Make his home there.
To be inside him, sweaty and panting, his cock buried to the hilt and his sac meeting the cleft of Paul’s arse. To taste the meld of them between their lips—sweat, spit, semen. All of it, in every way. If he could give Paul a baby, he would; he thinks. He wishes.
There’s another part of him that feels he doesn’t deserve anything at all.
The air he breathes, water, earth. The space he takes up. It's all too much for the likes of him—rotten.
At the end of the day, it's the first part—brought forward by the fading thrum of booze pulsing inside his head, through his limbs and his digits—that doesn’t bother waiting after he knocks, just lets himself in.
It takes him a moment to orient himself, to recall which doorways lead where. There's a shuffling noise coming from down the hall, soft muffled voices, which he follows. Fucking cunt—he should’ve known better than to assume Paul wanted to see him especially. Curses himself for needing it so bad, soldiers on anyway.
He opens the door to the sitting room and looks up from where he stands in the doorway—baulks at what he sees.
On the floor in front of the furthest sofa, Paul kneels; fully clothed save for his shoes. A hand runs through his soft, inky black hair. He’s sat between a pair of knees, steadying himself with a hand on each slender thigh.
George Martin is staring down at him, petting him, each movement careful and affectionate. He’s hard in his trousers, John can see even from a distance. There are words being said—but John can’t make them out; there's a ringing in his ears all of a sudden.
For a few moments John stands there, undetected, though it doesn’t last long. He doesn’t drop anything—hasn’t got anything to drop—doesn’t say a word or fall to the ground or sob where he stands—but something in the air shifts anyway.
His hands screw up into fists without meaning to, wringing in and out, and it's at this that George looks up, noticing him where he stands at the room’s boundary.
George pales. His hand drops out of Paul’s hair and to his shoulder, then to his own knee.
Paul turns his head to look behind him, smiles sweetly, stupidly, and turns his whole body around where he kneels.
“John!”
There must be some sort of look on John’s face, he recognises. What it is—appalled, enraged, broken, desperate—he’s got no idea. He thinks vaguely, that maybe he’s gone pale too. He feels like he’s going to heave again. Like he's going to break something.
Paul’s serene expression falters, tumbles with an uncharacteristic gracelessness. “John?”
He chokes. “You’re a twisted fucking bastard, Paul.”
“Johnny, just—please. Come here love,”
John’s chin twitches, screwing up all bumpy and ugly as his eyes sting. “Don’t fucking call me that.” His voice comes out quieter, higher-pitched than he means for it to.
“Fuck you. No—Seriously, I can’t do this.” He turns away sharply, tucking his chin towards his chest—somehow managing to move his legs, one at a time.
Out of the sitting room and through the doorway, into the foyer, past the stairs. John’s hand—still as anything when he holds it out, though it feels as though he’s shaking out of his skin—reaches for the doorknob. Feels its cool surface underneath his palm, all its little details. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back to feel them again, he thinks—he takes the time to let the embossments rub across his skin. Lingers there until the metal grows warm from his touch, quits giving him the satisfaction of sensation—returning only his own body heat. His grip tightens and he twists the knob.
And all of a sudden, there’s a hand on his shoulder. He knows from the heft of the palm—the long, elegant weight of each finger—that it’s not Paul.
It flares up in him, the anger from earlier. He wants to hit. Not the reckless thrashing from earlier, either. He wants to hurt him—George. Wants to be hurt by him, too. Get a rise out of him, have him fight back. John would lose, he knows, but at least he would have tried. Know what it feels like to flap the unflappable.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any upset, John—if I had known that Paul had invited you around I wouldn't have come. Not without some prior discussion.”
John feels like he's somewhere else, realises belatedly that he's turned around to face George. Doesn’t know when that happened really, recalls turning into the hand that still lingers on the plane of his shoulder. Feels it squeeze softly.
He stares at George’s shoulder before tilting his head up. It's all too much. John screws his eyes shut.
"This isn't how this ever should have gone, John. I don't wish to hurt you, please trust that—I care about you a great deal."
He feels like a pot of hot water put back on the element, suddenly and violently reaching a rolling boil. But then he looks into George’s eyes—the endless ocean blue of them—sees the sadness there, the guilt. He sees the same love in George's eyes as he's seen reflected in his own, the kind of awe only Paul can bring forward.
John’s stomach twists, and for a second time tonight he feels his anger die. His insides turn cold 'til he feels like there's next to nothing left, his being made small. Reduced to some tiny, caged thing inside his lumbering body. Thinks that if he gets any smaller he’ll blip out of existence. Wishes for it. It feels impossible to believe the things he’s done when he’s like this—all the harm he's capable of. All he knows is how he feels, frightened and small—so fucking small. All the blood drained out of his veins, he is flimsy and hollow; soaked through to the bone, struggling under the weight of the clinging water.
In the doorway, Paul lingers. Timid. He’s staring right at John, boring into him. Nibbling at his thumb nail, already bitten down to the quick. A small trail of red bleeds down the side and absentmindedly, his tongue darts out to lick it up. Passing over the dry, broken skin there—glossing it wet with his saliva. He drops his hand away from his mouth then, wipes it on his trousers. For a fleeting second John tries to stand his ground, meet his gaze—cloying and weighty—but he can't stand it. He flits his eyes to the ground, lets them unfocus. Tries to disappear into the buzzing inside his head.
“It’s just—it's so good John. He’s so good, an’ you’re so good, I thought-“ Paul stammers, hands jittery and unsure, desperate to reach out and touch. “I just wanted you to see. I thought you would get it. I want you to get it.”
He’s playing dirty, acting the picture of innocence. John knows it. He must be.
But if Paul still wants him, that’s got to count for something.
“If… If this is some kind of joke you have to tell me.”
“It's not, John I promise. It's not.” Paul pleads, tentatively stepping through the door's arch—breaching the wall between them.
“Because it’d kill me Paulie, if you were fucking with me.”
He keeps creeping forward, slowly, until he’s close enough to grab John’s hands. He takes them, one at a time, and angles his body away from George.
“Hey, hey. Please, John. Look at me, yeah?”
John takes in a shallow breath, as though anything deeper might cause this whole situation to collapse. Letting go his unfocused gaze from the floorboards, he allows Paul's warm palm to move to the back of his neck, slide around to his cheek—guiding him up to meet his eyes.
“I want you here. I want you with me, want you to feel how you make me feel. George can help us, help get you there. Don’t you want it too?”
Up this close, John can see the flush of his cheeks, how his eyes have gone just the slightest bit puffy, teary. He's beautiful like this. Its not fair to have to face this, to try and think clearly with Paul so near—looking so close to how he's had him before, eyes wet and cheeks pink for more titillating reasons than this.
Reasons he's reminded of when he glances over at George, still half-hard in his trousers.
"Paul," John starts.
"Shhh," Smiling shyly, Paul's eyes soften. Thumbing across John's cheekbone—up and under the arch of his brow, trailing down the curve of his nose. "Please? Just trust me, it'll be good. You'll see. We can stop if you hate it."
It feels like a trap. There's no stopping Paul when he gets going, John knows well. A force to be reckoned with, he's helpless against him. And maybe there is a way to hold him, keep him still, but he's not figured it out. Doesn't know if he wants to. In the end, what Paul wants from him, he always gets. It's how it should be.
But it's not just him and Paul right now.
"George?" John says, turning his head towards him; face still cradled in Paul's hand. In his periphery, John can see the smile spread across Paul's face and he can't help the part of himself—deep within his belly—that glows at it; warming his empty body from the inside.
"We won't do anything you don't want to do, you have my word. We don't even have to do anything at all."
John nods, struck numb. There's a power in George's voice, he feels it bounce around inside him—playing off his ribs with an echo that makes him feel vaguely sick—all the reverb of bass played loud down an empty tunnel. There's something big, final, authoritative about him like this, embodying an easy control John has never had over himself. Never managed to keep, to hold in a way that feels natural. He's a boy compared to George, in so many ways.
It stirs something in him, something that lives in the same place warmed by Paul's smile—by Paul's mouth, the gasps and moans that leave it; high and whiny and fucking delectable. He thinks about the years between them—him and Paul and George. He isn't old enough to be either of their fathers, really, but it feels like he should be. The easy, masculine power of him, steady and reliable and safe like a father should be—a gentle leader who requests rather than demands. It's something unfamiliar to John, extending respect to any male power other than his own—save for the cruel, unsympathetic and enforced domination commanded by his schoolmasters—and even then he hardly bothered. There's never any of that with George. He gives John nothing to push against, but never yields to him either. He compromises, improves them—the boys—makes them better. He wants to help them succeed. And John still wants to fight it anyway. It makes him feel childish all over again, some untamed thing that doesn't know what's good for him. A thing that needs to be whipped into shape.
Fleetingly, he thinks of Jim—his inarguable reign over the McCartney home. Never to be questioned—only taking, never giving. He thinks about a teenaged Paul, the rumbling of his stomach drowned out by constant assurances spilling from his mouth, broadcasting to the world that everything is fine, cheers though, thanks even though John knows damn well that Jim would see that the horses are eating better than his own sons. He wonders if this is what drew Paul towards George, to have someone nicer, better to yield to—to submit to because he wants to, rather than out of fear of consequence.
John turns back, gingerly shifting Paul's hand off his cheek, taking it between his own. Squeezes—doesn't let go. They're the same height like this, John realises, with Paul just in his socks. Exactly eye to eye. It passes between them, twin wavelengths mirroring each other's crests and troughs. Everything at once. Nothing at all.
"Okay." John says, nearly a whisper—eyes locked on their entwined fingers.
"Yeah?" Paul asks, tone bubbling with mild disbelief and hope. John tears his eyes away from their hands, meets Paul's eye.
"Yeah."