Shakespeare & Roses (Beatles - J/P)
Title: Shakespeare & Roses
Author: hb_princess
Pairings: John/Paul
Rating: NC-17

Summary: The old “If I Fell” chestnut. John wants to write a love song; Paul is his (unwitting?) inspiration. It’s the unwitting part that makes John so crazy.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The Beatles were nice hetero boys who never ever EVER did these sorts of things with each other. Not in Cleveland, anyway.

Notes: I wanted Paul’s POV in this as well, but the stubborn bastard just wouldn’t talk to me. John, of course, would not shut up. Also? “Jumper” is British for “sweater.” No, Virginia, our Johnny is not a cross-dresser.



***


John was writing a song. Well, he was trying to write a song. Well, he was supposed to be trying to write a song. What he was actually doing was staring at a snarl of very bad lyrics crossed over so viciously the paper was slashed through in spots. And swearing a lot under his breath. And wishing he wasn’t so fucking drunk.

Paul was reading. On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, and John didn’t know whether to sneer or coo. The adventures of a dashing looker who liked flashy cars and clothes and ran through birds like used tissues? Nah; John couldn’t begin to imagine why Paul was so smitten with James Bond.

“Want me to take a look?”

John glanced up with a startled frown. Paul’s eyes were still on his book. “Eh?”

“Do you want me to take a look?”

“At what?” John gave him the Groucho eyebrows and leered.

Paul jerked his head toward John’s notepad. “At that, you git.”

“Huh…?” Without even thinking about it, John pulled the notebook a little closer to his chest. “Er…no.”

“Why not? You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

John grimaced. “I got stuck on my own, son, I’ll get unstuck the same way.”

“But love songs are my specialty.”

“Oh, so now you have a specialty? Well, aren’t we fucking grand.”

Paul just shrugged and went back to Bond, but his mouth tightened a bit, and John sighed.

“All I’m saying, Macca, is you haven’t written so damn many more love songs than I have.”

“Enough, though.”

“Not so many that you’re some bloody expert. Most of the love songs we’ve done we’ve written together anyway.”

“Most? Ha! ‘All My Loving’? Mine. ‘P.S. I Love You’? Mine. ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’? Also mine. ‘Love Me—’”

“I get the point, Paul,” John growled.

“‘Hold Me Tight,’ ‘I Saw Her Standing There’”—

“Songs that say 'love', Paul, not ‘please let me fuck you on the nearest flat surface.’”

Paul grinned. Obviously, his good humor had returned. “‘And I Love Her’—”

“Hang on! I helped you with that one!”

“Two lines, John. Two measly, bloody little lines.”

“But they’re the two that finally pried the redhead’s thighs apart, aren’t they, son?”

Paul sighed. “Yeah,” he said, with a dreamy smile John wasn’t at all sure he cared for. “Yeah, they did at that.”

John smacked him with the notebook. “Get your brain out of your Y-fronts and help me, arsehole.”

“Thought you didn’t want my help!”

“Not with the song, you sod. With…with the inspiration.”

“Ohhh.” Paul put down his book and leaned back on an elbow, giving him a sexy look. Eyes half-closed, lips slightly parted - his take-me-now look. If I tried that, I’d look a right idiot, John thought, both irritated and amused. Like the fold-out in some queer’s wank book. Like the bloke who jumps out of the dick-shaped cake. “How’s this?”

It was good. It was very good, actually; only one thing wrong that John could see.

“Be better if you were naked,” he grunted.

“So make me naked.”

Well. Apparently Paul was pretty fucking drunk, too.

“You know, that’s your problem, Macca,” John said. He tossed his notebook on the floor and stretched out beside Paul. “You don’t know the difference between sex and love.”

Paul frowned. “’Course I do.”

John toyed with the collar of Paul’s shirt. “The hell you do.” The tone was scornful, but his hands were gentle, almost delicate, as he undid button after button. “You wouldn’t know love,” he continued, “if it lay down beside you and snogged you full on the lips.”

“That’s a stupid fucking thing to s—mmph! ” Paul’s answer was muffled as John snogged him full on the lips.

“You wouldn’t know love,” John went on, trailing kisses down Paul’s neck and sucking on his collarbone, “if it trailed kisses down your neck and sucked on your collarbone.”

Paul groaned appreciatively in his ear.

"You wouldn’t know love if it pinned you to the bed, tore open your trousers, and gave you the blow-job of your life.”

Paul blinked up at him.

“What?” John asked.

“I’m waiting.”


***


Later, as Paul slept, John smoked and doodled and watched him. It was one of his favorite pastimes, had been since their first teenaged sleepover, though he would have cut out his tongue with a rusty hacksaw before admitting it. It seemed so…so faggy, somehow. So soft and sappy and queer. Didn’t feel that way, though. Wasn’t even sexy, really; just…nice. Soothing. He enjoyed looking at Paul in sleep because Paul was beautiful in sleep, but it wasn’t in that glossy, feature-perfect way everyone thought he was beautiful; it was real in a way John could appreciate without envy or lust. Sweaty. Rumpled. Vulnerable. Serene. When Paul was asleep, all the bullshit that came along with the pretty package and vast talent – his moodiness and massive ego, his affectations and rather ruthless ambition - melted away; when Paul was asleep, he became what the whole world thought he was.

What are we doing here, Paul? he asked the sweet sleeping face. He glanced down at the notebook in his lap, at the useless words that refused to say what he wished, and shook his head. What the fuck are we getting ourselves into?

He had a feeling Paul wouldn’t have answered even if he’d heard.


***


Three days later. Different city, different hotel, same scene.

“So who is she?” Paul asked suddenly.

Again, John glanced up; again, Paul had his eyes on his book. “She? She who?”

“Whoever you’re trying to write this song for.”

John tensed. “Who says I’m trying to write for anybody?”

“Oh, come off it, John. You don’t even like love songs, especially, but now one day out of the blue you just gotta write one? There must be some reason.”

His interest was real, John saw; he was not mocking or teasing, but genuinely curious. John felt a bit of warmth creep into his face.

“Come on, John,” Paul coaxed. He leaned forward, all wicked grin and fluttering lashes, and gave John a rib-noogie with his paperback. John slapped the book away, mostly for form’s sake, and tried not to laugh. “Who is it? You can tell me, you can tell your old Uncle Paulie. Whose thighs are you trying to pry apart?”

The warmth in John’s face turned to blazing heat. “Maybe they’re already apart, did you ever think of that?”

“Mmm, I did. But I figured you couldn’t be arsed to write a song for some bird unless she was a hold-out. She must be something special, too, for all this. Must be all legs and eyes and killer blowjobs.”

You don’t know the half of it, son. “Paul, just how pissed are you?”

“I dunno, John. Pretty fucking pissed, I’d say. I should think, old boy.” God save him, he was giggling. “So come on, give. Tell Uncle Paulie all about it.”

“You’re daft.” John shook his head. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bollocks.”

“Yours or mine?”

Paul ignored him. “It must be someone we both know, too, or you wouldn’t be so afraid to tell me…wait, lemme guess! That bird in Brian’s office? The blonde with the glasses and the great tits?”

“Cor, she’s an old biddy!”

“Nah, she’s fresh enough. Oh, shit, what’s her name? Wanda something? Or Winnie…?”

“The Pooh.”

“Don’t be an arsehole, John. What’s her name?”

“Wendy, and I’m not being an arsehole. I’d rather fuck a cartoon than her. She’s a dead slag.”

“Great tits, though. Big.”

“Big honey pot, too.”

Now they were both giggling.

“That’s it, then? Too much room at the inn?”

“Yeah. Could get all four of us in there, I reckon.”

“Hey, I’m game.”

“Kinky bastard. Crinkly bastard.”

“Brian could take pictures.”

“And wank to them later.”

“Wank to you later, maybe.”

That dried up John’s chuckles for good, but Paul plowed blithely on.

“Is it Cilla?”

“No.”

“Joanna?”

“No.”

“It’s not one of the birds from the fan club or the office?”

“No.”

“Christ! It’s not Maureen Cleave, is it?”

“Don’t be soft,” John chided. “Was just a fling with Maureen, you know that.”

“Ah ha! So this is more than a fling, isn’t it?” Paul looked unaccountably delighted. “More than just holding hands or knocking boots or gazing at the stars?” He leaned closer still and peered rather blearily down his nose at John. “I knew it, I knew you were in love, John, I told you so—”

“Shut up, Paul.”

“—so, c’mon, spill it. What’s her name?”

“Jesus Christ, Paul—”

“Jesus Christ!” Paul hooted. “You’re in love with Jesus Christ?”

“No,” John muttered, watching Paul collapse with the deliciousness of his own wit, fighting a childish urge to join him. Or hit him really, really hard. “Just sometimes he thinks he is.”

Drunk or not, Paul caught it. The bastard.

“He?”

Oh, bugger.

“He, John?”

John blushed again. “Didn’t say ‘he,’ you idiot. You’ve got a hearing problem there, son.”

“The hell I do. You said ‘he’, John. I heard you, clear as day! You’re in love with a ‘he’?”

“Shut it, Paul,” John growled again, and he meant it this time. The game had ceased to be amusing four or five guesses ago. And he wasn’t sure Paul was nearly as drunk as he appeared to be, so…so what the fuck was he up to?

“A ‘he.’ Another bloke. Hmm. Should I be jealous, then? Is he cuter than me? Smarter? Sexier? Nah, I expect he couldn’t be, could he?”

“The gods forbid,” John agreed dryly.

“But maybe…maybe I should be jealous anyway. If you love him, I mean.”

John just glared.

“Do you love him?”

“Honestly? Yes and no.”

Paul blinked. Raised his eyebrows. Bit his lip before a sunny, slightly dazed smile spread slowly across his face.

“It’s me, isn’t it, John?”

John’s heart skipped.

“It is, it is! It’s me, I can tell.”

“Not in your stickiest dreams, mate,” John managed.

“No, in realty. Re-al-ti-ty…for real. It’s me.” He inched forward some more. “Why don’t you just admit it? You’re fucking mad for me, aren’t you?”

John gave him a measuring look. The twinkle in Paul’s eyes – half-liquor, half-sex – was bright as ever, the same playful smirk curving his mouth; he gave no indication that this was anything but banter to him, flirting, part of the game they’d been playing since their first wank together. John debated. The truth would probably be harmless, under the circumstances. If Paul didn’t really believe it, of course.

And, failing that, if Paul could handle it.

John folded his arms across the end of the bed and rested his chin on them, his face no more the two or three inches from Paul’s. His throat was dry and tight; his heart was beating much too fast. “So what if I am?”

Paul’s eyes widened a fraction, but his grin never faltered. He flattened himself on the bed, bringing them closer still, so close John could feel Paul’s breath on his lips, could see the shifts of green and amber in his eyes. Kaleidoscope eyes, he realized, and unconsciously filed the words away.

“Yeah,” Paul agreed softly. “So what if you are?”

Well. All right, then.

John leaned up and Paul leaned down and their mouths touched, brushing lightly against each other. John breathed in the smells of him, Ivory soap and cigarette smoke, Scotch and Altoids and warm clean skin, nudging Paul’s mouth open with his own. Paul’s tongue met his and John’s skin prickled, the hairs standing up on his neck, a lazy, hungry sort of pleasure rolling over in his belly. Well, John thought, this is different, and before he could figure it out, before he could even decide if he liked it better or not, he felt Paul press forward again and they were doing it again, just barely kissing, just barely touching.

Different, yeah. Softer and sweeter than usual, tender, sort of shy. Strange…but nice.

John drew back and looked at Paul’s face. His lips were appropriately flushed and parted, eyes dark, hair mussed. Beautiful. “Come down here,” he suggested, surprised he could keep a steady voice.

“No,” Paul grinned. “You come up here.”

“Why?”

“Well, I have a bed under me.”

“So?”

“So I’m not doing this on the cold hard floor, John. Jock. El Jocko. Not for you or…for anybody.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

John leaned in and kissed him again, quick and hard, and when Paul strained forward to meet force with force, John wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him off the bed.

“’Ey!” Paul landed half on top of him, rolled off, and hit the floor bum-first. He sat up and glared at John. Who was busy laughing himself into a hernia.

“Looks like you changed your mind,” John snickered merrily. “Looks like you’ll be gettin’ it on the cold hard floor after all, won’t you, old thing?"

Paul tackled him.

“Oof!”

“You stupid bastard!” Paul yelled, but he was laughing too, laughing in that utterly helpless way only John could make him laugh as they wrestled and grappled and rolled around on the carpet between the bed and the TV. “That hurt! I landed right on my arse!”

“Ha…wonder…you didn’t…bounce…clear up to…the…the ceiling,” John panted.

Paul slapped him across the back of his head. “You broke my arse!”

“Did I?” John grinned. “Lemme see!” He pushed and they rolled again and then John was on top, straddling Paul’s hips and grabbing at them, flipping him prone.

“No!” Paul pushed and flailed, rather uselessly, given that he was pinned on his belly and couldn’t see where he was hitting. “Get away, John! You bloody fucking idiot, get off!”

“No, I want to see!” John was still laughing, too, partly because of the Scotch, partly because his “confession” had not made the world grind down to a halt, but mostly because it just felt good; his sides were aching, his eyes were streaming, and it still felt better than anything he’d felt in weeks. He smacked Paul’s ass playfully (and hard, judging by the yelp) and pawed his pajama bottoms down to his knees. “Ho!” he gasped. “You’re right, Paul! Why, it’s…it’s all…cracked!”

That did it. Paul stopped struggling and collapsed, a limp heap of uncontrollable giggles.

“You…are such… an arsehole,” he managed to choke out. “I just…I don’t know why…what the fuck I see—OW!” as John smacked him again. “Bloody hell, John, that hurts!”

“You love it,” John smirked, rubbing the red spot nevertheless. “You love it when I’m manly and forceful.”

“Mmm,” Paul breathed. He sounded a bit shaky, but he wasn’t pulling away; in fact, he seemed to be pressing into John’s touch, though subtly, tentatively. John tried to decide if the rubbing had him nervous or aroused. Usually Paul was careful to not let John touch him there too often or too intimately, perhaps afraid John would get carried away and just start fucking or something. Which was actually pretty bloody stupid; after all, John didn’t know any more about fucking another bloke than Paul knew about getting fucked – what was he going to do, just launch and land on him dick-first?

Couldn’t say he hadn’t thought about it, though.

He turned Paul on his side and spooned up behind him, his chest to Paul’s back, his groin to Paul’s ass, his lips to Paul’s neck, until there wasn’t a breath of space between them, tip to tail. Paul had started this romp shirtless and was now almost completely starkers, pants hanging from one ankle, but John was still fully dressed, and the contrast was oddly arousing. It made Paul seem more naked, somehow; it made John feel decadent and slightly empowered.

He caressed Paul’s ass again, lightly, carefully. Paul murmured and sighed and shifted a bit, but he still didn’t pull away. John slid a hand around to Paul’s hip and pressed his mouth to Paul’s ear, the words ready and waiting, actually trembling right there on the tip of his tongue. I love you. Let me fuck you. I want to fuck you. I want to love you. He bit his lip and thrust forward slightly, his erection an unmistakable pressure against Paul’s ass; Paul tensed and John reached further, gripping and stroking him firmly, and suddenly Paul seemed much less concerned about where John had his willie and much more interested in where John had his hand.

“Shit…John…yeah…mmm, oh…just…like that…”

What a randy bastard he was, John reflected affectionately, taking advantage of Paul’s distraction and licking his ear, rubbing even harder against his ass, stroking him all the while. He loved making Paul fall apart, just fucking loved it. Paul the smoothie, the PR guy, so proud of his poise and control, but wrap a hand around his cock and you could almost hear the brain cells explode.

Sexy little sod. John wanted to fuck him so bad he could taste it.

His hips moved faster, unconsciously in time with his thoughts, pumping against Paul harder and harder. He was still completely dressed in jumper and jeans and it passed through his mind that maybe he was hurting Paul, or likely would be if he didn’t stop. Rough denim, bare skin - extremely delicate bare skin - probably not the best combination. Not unless Paul wanted to wake up tomorrow with what felt like a bad case of diaper rash.

Besides…John wanted to feel him. There. Just once, he wanted to know what it was like, his cock and Paul’s ass and nothing between the two, no clothes, no barriers. He needed to feel it.

He had to let go of Paul to unfasten his jeans and push them roughly down; it only took a moment, and he buried his face in Paul’s neck the whole time, sucking and kissing, but Paul tensed again, no lovely stroking to distract him now from John’s cock, John’s naked cock, and where it was and how close it was, how close to his—

“John, no…wait…! Christ, what—?”

“It’s okay, Paul, I’m not—”

“I don’t want—you know I can’t—”

“I know, Paul, I know!”

Paul went silent. John took him in hand again and was more relieved than gratified when Paul’s hips twitched and his prick jumped in response, swelling once more in John’s grip. John began stroking him again, murmuring warm words of reassurance in his ear. “Relax, it’s fine, you know I won’t, I won’t, Paul, I promise…”

“But you’re…you…”

“I just want to feel you, Paul, just feel you, love…”

He began to rock again, tentatively at first, his movements brittle and self-conscious. Don’t flip out on me, Macca, don’t spoil this, goddammit, please. Their bodies were furnace-hot, slick with sweat – John briefly cursed his lack of nudity now – and friction wasn’t a problem. Right now, friction was a blessing and a thrill, and John sought it for both of them, sliding and pushing, at once frustrated and blindingly aroused by the knowledge that his ultimate goal was only a shift of his hips and one hard thrust away.

–want to fuck you, love, bloody hell, want to fuck you so bad—

John closed his eyes and imagined it, saw it, clear as day. Paul on the bed, his head thrown back, John’s cock buried deep in his ass. In this fantasy John didn’t have to be gentle or careful and he slammed into Paul over and over again, fucking him with everything he had, his balls slapping damp flesh, his fingers digging hard into straining thighs. In this fantasy Paul didn’t mind or fear this act but welcomed it, relished it, lifting his hips to meet every thrust, his body a trembling white bow. And his eyes, his eyes locked on John’s face, wide and hungry and tender, as he chanted John’s name through a tightened throat, over and over as he came—

Oh, Christ, he was close. He bit his lip, trying to hold back for Paul’s orgasm, wanting them to come together, but that image - Paul folded nearly in half beneath him, John driving into him again and again - was too powerful to resist. He dropped his mouth to Paul’s neck and sucked hard, the fragile skin rising hot and raw between his lips. Paul gasped and shuddered and John saw his balls draw up tight and he took them in his free hand, cupping and fondling and squeezing gently. Paul’s body went taut in his arms, every muscle locked and shaking, a low moaned “Fuck!” slipping from him like a prayer. John’s fist went slick and his hips surged forward in one last awkward thrust and oh, God suddenly he was there, right there, the head of his cock pressed right against it, right where he wanted to be, and he could feel how hot Paul was there, how hot and how tight, could feel the spasms and almost taste what they’d be like all around him, all around his cock, what it would feel like to be buried in that burning, writhing body and have Paul’s pleasure feeding his. He gave the slightest jerk of his hips, helpless to stop, pressing forward the tiniest bit, and he couldn’t be sure but it felt like Paul pushed back just the tiniest bit, and whether he imagined it or it was real or whatever it was, it was enough to make him explode, groaning and clutching Paul tightly to him as he came.

They flopped back on the rug, riding out the aftershocks together, Paul still wrapped in John’s arms. John nosed lazily through the hair at the base of Paul’s neck, dropped a soft kiss at his temple, stroked his arms, his thighs, his belly and chest. Not his cock, though. Not this soon after. Ho, no. John would never make that mistake again; somewhere in Manchester, there was a hotel ceiling that likely still had Paul’s nail marks in it.

Not that Paul had been completely blameless himself. “Don’t touch me there yet, I’ll jump out of me fucking skin” was just asking for it, in John’s opinion.

When the room had stopped spinning and they were both breathing more or less normally, John let him go. He sat up long enough to strip off the itchy woolen jumper and wriggle out of his sweat-soaked jeans before lying back down. Paul rolled over from his right side to his left, facing him, watching him. His eyes were hooded, his face a complete blank. After a moment, he pointed and held out a hand.

John looked at the jumper. “What, this?”

“Going in the wash anyroad, isn’t it?”

“Dirty swine,” John chided, but he swiped the jumper over his own belly and groin before handing it to Paul. Paul took it with a grimace and reached awkwardly behind him to clean himself up, actually blushing under John’s intense gaze. “Oh, Christ,” John said finally, taking pity on him. “Let me do it.”

Paul’s blush deepened. It was cute. Would have been dead sexy, too, if they hadn’t just had it off all over each other.

John bit back a smile. “It’s my mess, isn’t it?”

With an embarrassed sigh, Paul rolled over onto his stomach. John cleaned him, careful not to touch him with anything but wool. Paul lay, tense and utterly still, turning back on his side the instant John was done. He propped himself up on one elbow, that blank but pensive expression again on his face.

John regarded him warily. “What?”

“You stopped.”

His meaning was instantly clear, and John was caught off-guard. They never talked of the things they did during their sexual encounters, ever; most often, they acted as though they didn’t even remember such encounters at all. “Yeah. So?”

“I was afraid—" He frowned. Hesitated. Took a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

John had no idea what to say to that. He was a little stunned, actually. And hurt. Jesus Christ, what the fuck did Paul think he was?

His dismay must have shown on his face, because Paul smiled a little and amended, “I wasn’t sure you could.”

Ah. Well, that was a horse of a different kettle, wasn’t it? Or something…John gave a nervous little laugh. “I wasn’t sure I could, either.”

Paul nodded serenely, as if this was precisely what he had expected to hear. He didn’t say anything else, just went back to staring thoughtfully at John, almost through him, and gnawing his bottom lip. John met his gaze as steadily as possible, trying to keep his sudden inner turmoil off his face. His heart was pounding anew, his palms were sweaty; he had a compulsive urge to lick his lips. We’re going to talk about it, he thought; we’re finally going to talk about whatever the hell it is we’re doing here, and the idea filled him with both excitement and a terrible, cotton-mouthed dread.

“I want a smoke,” Paul said abruptly. “Let’s go to bed.”

Confused but still expectant, John followed him as he got rather unsteadily to his knees and climbed up onto the bed. He lit a cigarette and passed John the pack and they stretched out on their backs, close but not quite touching, blowing smoke and watching it drift and curl. Paul remained silent, but that air of anticipation, of epiphany, was still between them, and John forced himself to be patient. If they were ever going to talk about this, they were going to have to do it here, now, tonight. Before tomorrow and the inevitable Christ-was-I-drunk-weren’t-you amnesia it would bring. This was it, their chance, maybe their only chance, and he wasn’t about to fuck it up.

They smoked their cigarettes and killed the last two inches of Scotch, passing the bottle back and forth. Silently. The butts were tossed, pillows punched and plumped, covers kicked down. Still no talk, and John’s excitement gradually bled away. In its place came a sneaking relief that made him feel vaguely a coward.

He was just drifting off when Paul’s voice floated over, low and sleepy.

“So, seriously, John…” Paul asked. “Who is it for?”

For a split-second, John thought he was joking – no one could be that thick – but one glance at Paul’s face told him otherwise. Paul wasn’t joking; Paul wasn’t even looking at him, but rather at the silent flicker of the TV screen, his eyes nearly closed. It was a legitimate question…and, apparently, an absent and unimportant one as well.

Clearly mistaking his silence for confusion, Paul mumbled, “The song, I mean,” and a wash of something cold rushed into the pit of John’s stomach, something that felt jarringly like hate.

“Nobody, Paul,” John said with a bitterness that surprised even him. “Fucking nobody at all.”


***


Sometime in the night, Paul came to him. A warm tongue tangling with his. Strong hands kneading his thighs, soft lips caressing his prick. Sighs turning to gasps, moans, whispery cries. Right before he climaxed, John reached down to twine his fingers in Paul’s hair and his hand brushed Paul’s cheek. It was fevered and damp, and he wanted to tell Paul not to cry, that it was all right, everything was okay, this was love too and it was enough for them, for him, but he couldn’t get the words out. He wanted to tell Paul not to cry, but he didn’t want to lie.

It wasn’t enough.


***



In the morning, of course, he wondered. Wanted to dismiss it as just a dream, but couldn’t quite manage it. Wanted to ask Paul but didn’t dare.

In the morning, of course, Paul never mentioned it at all.


***


“Maybe you can’t write a love song yet, John.”

Ten days. Ten days of musical rooms, ten days of John with Ringo, George with Paul. Ten days without the sometimes maddening, sometimes glorious distraction that was James Paul McCartney in his business or his bed, and John still had no more than three, maybe four more words than when he’d started. No. No, three it was – he’d just crossed out “baby.” For the ninth or tenth time.

Christ, what a pisser this was! He’d never had writer’s block this bad, ever… Had he? He supposed he really wouldn’t know; he’d always had Paul to turn to for help if he got stuck. But Paul couldn’t help him now. Not when Paul was the object and the subject and the whole fucking problem. And certainly not when Paul was offering such heartening encouragement as Hey, mate, maybe you’re just completely wasting your time here, didja ever think of that?

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you know…your writing is very personal. Unless it’s just a potboiler…How can you write about love if you’ve never been in it?”

Never been in it? John tried to ignore the jolt that gave him. “You manage it,” he said, barely holding back a sneer.

Paul grinned. “I’m in love every night, John. Don’t you read the fan magazines?”

“Fucking every stray pussy that rubs up against you doesn’t make you the last word on love, son.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed - might have been hurt, might have been anger, John wasn’t sure. “I never said it did, John,” he said carefully.

“Yeah, you did. You just did. And you said I’m a—well, what, Paul? A miserable arsehole who doesn’t know anything about love?”

Paul sighed. “I never said that, either, you know.”

“There are people I love, you know. You smug fucking bastard. Just because I don’t walk around fucking batting my eyes at the world doesn’t mean…You don’t even like most of them, Paul! The press people you smarm up to, the fans you fucking flirt with, all the birds you tell ‘oh, yeah, you’re my one and only, darlin, now be a good girl and get on your knees…’ Christ! Even Jane’s just a fucking stepping-stone, isn’t she, Paul? What you love there is playing the Beatle of bloody Wimpole Street. You could be fucking Peter for all the difference it’d make. Or the family dog.”

Paul looked stunned. “Where the fuck did this come from? All I said—”

“I know what you fucking said, Paul. I heard what you fucking said. You know, I’m not you, Paul, I actually fucking listen when other people talk.”

He turned his back to the bed and bent his head to his notebook again, waiting for Paul to storm out. Or slip out, or slink out. Some form of retreat, which was always Paul’s answer to everything. Run and hide. Never face anything. Gutless, he was. And utterly predictable.

He jumped when Paul suddenly leaned down and hissed in his ear: “Yeah, you talk, John. You talk a lot, but you don’t fucking say anything, do you?”

Shocked, instantly furious, John spun around to face him, but Paul was already moving, sliding to the far side of the bed, sitting up, standing. His face was pale and tight, but his eyes…his eyes were a mess. Troubled. Burning. Pleading? John didn’t need a UN translator to get what Paul was driving at, and maybe it was supposed to melt him or shame him or make him talk or some such thing, but it didn’t. It made him even angrier.

So Paul had heard him that night. The fucking bastard, he had. Had heard, and understood, and still he had played dumb – and why? Because John’s confession hadn’t been grand enough for him, maybe? Sober enough? Florid enough? What the fuck was John supposed to do, start spouting Shakespearian verse and dropping rose petals at his feet?

Fucking selfish egomaniac asshole! And how fucking like him, to dictate not only what he wanted but how it should be packaged, produced, and delivered besides.

John looked up at him coldly, waiting the extra few seconds that would make it really count. “Not to you I don’t.”

He began drinking in earnest about ten minutes after Paul walked out of the room.


***


The writer’s block was starting to get to him.

The irony of the writer’s block was starting to get to him.

One of Mimi’s favorite sayings, one she pulled out whenever John brought home a bad rank card or another hate letter from school, had been “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” While John could have done without the flip side of her reaction - which inevitably began with what a colossal fuck-up he was and ended with how fast he was headed down life’s road to jail, Hell, or both – he’d always liked that particular aphorism. Certainly, he applauded the sentiment; even at the tender ages of twelve, fourteen, sixteen, he recognized that most teachers were impotent fools.

Funny, then, that he had never fully understood the saying until tonight.

John couldn’t write a love song; Paul seemed to pull them out of his ear, his ass, and everything in between. John couldn’t tell anyone he loved them without a smirk or a qualification; Paul used the L-word to people, total strangers even, as readily and often as he used hello. John loved Paul in a way so precise and distinct it was almost exclusive, but he couldn’t manage to put a fraction of what he felt on paper; Paul loved John and Jane and George and Ringo and Chaucer and Elvis and boxing and banana milkshakes and the secretaries at EMI and the guy who sold him his cigarettes from the corner newsstand, and he could probably pen a lush moon-and-June ode to any of them inside of an hour. Those who love, do; those who can’t write corny catchy ballads about it instead.

Yeah, John got it now.

And the world bought it, too. Everybody thought John was the brain and Paul was the heart; John the cynic, Paul the romantic. And everybody was full of shit. Paul was The Romantic, but it was John who remembered every detail of their difficult unspoken progression from friends to occasional lovers. John remembered the exact date and time of their first kiss. He remembered the day they had first wanked together. He remembered the first time he had held Paul’s cock in his hand, and the time three nights later when Paul had (tentatively, then with almost frightening enthusiasm) returned the favor. He remembered all of it, stored it away precious in his brain…and he would have bet his life it was to Paul all a giddy drunken blur. Pleasure without purpose. Sex without meaning. Intimacy without love.

Because—because it was Paul who didn’t know anything about love. Not real love. Paul didn’t know anything about loving someone so hard you fucking burned with it, hurt with it, ached with the inability to just fucking say “I love you” and not worry about what came next, be it laughter or disgust or an incredulous look. Or a sleepy, perfunctory question: So, seriously, John…who is it for?

It wasn’t a revelation or anything; Christ, he’d known what Paul was almost from the very start. Paul wasn’t truly a bastard, nor even a bad guy really; certainly he didn’t have John’s cruel streak, his anger and his knee-jerk need to hit, to cut, to hurt. But in his own bland-faced, soft-spoken way, Paul was ten times meaner and ten times more dangerous than John could ever be. Because it wasn’t knee-jerk with Paul. It was weighed and calculated. Paul could hurt you without hate, without rage. Because Paul was ultimately out for Paul, and God help you if you got in his way.

Or gave him your heart?

A new thought struck John, obvious in hindsight, disturbing in the extreme: Paul was like Julia. Gorgeous, engaging, clever, dynamic…and, yes, selfish. Incredibly, single-mindedly selfish. People like Julia and Paul were capable of love, John supposed, but only on their own terms, and they could walk away unscathed. Because Julia and Paul would always come first.

Reckon he’ll dump me off too, someday. When he’s done getting whatever it is he needs to get, he’ll cut and run just like everybody else. He’ll—

No, no. Not that. Not Paul. Paul, even with all his faults, would never do that.

Would he?

John had another drink.

You’ve never been in love.

More irony, that. Paul thought John was incapable of love, and if that wasn’t a kick in the bollocks, John didn’t know what was. Paul thought John was hard, harsh, closed - but what the fuck would Paul know about it? Paul had never had an unloved moment in his life. Fucking everybody loved Paul. The press loved him because he made their jobs easier, ever-ready with a quote worth quoting or a smile worth snapping. The fans loved him because he seemed to genuinely love them back. Girls loved his looks and their mums fell in line at his oh-so-boyish charm. Hell, even before the Beatles were the Beatles, Paul had been nothing but loved: the bloody golden child, the perfect center of the vast and adoring McCartney universe. His aunties doted on him; his brother worshipped him; his father…John snorted with half-hearted contempt. Paul’s father answered his fucking fan mail, for Christ’s sake! And still found time to lecture him on eating right, wearing clean knickers every day, and avoiding the clap. No, love was nothing to Paul but a fact of his daily existence, like being Irish and cute and left-handed: I am, therefore I’m loved.

Paul was a blind, insensitive, spoiled-rotten little shit.

John had another drink.

And then there’s me, he thought darkly. Reckon I’m as thick as the rest of them, you big-headed twat, because I love you, too.

Actually, he was thicker than the rest of them, because he had loved Paul all along. Before he was rich and famous, before there were reporters to win over or fans to woo. He had loved Paul – and still did, more fool he - when Paul was at his most thoroughly unlovable. When he was puking-down-his-shirtfront drunk. What’s-that-little-cunt-still-doing-on-bass bitchy. Oh-come-on-a-couple-more-takes-won’t-kill-us swotty. John loved Paul when he was at his absolute worst – and Paul’s worst could be pretty fucking bad, thank you very much – and Paul took it as nothing but his due.

If Paul saw it at all.

You’ve never been in love.

Bullshit. He’d been in love before. Certainly he’d loved often enough to know what love really was. Love was fear. Love was risk and loss. There was absolutely no one John had ever loved who hadn’t failed him in some way. Or abandoned him. Or failed him and then abandoned him. He wasn’t writing any sob stories or asking for any pity with these facts; they just were. Father, mother, uncle, all gone. Mimi had turned into a nagging shrew. Cyn had turned into an anchor around his neck. Stu had turned into a memory.

And Paul…? Was there any guarantee Paul would be much better than any of them in the long run?

John had another drink. He was getting decidedly drunk now. And decidedly maudlin.

He decided he didn’t care.

It wasn’t as though he wanted to own Paul, or keep him all to himself. He honestly didn’t care how much Paul flirted, dated, fucked around; didn’t care if Paul up and married Jane tomorrow and started pumping out enough big-eyed, red-haired brats to field a football team. It wasn’t even the sex, though that was brilliant, too. He just needed to know that Paul was still Paul and still his, that Paul wasn’t going to bail on him or die on him or turn into some snobby fucking stranger who talked only of the theatre and Vivaldi. He just needed to know that Paul was in it for the long haul – with him, in his life, in his music, part of him no matter what.

With maudlin came sleepy.

One person, one - that was all he wanted. Was that asking for so fucking much? One person who fucking got it, one person who understood. One person who would always be there no matter how much shit he gave them, who wouldn’t run and hide from every dark sarcasm and burst of temper - or, if they did, would always come back. But not a doormat like Cyn or a lapdog like Brian. Someone…someone strong.

“It’s me, John.”

Huh?


***


Groggy. Furry tongue. Dark room already starting to spin.

“It’s me,” Paul repeated. His voice was like a foghorn, distant and too loud. “Stop fighting me and come to bed.”

“Where…?” John mumbled. “What…time…?”

“The floor. Our room. After midnight.” Clipped but patient. Arms wrapping around him, straining, trying to lift.

John chuckled. “Always…have all the…answers, don’tcha, Paulie?”

The arms around his chest froze for an instant. “Hardly.” Pulling at him again. “Come on, John. Bed, now.”

“Animal,” John giggled. He made it to his knees, swaying slightly, and only Paul’s all-business embrace kept him from lurching forward again. “Dirty sex mechanic.”

Paul ignored him. Together they managed to get him to his feet, to the bed and under the covers. The bed felt good, soft, sheets cool and smooth against his bare chest and back and feet. He closed his eyes and was immediately starting to drift off again when the mattress dipped and creaked, then settled beside him.

“Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“That you?”

A sigh. “Who else?”

A warm sort of glow spread through John’s chest. It wasn’t the booze; it was better than anything he’d ever gotten from a bottle or a pill.

That you?

Who else?

The exchange followed John down into his dreams.


***


He awoke to a shrieking hangover and a mercifully overcast day. And to Paul, fully dressed except for his tie and his shoes, curled up beside him like the world’s tallest toddler, hand loosely holding his. The pounding in John’s head couldn’t quite kill his smile; if George or Ringo walked in here right now, he’d have the blackmail story of the century.

And Brian would have a stroke.

John looked around the room, at the overflowing ashtrays and bottles littering the floor, at the notebook lying on the nightstand, at Paul’s bed, smooth and unused. His smile faded. He looked at Paul again, Paul’s face and their intertwined hands – and of a sudden he was overwhelmed with emotions. Quite soppy emotions, sentimental and romantic. And a bit ashamed. Paul had come back. Even after all the nasty shit John had flung at him, Paul had come back. Paul was here. Paul could’ve kipped with George and Ringo or some willing bird, or gone off to his own bed, where he wouldn’t have to breathe stale drunk-Johnny breath all night and risk getting puked on in his sleep…but he hadn’t. Paul was here. With him.

With him.

John slipped his hand from Paul’s and eased out of bed, holding his head as still as possible as he headed for the loo. Any inspiration was to be seized immediately these days, but an inspiration at seven AM? That seemed like divine providence, and he had to give it a shot.

First, though, he had to kill the little bugger who was taking that ice pick to his brain.


***


If I fell in love with you
Would you promise to be true
And help me understand
Cause I’ve been in love before
And I’ve found that love was more
Than just holding hands


If I give my heart to you
I must be sure
From the very start
That you will love me more than them her


One hour, and only one cross-out. Well, it was progress.


***


By the time Paul got out of the shower, it was done. John had the whole thing, even the tune, which was exceedingly rare for him; he didn’t usually hear the melodies in his head the way Paul did, but had to piece them together on piano or guitar. And it was a gorgeous melody, too, with an exquisite two-part harmony and enough chords to send Paul into keening raptures. Maybe it wasn’t Shakespeare and roses, but John thought it was a damned fine piece of work.

He couldn’t wait to play it for him. He hadn’t been this fussed about a song or this eager to share it in weeks, maybe months. Maybe ever, and he paced like an expectant father the whole time Paul was in the bath.

Yet when it was time to unveil the new creation, when Paul was scrubbed and robed and seated expectantly on the bed with his morning cuppa and his smoke, John froze. What the hell was he doing here? One night’s pity on Paul’s part and he was going to pour out his heart? Was he insane? Maybe last night didn’t even mean anything. Maybe it wasn’t what he thought it was. Maybe Geo and Ringo had had a couple of birds sleeping over and there was no room for Paul. Maybe Paul’s own bed smelled bad or had a shitty mattress or squeaked too much when he moved. Maybe—

“Well, can I hear it or not?”

John shot him a coy smile and fluttered his lashes. “That depends, love. What are you willing to do for it?”

“I dunno. Not beat the living shit out of you?”

“You fucking girl, as if you could. Try again.”

“Cry?” Paul offered half-heartedly.

“Nah, I’d like to see that. I love how red your nose gets.”

“Bloody hell, John.” Paul sounded more tired than irritated. “You kicked me out of bed to hear this thing, now would y—”

“I didn’t kick you, you fell.”

“With a little help from your foot.”

“I was stretching.”

“And now you want to play games?”

John shrugged. “Well, all right, then. If you don’t want to hear it, that’s okay, too, you know. Tell you what, Macca, I’ll just save it for the show tonight. Surprise you with it right on stage. We’ll have the world premiere right here, right here in Philadelphia—”

“Cleveland.”

“—and you and George can just fumble-fuck around up there and look like bloody amateurs trying to catch up—”

“Just play the fucking song, John.”

John’s stomach tightened - no more games, no more stalling - but he gave an elaborate sigh and picked up his guitar and played. He sang so softly that Paul had to lean forward to hear him; by the time he had finished, Paul was practically in his lap (not that John was complaining) and apparently rendered speechless.

Apparently permanently.

“Well?” John blurted at last. A trifle sharply, perhaps, but right now a minute of silence felt like ten.

Paul just shook his head. He waved his cigarette and said, “Again.”

John obliged. This time Paul hummed along, automatically taking the main melody line to the top of his range, exactly as John had heard it in his head. John countered with the harmony, his chest tight with pride and excitement and – oh fuck all, Lennon, just say it - love. Love for Paul and the perfection of this partnership, love for the song, love for his own gift and the thrill it still gave him.

When they finished, Paul looked a little distant, a little dazed. John resisted the urge to croon a few bars of “Beautiful Dreamer” and merely said it again: “Well?”

Paul’s eyes unfogged; he cleared his throat. “It’s fucking brilliant, John.”

“Yeah?” John grinned. “How brilliant?”

“So brilliant I hate you.” Paul laughed, really laughed, and it was that, more than anything, which told John it was the truth.

Their usual excited back-and-forth babble followed – where’d you get that, don’t you love this, that drop from the major to the minor is fab, how about that intro, very Cole Porter, innit? Most of Paul’s side of the babble had to do with the melody, just as John had predicted, and John wondered now if he’d subconsciously crafted it so well in order to distract Paul from the lyrics. John wasn’t totally satisfied with them – they weren’t as specific as he would have liked, and Cynthia had popped in there somewhere along the line – but he thought they were strong. He thought they made their point; would Paul?

“Here.” Impulsively, before he could lose his nerve, he thrust the notebook into Paul’s hands. “Have a gander at the lines, tell me if they scan.”

Paul took the book and bent his head. John watched him closely. Paul’s eyes skimmed the paper, his smile fading as they did, and John sensed his hunch was true: Paul had been so taken with the melody that he hadn’t paid close attention to the words. Now he was reading them, really reading them, really hearing what John had to say…

John looked down at his guitar. Drummed his fingers. Strummed a few chords. Lit another cigarette. Jesus bleeding Christ, how long did it take to read through a fucking two-minute song?

Finally, Paul set the notebook aside. His movements seemed deliberate and careful; he didn’t look at John. He was wearing what John privately called his meet-the-press face – pleasant, empty, composed - but without the meet-the-press smile. And his hands were…shaking?

John was irritated. And dismayed. And insulted. Fucking hell, was it that unnerving a prospect, having John Lennon fall in love with you? Well - all right - it probably was. But it was no walk in the park for John Lennon, either.

“So…do they scan?”

Paul nodded slowly. Still not looking at him, though.

“Do you like them?”

Again, the nod. And nothing else.

John clenched his teeth. “Do you have any fucking thing to say about them at all, Paul? Do they make sense? Do they fit? Do they work?”

Paul raised his face to John’s at last. His eyes were anxious, his expression odd; he was doing that gnawing-at-his-bottom-lip thing again, and a faint flush suffused his cheeks. For one truly horrible moment, John thought he was going to cry.

Then Paul muttered, “Trust me, they work,” and he leaned back against the pillows and lit another cigarette, sliding down the headboard with a shaky little sigh. The movement made the short hotel robe ride up high on his thighs, and that made John look without even thinking about it, and suddenly everything made sense. Paul’s words, his flush, this burst of self-consciousness…John raised his eyebrows. Well, shit. He didn’t know what reaction he had expected, really, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this.

“Yeah, I can see that, Paul.”

Paul blushed even harder. It flashed through John’s mind that he had seen Paul blush a lot lately, maybe more in the last two weeks than in the entire nine years previous. It also flashed that he liked it. A lot. Maybe it was the fact that he had been the cause both times, maybe it was just the way it looked on him, but John found himself amused and touched and instantly, powerfully aroused.

He set his guitar gently on the floor. He took the cigarette out of Paul’s hand and leaned over him to snuff it in the ashtray beside the bed, then lay down beside him and dropped a careful hand on his thigh. He dragged his eyes away from Paul’s crotch and back to his face, which was serious, even grave. No come-hither look there. Middle of the morning, no booze, no pills, no foreplay disguised as wrestling or roughhousing. This was for real, then. No games. No excuses.

John kissed him. Hard, then soft, then hard again, lust and honest tenderness running through him in alternating waves. He slid his hand up under Paul’s robe and caressed him, and when Paul closed his eyes and pressed into the touch, John tightened his grip - not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make a point. “No, Paul. You look at me. I want you to look at me.”

No excuses meant no pretending, either.

Paul opened his eyes and John kissed him again, half-expecting Paul to suddenly come to his senses, realize they weren’t drunk or hopped up or playing around and push him off. He loosened his grip on Paul’s erection and rubbed him lightly, mostly fingertips and an occasional soft squeeze. Paul murmured and shifted beneath him, pushing himself harder and harder into John’s hand, offering encouragements that sounded increasingly like demands. John ignored them. He was ready, too, could lose it at any time with just the right push, but he forced himself to go slow. They could have their usual sex – heated, hard, frantic, all cocks and fists and dueling tongues – some other time, any time; John wanted this time to be different. If Paul wanted their usual, he was going to have to bloody well wait.

He kissed his way down Paul’s jaw, his throat, his body, sampling and tasting, letting his senses and Paul’s reactions guide him. He had to admit there was something to be said for doing this straight; he was noticing things he’d never noticed before. The smell of Paul’s hair. How dark his lips got after just a few kisses, how red against the milk-white skin. A tiny heart-shaped birthmark high on one shoulder. The way his cock jumped when John made love to other parts of him, when John sucked at his nipples or nuzzled his belly or traced a curious tongue along that groove between his body and his thigh.

Hmm. A lot more than just his cock jumped at that, didn’t it?

John did it again. And again. And - just to be a wicked prick - yet again.

“Christ…John…stop…” Paul was twisting and gasping, pushing frantically at John’s head, caught between a laugh and a sob. “Stop…John, please…”

“Ho, somebody’s ticklish, eh?” John teased, but he did stop, mostly because it was time to slow things down. Paul was getting close, too close, too soon. It was in his voice, not the words but the sound, that raw catch at the back of his throat. It was in his body, tense with pleasure, wet with sweat, moving against John’s in hard, restless little surges. “All right, filthy Englander. How else can I get you to talk?”

Paul panted up at him. “Suck me.”

John laughed and touched a finger to Paul’s lips, tracing them delicately. “Or you could suck me.”

“Or we could do both.”

John stared at him. Paul drew John’s finger into his mouth and stared right back, sexy, challenging, eyes promising and predatory.

So much for blushing.

But…sixty-nine? With another bloke? John didn’t even know that was possible. Well, of course he knew it was possible, now that he thought about it; he’d just never thought about it before. Why had he never thought about it before? And Paul…where the fuck did Paul come up with this shit?

“If the world knew half of what goes on behind that face, Macca, you’d be in a bloody cage somewhere.”

Paul laughed. “‘Do Not Feed The Bass Player,’” he said, and then he wrapped his arms around John and rolled, putting him on his back. He shifted down and took John in his mouth, and it was so fast and so gracefully done that John had no time to react, none: one minute they were talking flirty/dirty and doing a spot of lovely rubbing, the next he was getting enough suction to take the chrome off a doorknob.

So much for slowing things down.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. He wound a shaking hand in Paul’s hair and tried not to yank, bucked his hips and tried not to fuck Paul’s mouth. It wasn’t easy. There was always something blackly exciting about having Paul there, something vaguely wrong about it that made it, perversely, even better. It sent notions of dominance and submission and power and surrender, all of them elusive and ill-formed, twisting around in his head; it brought the nagging thought, his current obsession – want to fuck you, Paul, your body, your ass, you – roaring to the front of his mind. Paul’s legs wrapped around his waist. Paul’s hands clutching convulsively at the sheets. Paul’s voice chanting, begging, urging him mindlessly on.

Oh, Christ, not yet, too much, too soon—

With a gasp, he pushed Paul away. He wasn’t as graceful as Paul had been about it, but with a little effort and some shoving and wriggling, he managed to maneuver them side-by-side, his head between Paul’s legs, Paul’s still between his. Paul had released him and put some space between them, leaning back to watch but still close enough to mouth and nuzzle lazily at John’s groin.

Watching. Just as John had told him to. What a good, good boy he was being.

Surely such goodness deserved a reward.

He leaned forward and licked the tip of Paul’s cock, a hard, deliberate stroke with the flat of his tongue. Paul buried a gasp in John’s crotch, his breath hot, tickling, thrilling. John groaned and took just the head in his mouth, sucking and rolling it around gently, careful not to scrape or bite. Paul muffled another choked-off cry against him and tried to thrust, but John grabbed his ass in both hands and held him still. Paul opened his mouth and let John slide back in, tongue moving in a perfect mimic of the one tormenting him, and then it was his turn to grip and hold as John shuddered helplessly closer.

It was like a duet. When John paused, so did Paul. When John attacked, so did Paul. Suck, stroke, squeeze – whatever he did to Paul was immediately answered in kind, every sensation echoed and shared. As the heat and the pace and the pleasure increased, action and reaction became indistinguishable: he would moan and the moan would make Paul gasp and the gasp would make John writhe and the writhing would make Paul pull him closer, hold him tighter, take him deeper still—and then the whole delicious cycle would begin again.

It was the most perfect harmony of their lives.

When his orgasm hit, John pulled away as he always did, not wanting to come in Paul’s mouth or his face, but when Paul tried the same John held him fast. Paul stiffened and stammered out a warning and John ignored him, wrapping his arms around Paul’s waist, sucking as hard as he could. He wanted this. He’d never done it before, never gone this far before, but he wanted it now. Right now he wanted as much of Paul as he could get.

He felt Paul’s climax an instant before it happened – that last-minute surge, like the power crackling into an amp – and he almost lost his nerve. Then Paul was coming and coming hard, nearly sobbing John’s name, nearly convulsing in John’s arms, and there was no turning back. A vague bit of Brian-voice passed through his mind – it’s like medicine; the trick is to get rid of it as fast as you can – and so John did, not overjoyed at the taste but thrilled and triumphant at the feel of Paul shattering beneath him.

He didn’t let up and didn’t let go until Paul was soft again, totally limp, not just his cock but his whole body, splayed bonelessly on the bed. Then he climbed off and crawled up to collapse beside him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He looked at Paul. Paul looked back, shaken and dazed.

“You…”

“Yeah.” John grinned. “Me.”

“You…you didn’t…stop…”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Holy…holy shit…”

“Yeah.”

“That was…”

“Yeah. It was.”

“I don’t think I can move.”

“Fuck moving. It’s overrated.”

“I don’t think I can ever move again.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Christ, no!” Paul closed his eyes and shivered, obviously still feeling it. “Was bloody fantastic. Amazing. Incredible.”

John’s grin widened. “Best you ever had?”

“Never had anything like that.”

It took a minute for it to register; when it did, it hit John hard.

“You mean…nobody ever…?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief entirely out of his voice. Surely somebody had done that for Paul before. Definitely not Jane and probably not Dot, but certainly some bird somewhere along the line must have been willing. And with all the whores Paul had had… “You telling me nobody ever did that for you before?”

“Not the way you did it.”

Before he could stop himself, John drew Paul into his arms. Paul was still limp and still trembling and that rush went through John again, that unbelievable rush of mingled power and tenderness. Paul’s head lay on his chest and John fought the overwhelming urge to pull it closer, to hold it tight against him, to stroke his hand through the sweaty, silky hair until Paul was calm and quiet again. Christ, what a soft old queer he’s turning me into, he thought ruefully, and settled for dropping a light kiss on the top of Paul’s head instead.

After a smoke and some aimless conversation, all John wanted was a nap, but Paul protested. “George and Ringo’ll wonder where we are.”

John didn’t even open his eyes. “Door locked?”

“Now he asks,” Paul said to nobody in particular. “Yeah, I locked it when I came back last night.”

“Then let ’em fucking wonder.”

“John—”

“Paul, it’s not even ten o’clock. They won’t get up for hours yet.”

“But when they do—”

“When they do, they’ll think we’ve a couple of birds in here and they won’t fucking think twice about it, now will you please shut your gob and go to sleep?”

Paul sniffed, but he didn’t seem overly insulted as he lay back down and nestled close again. Post-coital cuddling, John mused. Another first for them.

The room grew warm and still around them.

“John?”

“What, Paul?”

“What’s…what was it like?”

John knew immediately what he meant. “Er—” He hesitated. What could he possibly say? It’s messy. It’s exciting. It’s powerful. It’s frightening. It was all of that and more; it was nothing he could put into words. “It’s, er…a bit hard to describe.”

“Oh.”

“I reckon…I think it’s something you just have to do yourself to understand.”

Paul was silent for a long time. Then, so softly John barely heard him: “Maybe I will.”

John smiled.

He still wanted Paul. Wanted all of him, every inch and fold and curve of him, inside and out. Wanted to take him, have him, claim him completely. John knew himself well, far better than anyone ever credited - once he got a taste of something he liked, a feast of it wasn’t enough. Elvis. Booze. Pussy. Pills. Chocolate. Paul. And while today had been amazing and brilliant and bloody fantastic indeed, today was just the beginning. He wanted more. He wanted the feast.

Next time, he thought drowsily. Next time he’d have Paul. He could read, prepare, find out what to do… And then maybe he could show Paul what to do, too, and Paul could have him right back. John was dead knackered and completely spent, but his dick still managed a happy little lurch at a sudden vision of Paul atop him, sweating and pounding into him and growling his name—

Oh, yes. Definitely next time.

And so what if Paul was reluctant? He’d win him over. He always did. Just look at what one love song had done to him! If one could make Paul that crazy, John would write him a fucking jukebox full. Love songs, cuddles, bone-melting orgasms – whatever it took to get them there, John would do it. It would be his pleasure to do it.

He fell asleep wondering how Paul felt about roses.