***

“You smell."

Paul rolled his eyes.

"I’m dead serious, Paul. Don’t mean to be nasty or anything, you know, but, yeah. You smell. Bad. Like an old fish wrapper, maybe.”

Paul puffed his cigarette.

“Like a dirty sweatsock.”

Paul raised an eyebrow: That the best you can do?

“Like a broccoli fart in a rubbish truck.”

Paul seemed to like that one. He fell back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling and laughing softly to himself until John kicked him in the shin.

“Why don’t you believe me?” John asked him, almost sadly.

“Because” - Paul stretched and gave him a smug, lazy grin - “I never smell bad.”

“Eh? Who says?”

“Everyone. Fans. Reporters. The dozens and dozens of sexy gorgeous women I’ve fucked. Ringo.”

“Oh, sod off, McCartney, it’s not dozens and…Ringo?”

Paul blew a smoke ring in his face. “He claims he has a very sensitive nose.”

John resisted the obvious joke – he didn’t like making fun of people who weren’t there to hear it; it took all the sport out of it, somehow - and turned his best glare on Paul.

“Well, why don’t you go stink up his bed, then? You fucking little tart.”

“Don’t think I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t think I’d care.”

“You’d care. Who could ever replace me?”

“Oh, I dunno, how ’bout my fist? Reckon it’s a better fuck than you are, anyway. Probably a better songwriter, too.”

“Not a chance.”

“And I wouldn’t have to kip here all stinking morning with your stinking arse stinking up my sheets.”

“Your stinking sheets.” Paul laughed again.

John looked down at him. “You really aren’t going to get up, are you?”

“On my first day off in three weeks? Not bloody likely, mate.” Paul yawned, probably for effect, and closed his eyes.

John drummed his fingers on the comforter. The remains of breakfast - tasteless pancakes, tasteless eggs, tasteless orange juice, and some tasteless, flat, round American version of bangers – were still on the nightstand between their beds, and John zeroed in on the small silver pitcher at once. He didn’t even stop to think about it, really; just leaned over, picked it up and dumped the contents over Paul’s head.

Wake up, sleeping beauty.

“What the—?” Paul sat up fast enough to give himself whiplash, feeling puzzledly, then frantically, at his head. His expression went from startled to disbelieving to horrified in a space of seconds, and John had to gnaw the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“Cor, would you look at that! You’re a right mess, you are.”

Paul just gaped at him.

“Disgusting, really. You have syrup in your hair. And on your face. And on your dick.”

Paul’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a telly with the sound turned off.

“Maple syrup on your dick is da bad joo-joo,” John intoned in a Lennon Funny Voice. “Give you da clap, boy.”

Paul finally found his voice.

“You fucking crazy bastard!” he hissed. “Why did you do that?”

John shrugged. “I warned you. I told you to get your stinking arse out of my bed.” He leered. “But if you want me to clean you up—”

He lunged, batting his eyelashes, tongue lolling obscenely in the vicinity of Paul’s face. Paul shoved him away and scrambled off the bed. He was muttering something that sounded a lot like fucking should fuck Ringo, least he’s not some fucking idiot pouring food on people’s heads as he stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Careful to avoid the mess on the sheets, John leaned back against the headboard and lit a cigarette. Grinning. And waiting.

***

Paul stepped into the shower and yanked the tap hard to the left, wondering - for possibly the ten thousandth time since That Day At The Fete – exactly what the hell it was he saw in John Lennon.

He was a complete nutter. A complete mystery, sometimes, even to Paul, even after all these years. And a complete contradiction. He proclaimed himself the honest one, but he danced around everything important; he proclaimed himself a serious thinker, but he couldn’t be serious about anything for longer than thirty seconds, and he could make a sick game or joke out of...well, out of everything.

Even a nice, lazy, romantic morning in bed together, apparently.

Paul sighed. No, he decided, dumping about a quart of shampoo on his head, there was no putting a nice face on it. John was mad. Brilliant, sexy, sweet in his own very twisted way, and funny as fuck – but mad as a bloody hatter.

He lathered and rinsed and lathered again (it took three shampoos just to get the shit out of his hair), taking his time, the ritual relaxing him in spite of his annoyance. Steam rose around him, and he basked in the heat, eyes closed, face in the spray. It was heaven. Even when you weren’t drenched in cloying, tacky gunk, there really was nothing like a hot shower. It was almost sexual. The wetness and warmth all around you. The pulsing rhythm of the spray. John’s arms slipping around your waist, his lips planting a light sucking kiss on the back of your neck, his erection sliding teasingly along the cleft of your ass.

Hang on.

“See? You smell much better now,” John murmured in his ear. “All soapy and Paulish. Not a bit like a rubbish truck.”

Paul half-turned his head, ready to blast him or laugh or he wasn’t sure what, and John leaned over his shoulder and kissed him. It was a lovely kiss, too, John at his most tender, his left hand cradling the side of Paul’s face, his right palming soapy circles on Paul’s stomach.

“Mad,” Paul whispered when John pulled back. “Mad as a hatter.”

“Eh?”

“Nothing. Kiss me again.”

Mmm. It was sweet, slow, almost lazy, tongues touching lightly, letting the desire build. John’s hands began to wander and Paul broke the kiss to watch, fascinated as always by those strong, graceful fingers moving over him, as thrilled by the sight of it - the idea of it - as he was by the feel. The hand on his face caressed a line along his jaw to his mouth, and he pressed a quick kiss in the palm; the hand on his stomach slid lower, tickling lightly through dense black curls. He felt the first hard flutters of arousal low in his belly, the gathering tension at his groin, and he willed John to look, to see, to feel it too.

“Lower,” he said.

He wasn't sure John could hear him over the water – he could barely hear himself – but John’s hand moved further down and John’s fingers closed around him at last, and then John was stroking him, long slow firm strokes with that rough little squeeze at the end that he loved so fucking much. Oh, yes.

“Harder,” he said.

The hand on him paused. Loosened. Stroked again, just once, the rough palm barely grazing his skin.

“Harder?” the crooning, slightly nasal voice teased. “Harder…what?”

Paul clenched his teeth and tried not to move. He hated it when John did this to him. He loved it when John did this to him.

“Harder what?” John repeated. Another stroke, still much too slow, much too soft, not nearly enough. Glorious. Paul shivered in spite of the steamy heat and dropped his head back on John’s shoulder. “Harder…‘please’? Harder…‘Johnny Angel’?”

Paul shut his eyes.

“Harder…‘sir’?” Another stroke, a bit firmer this time. But just a bit.

“Oh…shit…Jesus, John, come on…” Paul was moving now, helpless to stop, rocking slightly between John’s hips and his hand. His evil, wonderful, torturing hand.

“Harder, ‘oh my lord and master’?”

Yeah, he was enjoying himself, the mad bastard. A line from the new script Brian had sent over came to Paul, out of nowhere – “You’re a rat underneath, aren’t you?” – and only when he felt John’s body shaking did he realize he had said it aloud.

“That’s me,” John cackled, nuzzling him, the words tickling and warm in Paul’s ear. “Just a rat, a mad rat, mad as a mad ratter—”

Paul turned in his arms and kissed him.

It was like flicking a switch. Instantly, the flavor of their lovemaking changed, the touches cruder, the kisses rougher, teeth nipping and tongues probing deep. Paul liked it a little rough when he really got going, and John didn’t seem to mind. Unless grabbing Paul’s ass in both hands and rubbing their cocks together like he was trying to start a fire was his way of saying, “Unhand me, you big-eyed brute.”

They broke apart with a gasp. Paul pressed his lips to John’s ear and whispered, “Turn around,” and the wicked smile that John flashed him before he faced the wall damn near made his knees buckle. He loved being wanted by this man.

He caressed John’s back with trembling hands, kissed his neck, trailed soapy fingers down his spine. He cupped the firm buttocks and slipped a finger between, tracing, teasing, testing.

“We, uh, need…something…” Paul glanced around helplessly. Nothing but soap, shampoo and more shampoo. “Something slippery, but not too—hullo!” He broke off with a yelp as John reached back and gripped his erection, slick with soap and water and his own excitement.

“You have something slippery there, Macca,” John growled over his shoulder. “Use it.”

“I don’t…don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” John half-turned and gave him that grin again. “Come on, Paul. God hates a coward.”

Paul meant to go slowly, to ease in just a bit at a time, but John was right, he was slippery, and his first gentle push took him in all at once, so deep they both gasped. Paul stopped, afraid to move, afraid to even breathe.

“Jesus, John! Are you…Did I…?”

“No…it’s all right, Paul…it’s good …it’s all right…” John had his head back slightly, the cords in his neck just showing, his hands – so beautiful, Paul thought distractedly, God I love his hands – scrabbling at the tiles. “It’s just been so long, love, just…fuck me…”

Paul bit his lip. It had been a while since they’d done this, actually gone this far, and he’d almost forgotten how beautiful it felt. The heat was incredible, the hold so tight it was nearly painful…and it was John. To be inside John again, to be a part of him, joined with him, was intoxicating, and for long moments Paul could only stand there, trembling, digging his fingers into John’s hips, fighting for some scrap of control.

John seemed to understand; he urged Paul on, but quietly, with a whisper, a look, a tiny shift of his hips.

Paul groaned and nodded and slowly began to move, searching for just the right rhythm, angle, spot. He withdrew to the head and John shuddered and he thrust to the hilt and John moaned, and he could feel John pulsing around him and he could feel himself throbbing through John and Jesus Christ why did they even bother shagging birds any more, why didn’t they just do this every single fucking night of their lives?

“Shit!” John stiffened suddenly, pushing back hard against him.

“There?” Paul panted.

“Jesus, just there…”

God, he loved this! It always amazed him, how much he loved this. The sounds John made when Paul hit that perfect place inside him, the way John tightened around him, like he never wanted to let him go…Paul thrust harder, faster, dropping his face into John’s hair, the urge to bite buried in hot sucking kisses along his nape, the need to come now almost unbearable. Please, John, come on, love, please, I can’t take much more, can’t hold back, can’t—

“Fuck! Oh, God, Paul…” John turned his head and Paul could see his face and Paul knew that look, knew John was close, so close, and he leaned forward and John leaned back and their mouths crushed together and then John was coming, his hips jerking forward, his seed spraying the wall. For a moment Paul was transfixed, his own need forgotten. John was coming, without touching himself, without Paul touching him, without a hand on him at all. John was coming just from Paul fucking him, and that was, oh Christ, that was just the hottest fucking thing Paul had ever seen.

“Come, Paul, Christ, baby, let go, come for me, in me—” John groaned, his voice harsh and breaking, and that was all the urging Paul needed. He thrust once more, as hard as he could, as deep as he could, nearly slamming John into the wall as he finally, finally let himself go.

***

The water was still running. And still hot. American plumbing, Paul decided, was a beautiful thing.

“John?”

John murmured and turned his head. His expression was sated and lovely and – Paul rolled his eyes – unbearably smug. “Yeah?”

“I didn’t really smell like a rubbish truck, did I?”

John grinned.

“Or a sock, or a fish wrapper.”

John chucked him under the chin. “No. No, my sweet, I fear it was all a filthy lie. A sneaky, cowardly ruse to get your delectable little arse wet and in my clutches.”

“That was your arse in my clutches.”

“But it was wet.”

“So you went through all that for this?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, son. ‘This’ was bloody fantastic.”

“But you couldn’t just come out and say, ‘Hey, Paul, let’s fuck in the shower’?”

“Me? Just come right out and say what’s on my mind?” John looked aghast. “Next you’ll be saying I’m foul-mouthed and irreverent.”

Paul reached across him and turned off the shower. John caught his arm as he was drawing back and held him, their faces close. Paul smirked, expecting more jokes, more wisecracks, maybe a quick kiss or even (John being John) a dog-like lick up the side of his face, but something in John’s expression sobered him fast.

“Wouldn’t want you to get bored of me, is all.”

Ah. So that was what this was all about.

Paul touched John’s face – not quite a caress, of course, because only queers went poncing around petting each other when they weren’t actually fucking – and smiled. “You’re never boring, John. Even when you’re sort of normal.”

“Ta, there, Macca.”

“Anyroad, you suck a mean dick.”

“Do I? Y’know, you’re the first bloke that’s ever said that to me.”

“Yeah. I could never get bored with a mouth like yours.” He paused, wanting John to look him in the eye. Wanting John to see. “Never, John.”

John flushed. The hand on Paul’s arm tightened a fraction, and Paul thought - but couldn’t be sure, it was too slight and too quick - that John nodded. Then: “Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we get out of here now? I have goosebumps on my balls.”

Paul nearly laughed with relief. “No fear.”

They stepped out of the tub. Paul grabbed a towel and started rubbing himself vigorously; John grabbed a towel, ran it once over his dick, and tossed it on the floor. He was halfway out the door before Paul had finished drying his hair.

“Talk about slam-bam, Lennon. Leave a few quid on the dresser, would you?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You just had breakfast!”

“Mmm. Well, I seem to have worked up an appetite since then. Thought I’d call room service while you shave.”

Paul ran a hand along his jaw. “Do I need to shave?”

“Paul. You always need to shave.”

“Yeah, but we’re not going anywhere…”

“Don’t care. I’ll not have you shredding my bits with your famous noon-o’clock shadow. Lop it, son.”

Paul sighed. He hated shaving.

“Look, you get rid of the bristols—”

“Bristles, John. I don’t actually have, you know, bristols—”

“—and I’ll buy you lunch. What d’ya want?”

“Don’t care. I’m not really hungry…” He blinked, suddenly inspired. “Hang on. See if they have any bouillabaisse.”

“Bouilla-whatsit?”

“Bouillabaisse. It’s French. It’s, er…like a stew.”

“What’s in it?”

Fish. Smelly fish. Lots and lots of smelly fish. In smelly garlic-fish broth. “Oh…you know…this and that.”

John still looked doubtful.

“Come on, John. I have a craving.”

“Well, all right, then. But don’t think I’ll be eating any of it.”

Paul gave him a brilliant smile. “No. I don’t think you will. Be eating it, I mean.”

After all, he wouldn’t want John to get bored of him, either.