***

Hamburg, 1961


Until he was beating the shit out of him, Paul didn’t even realize he hated Stu’s guts.

Hate just wasn’t Paul’s thing. Certainly, he was no angel, no matter how much he might look the part, and he knew it; he could be as nasty and shirty and selfish as the next bloke, as capable of insensitivity and casual cruelty as any other teenaged boy. And there were any number of people he didn’t really like. But hate? What a strong word. What a useless, unpleasant way to feel. And what a waste of time - Paul honestly couldn’t be bothered, not when there were so many other, far more enjoyable pursuits on which to spend his time and energy.

He supposed he just wasn’t angry enough. Not like John. John was always angry, it seemed, especially since his mum died. John, of course, hated freely and often; to be dead honest about it, John hated (or appeared to) most everyone who crossed his path, just as a general rule. The notable exceptions to this rule were Paul himself, George, Pete, Aunt Mimi, Stu, Astrid, and Cyn. Because John embraced his anger and his hate so freely, Paul suspected he was supposed to feel privileged to be on the short list – and, in spite of himself, he usually did.

He just didn’t like being on it with…him. With Stu. With (as he had begun to refer to Stu in the privacy of his own head) that Artsy Little Cunt.

Everything about the A.L.C. irritated him, awoke in him a rage that often shocked him, a dislike so intense it frightened him a little. His clothes. His hair. His voice. His face. Especially his face. Honestly, what did a gorgeous bit of stuff like Astrid even see in him? She thought Stuart looked like James Dean. James Dean! It had taken every shred of Paul’s famous diplomacy not to laugh in her face when she’d said that. James Dean. Sure, love. Whatever you say. If James Dean was a spotty, washed-out, sickish-looking midget, you’d really have something there.

But Astrid was no worse than the rest of them. Everybody else just fucking loved Stu. Like he was their pet genius or something. George thought he was terribly exotic and mature, a real man of the world, and Pete—well, Pete didn’t count, because Pete liked everyone. And John…Paul felt every muscle he owned clench at the thought of how John protected and pampered and condoned the Little Cunt. How John ignored the fact that Stu had the musical instincts of a fucking stick, for Christ’s sake, and not half the talent. At least a stick could make a good sound if you banged it on the right something.

It drove Paul straight up the wall. Couldn’t John see how Stu was holding them back, how he was killing their sound? John knew Stu was useless on bass, couldn’t sing a lick, would never write anything more noteworthy than his bloody fucking name. Hell, John teased Stu as unmercifully as Paul and the others did—and, being John, he aimed the sharpest barbs of all. Sometimes Stu looked like he might actually cry under the onslaught, and Paul, whose tender nature would normally rise to such an occasion, loved every fucking minute of it. Enjoyed it, and encouraged it, even though he hated himself for the vicious pleasure it gave him. Encouraged it, and told himself again and again (with an unease he refused to acknowledge) that it was just the band, the band he was thinking of, the music and what was good for the sound.

Until tonight, he had honestly believed it.

Until tonight, holding Stu and grappling with him and punching him as best he could – the cunt was little, but he was slippery – hardly feeling any of the shots Stu might or might not be landing on him, when it had come to him in a flash how much he despised the other boy. And he had embraced it. All the frustrations, all the nights of hearing Stu plunk-plink-plunk at an instrument a bloody monkey could play, all the times John said, “That’s enough, Paul, I don’t want to hear it” when Paul had broached the subject, all the times John spent with Stu and not with him—

And the crowd had embraced it, too, roaring, whooping it up for the fight more than the song, and their noise did something to Paul, sent a rush through him, and he found himself going for Stu’s throat, telling himself it was just the best way to get the upper hand, he’d had enough rows with Mike to know that, it was just a way to win, and then he had rolled and he’d had Stuart under him at last and that was just fucking great, that was bloody fucking brilliant, and he was punching and punching and thinking spotty little Astrid-fucking John-fucking with John’s head I can play that he’s my partner, mine—

“Get off him, Paul, goddammit, what the fuck, get off, get off!”

Then the music had stopped and John was yelling, no, screaming at him, as much fear as anger in his voice, and John was pulling at him and he was hauled off Stu and dragged to his feet and he was shaking, absolutely shaking head-to-toe with rage or hate or adrenaline or the fucking Prellies or something, and maybe some of it was fear, too, because he’d never in his life felt hate like this, never, had never even dreamed he could hate anyone this much, and it scared him, badly. This was John’s way, goddammit, John’s, not his, and it was ugly and unsettling and thoroughly alien to everything he thought he knew about himself.

Paul examined his face in the cracked mirror. Not much damage. His lip was cut, probably from Cuntboy’s ring, and he had a good-sized bruise starting along his left cheekbone, but that was it. That was it? Paul snorted to himself. Obviously, the Artsy Little Cunt fought about as well as he played guitar.

Paul wondered what damage he’d done to Stu. He hoped it was a lot. The venom with which he hoped it was a lot made him feel a little sick to his stomach.

While John had grabbed Paul and Pete had grabbed Stu, George and Tony had simply stood off to the side, George looking dismayed, confused, shocked, Tony looking dimly amused. Kid stuff, his little half-smile had said. Boys will be boys, won’t they? But Paul knew better. This wasn’t kid stuff. Not to him, not deep inside where it had all started. He’d wanted to hurt Stu. Fuck. He’d wanted to kill Stu, and it occurred to him just now that if he’d had the chance, he might have done; if he’d had anything in his hands when Stu knocked him off the piano stool, anything at all, a bottle or a knife or his guitar or a fucking salami, for Christ’s sake, he would have used it, thoughtlessly, blindly, and gladly.

He took off his shirt. His ribs ached, probably more from the fall than the fight, and he touched them gingerly. No bruising here at all; there might be some come morning, but, all in all, it was nothing he couldn’t live with.

He draped the shirt over his shoulder and bent to the basin to splash some cold water on his face. It was freezing in here, it was always freezing in here, but right now he didn’t feel the chill at all. He felt sweaty and stifled and flushed, almost feverish, as if he’d run miles to get here instead of the few blocks from the club.

And he had run. From the club, from the noise, from the hooting strangers before whom he had so soundly humiliated himself. From the look on John’s face, and from the way John had let him go and turned away from him and gone to…to him. To Stu. To that little cunt.

“What the fuck was that all about?”

Paul jumped. He looked up and saw John in the mirror, standing in the doorway. John was slightly pink and a bit out of breath, as if he had run the whole way, too, and there was as much bewilderment on his face as anger. It made Paul furious all over again. How could he fucking stand there with that look on his face, as if Paul had suddenly snapped and run mad for no good reason, as if Paul and Stu hadn’t been heading toward this night for months, maybe years? How could he voice that fucking question when Paul had asked him repeatedly – begged him, even – to do something about Stuart once and for all?

Paul straightened from the sink and, lacking a clean towel, dried his face with his shirt. He studiously avoided John’s eyes. “Ask him.”

“I did fucking ask him, and he fucking told me what you said. What the fuck, Paul? Why would you say some fucking shit like that about Astrid? What the fuck’s she ever done to you?”

Paul flushed and said nothing. To be honest, he didn’t remember exactly what he had said about Astrid - he had been too angry - but he was ashamed that he’d dragged her into it at all. He liked Astrid, liked her a lot, actually; it wasn’t her fault her boyfriend was a worthless no-talent swishy little shit.

His silence seemed to rile John even more; he took a restless step into the tiny bathroom, and another, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I want a fucking answer, Paul! This is – what a fucking cock-up this was! Tony-fucking-Sheridan, the best fucking gig we’ve had yet, and you had to go and fuck it up! You made us all look like fucking idiots out there, you know that? You’re the one always fucking going on about being professional and acting like a real fucking band, and then you go and pull some shit like this…What the bloody fuck were you thinking?”

Paul’s stomach roiled. It was true; he had made them look like idiots, he knew that, but he sure as hell didn’t need John Lennon to spank him for it. John, whose stage presence consisted of cripple faces and two-finger salutes and screams of “Zieg Heil,” John who had once taken the stage in nothing but a toilet seat and a smile. Cliff Richard the boy wasn’t.

“Nobody asked you to jump in,” Paul muttered.

“You had your fucking hand round his throat! You could have fucking killed him!”

Wish I had, Paul thought; good fucking riddance, and he recoiled all over again from that cold, almost reptilian voice. Surely that voice couldn’t belong to him. Could it? “He jumped me, John!”

“You’ve got six inches and two stone on him, Paul! Fancy yourself a fucking tough guy now, thumping a bloke half your size?”

“No, that’s more your style, isn’t it?”

John blinked, almost surprised out of his anger. “What the fuck is that sup—?”

“John, just—just get out of here, all right? Just leave me alone. I don’t want to talk about this.” He felt suddenly, incredibly tired. Drained, and spent, and absurdly… emotional. As if he might burst into tears or scream or throw something or maybe even go upside Johnny’s head a good one, too, just to get things started all over again.

He opened his mouth to say as much, but something entirely different came out.

“Why is he still in the band?”

John blinked again, owlishly; it would have been comical under any other circumstances. “What do you mean, why…?” Then his face hardened into something like understanding, and he grimaced. “Don’t fucking start that again, Paul. We’ve been over this. We need a bass player, and Stu’s the best we’ve got.”

“No, I’m the best you’ve got, and you fucking well know it.”

John sneered. “Yeah, I know, Paul. You can do it better. You can do every-fucking-thing better, can’t you? You’re a better guitarist than George, a better drummer than Pete, I know goddamn well you think you’re a better singer than I am, and now you want the bass job besides. Fuck! Have I missed anything, do you think, Paul? Maybe you’d like a contract to fucking manage us, too?”

“This isn’t about me!” Paul shouted, nearly mad with frustration, and John laughed his nastiest, most cutting laugh.

“It’s fucking always about you, Paul.”

It stung, as it was meant to, and Paul turned abruptly away from him, leaning on the sink, avoiding his own reflection, avoiding John’s. He could feel John watching him, though. Watching, and waiting.

Well, sod it. Let him fucking wait. Let him fucking wait all night if he wanted. Paul wasn’t giving in, not this time. Not on this.

Maybe John realized it; when he spoke again, his tone wasn’t any softer or kinder, but it was trying for reasonable, at least. And nearly making it.

“Goddammit, Paul, I’m not a fucking idiot, all right? I know Stu’s nothing to write mum about on bass. Probably never will be. But he’s bloody trying, and he’s making a sound we need. And he’s our mate” – Paul’s stomach clenched again – “and we’ve all been through too much shit together to fucking go at each other like this, and…”

Paul closed his eyes. He was getting the beginnings of a wicked headache. “What’s your point, John?”

“My fucking point, Paul” – John nearly spat his name – “is that if you have a fucking problem with the band, you don’t talk bitchy shit at Stu behind my back, you should have the fucking sac to come to me, to talk to me about it.”

And that—oh, that was just too much. That right there was too fucking much, even from John.

Paul spun away from the sink, glaring, shaking, furious all over again. “I have fucking talked to you about it!” he nearly screamed. “I’ve talked myself fucking blue about it, but you never fucking listen! You’re so fucking blind when it comes to that little asshole it makes me sick! What the fuck’s he got on you, Johnny? What’s so fucking special about that fucking cunt anyway?”

John’s eyes flashed. “Watch your fucking mouth, Paul. I don’t—"

“You don’t what? Don’t like that word? Don’t like me calling the little cunt a little cunt?”

“I’m fucking warning you, Paul—"

But the same mad adrenaline that had seized Paul earlier had him again, its embrace frightening and exhilarating and raw, and he found himself laughing now, laughing right in John’s rather astonished face.

“What’s so bloody funny?”

“It’s just so sweet, you know. So fucking precious, the way you jump to defend him. Jesus, John, does Astrid know about you two?”

He took just a moment to savor John’s shocked expression as he walked toward the door, intending to push past John or just fucking through him if that was what it took, but it was a moment too long. John stuck his foot out and sent him sprawling, and Paul had just enough time to think chicken-shit bastard, trip me like a girl before he hit the filthy concrete with a thump that knocked the wind out of him and made his battered ribs shriek.

He was still trying to catch his breath when John pounced, straddling him, grabbing his shoulder and rolling him onto his back. Stunned, gasping, Paul made no move to resist. John leaned in close, his face dead white, a clenched fist trembling in the air beside his head, and Paul wondered dully where he was going to get it first, hoping it wouldn’t be his face, but thinking (knowing John) it probably would be.

But John didn’t hit him. John just held him down and stared at him with drunken intensity, a tiny smirk suddenly curving his mouth. “You’re jealous of him,” he whispered, and the look on his face said this was a revelation. “Holy shit, Paul, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re fucking jealous of Stu and me.”

Paul’s anger returned, as blind and stupid as before. More adrenaline surged, giving him his wind back, reminding him to move, and he twisted his body, shifting his hips up to buck John off, grabbing for John’s head with his free hand and pushing, pulling, yanking on the greasy hair. John yelped. But he didn’t let go.

“Admit it, Paul.”

"No," Paul panted, pushing up again, and John hissed, his head dropping onto Paul’s chest. He tightened his knees around Paul's body and said it again, this time nearly crooning the words.

“Admit it, Paul, admit it…you’re jealous of Stu and me.” He lifted his head and looked at Paul, a strange, hot light in his eyes that Paul could scarcely credit, and suddenly Paul understood why John wasn’t hitting him or even trying to hit him, why John was breathing so hard even though he was hardly moving, what that was pressing so persistantly against his thigh.

And then John rocked against him, a hard, deliberate thrust that made them both gasp, and Paul began to struggle again, more frantically than ever, because he was afraid now, not angry but afraid, because this was a bloke and this was John and this was wrong, wrong in a way that would make everything they’d ever done wrong as well, all the times they’d wanked together and come together, all the too-casual touches and too-long looks and that one sloppy, drunken, intensely exciting kiss at one of Mitchell’s parties that neither of them had mentioned since.

"Admit it, admit, admit it," John was whispering, groaning, chanting into his neck; it was almost an anguished sound, almost a plea, and Paul didn’t know if it was the tone or the words or the warm mouth barely caressing his skin, but a wild hot shiver raked him from his head to his toes.

And John felt it, and he moaned, and he rocked into Paul again. And again, again, until Paul found himself matching each thrust with one of his own, straining into it, demanding it, seeking more contact, more pressure, more friction. God this was wrong but God it felt good and he was so hard, as hard as John was, so hard it fucking hurt, and every time John moved against him, rubbing their cocks together through leather as warm and smooth as skin, it seemed to hurt even more. Impossibly, beautifully, deliciously more.

He wasn’t struggling now; the hand still entangled in John’s hair wasn’t pulling now but stroking, caressing, holding John’s head close, urging John’s mouth to touch and taste. The whole thing was surreal, unreal, yet Paul could feel everything so precisely, the floor gritty and cold beneath his bare back and John’s body above him, the thin muscles trembling, the heat rising from him and baking into Paul in throbbing waves.

“Jesus oh Jesus oh fuck Paul—"

John's rhythm was dissolving, his movements growing frantic, uneven; he was moaning, cursing softly, obscenities and encouragements and just Paul’s name streaming from him in a soft flood. When John came Paul felt the mouth on him again, just a brush of lips, just a hint of teeth, grazing the tender skin of his neck before biting lightly down, and he cried out as his own climax swept through him, jerking him violently into his friend.

Into John.

The room spun out and away from him, grey and gauzy; for a moment, Paul feared he might pass out. Jesus oh Jesus is right, he thought, thoroughly dazed, thoroughly shaken. Now what the fuck do I do?

Rationality swept back in, cold, hateful, humiliating, and Paul shut his eyes against it. He didn’t want to see John’s face, the triumph that he knew would be there, the mockery, the contempt. Now it would come: John would let him have it both barrels – Are you just a little queer, then, Paulie? This why you’re so jealous of Stu? Is this what you wanted from me all along? - and there was nothing Paul could say in his own defense, nothing. Paul the skirt-chaser, Paul the pussy-hound, Paul the self-styled ladies’ man, had let his best mate dry-hump him into the floor. No need to add that it had pulled from him the hardest, dirtiest, most explosive orgasm of his entire life.

But John didn’t say any of that; John didn’t say anything, period. There was a sigh against Paul’s neck that sent fresh shivers down his back, a finger tracing the bruise on his cheek with a curiosity Paul could feel; then John’s warmth and weight were gone, and John’s boot heels clicked briefly on the concrete before fading to nothing at all, and Paul was alone again, free to open his eyes at last and blink stupidly at the sagging ceiling and wonder what the fuck had just happened, how it had happened, and what it all meant.

***

Los Angeles, 1964


John was pissed.

John was pissed – in every sense of that word – though he didn’t really know why. The girl was just another L.A. star-catcher, after all, and Paul was just Paul; that dynamic would never fucking change, and it was no skin off John’s ass if it did or didn’t, so why bother getting angry about it?

But angry he was.

John had recognized her the minute he saw her. Leggy. Blonde. High-breasted. Young, maybe not even legal yet. Peggy something-or-other. They’d met her at the press party earlier, and someone said she was a model (or was it an actress?), but John had dismissed her at once as just another groupie. Just another slag, when you got right down to it, and he doubted he would have remembered her at all had it not been for her striking looks. That, and her introduction to them. Or, more precisely, to Paul.

“Hello,” Peggy-Who-Was-Maybe-Not-Even-Legal-Yet had said to Paul.

“My God, you’re beautiful,” Paul the-Would-Be-Child-Molester had said to Peggy.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Peggy-Maybe-You-Won’t-Get-Raped-In-Prison had said to Paul.

What a gormless little twat, John-The-Unwitting-Bystander-To-This-Drivel had said to himself. And looked around for a bucket of water to throw on them, just in case things got out of hand.

Jesus! It had been something, right enough, breathless and loaded and unintentionally hilarious, like the dialogue in an Elvis movie, but at least he’d thought that would be the end of it. The girl had been ushered away as fast as her buckling knees could take her, and Paul had moved on to the next charm-starved soul in the queue, and there was no reason to think he, or they, would ever see her again. Not even Paul was stupid enough to fuck an underaged bird who was apparently some sort of would-be celebrity-type besides.

Except maybe Paul was that stupid, because there she was, there she’d been, walking in the door all hesitant and shylike, a lovely little blonde lamb to the slaughter. Paul had been nowhere in sight yet, though he was no doubt the reason she was here, and John’s general irritation—at the pointless press function before, at this dull fucking party now, at all the stupid shit the Beatles were asked to do seemingly on an endless scale—had blossomed into anger at his friend. Bleeding Christ, hadn’t Paul’s whoring around already caused him – them – enough fucking trouble? It was a bloody miracle none of it had ever made the papers. “Some fellows collect stamps, some collect coins,” Derek Taylor had joked at the time; “Paul collects paternity suits,” but it was no joke to Eppy, or to John or the others. One of these days Paul was going to fuck his way into the wrong headline, and he was going to drag the rest of them through the shitstorm with him.

So without really thinking about it one way or the other, John had approached the lamb. He’d said hello. The girl said hello back. He got her a drink. She asked where Paul was. John said he’d be right along. They chatted. She wasn’t dumb, but she wasn’t brilliant, either, and John was bored with her maybe five minutes in, but he’d kept talking, not really knowing why, thinking vaguely in the back of his mind he was just doing Paul a favor, keeping his new bird occupied and out of circulation, thinking vaguely he was doing the group a favor, keeping the jail-bait out of Paul’s hands, thinking vaguely she really was a gorgeous little thing and he wouldn’t mind having her himself.

She got more gorgeous and less boring the more he drank.

He’d been just about to ask her into a quieter room (maybe upstairs) when she’d asked about Paul again and there Paul was, quite suddenly there, as if summoned by her words like some kind of horny genie or something, and John had been unaccountably disappointed and jealous and again very annoyed with Paul, Paul who didn’t even have the good grace to look suspicious or jealous himself, Paul who just gave John a warm squeeze on the shoulder and a thanks, mate wink and led the little lamb away.

About fifteen minutes later John had seen them head upstairs, and that was it, he’d seen enough, and he’d made his way back to the suite.

Alone.

Now he was still alone, still drinking, and still pissed (and still in every sense of that word). By the time Paul sauntered in, rumpled and humming and wearing a breezy, well-fucked smile, he had worked himself into a truly poisonous mood. The song Paul was humming - “I Saw Her Standing There” – did nothing to improve it.

“I wondered where you’d got off to,” Paul said, casting a quick glance around the room. “What, no company?”

John didn’t waste any time. “You know, I had company, Paul. But my partner the walking erection took her away from me.”

Paul blinked. He seemed pleasantly befuddled - and John didn’t think all of it was the lovely lamb’s doing, he could smell the booze from here - and it took him a moment to process John’s words. “You mean Peggy?” he said at last, and he sounded so astonished that John wanted to slap him.

“No. I mean the fucking Governer’s wife. She’s the one I was chatting up, isn’t she?”

Paul laughed and turned to the mirror, checking his hair. “Come off it, John. The only reason Peggy’s even here tonight is 'cause I invited her.” Don’t be foolish, old chap, old son, ugly old thing, you. She wants The Lovely Me. “Besides, she’s not your type.”

Pompous bastard. John’s type was the same as his, for Christ’s sake. Blonde. Female. Breathing. “I get the feeling she’s everybody’s type.”

Paul laughed again; this time it had a dirty edge to it that made John’s skin prickle. “Mmm. If she’s not, she should be.”

“You’re a fucking pig, McCartney, you know that? Jesus Christ! Is she a fucking day over sixteen?”

“Dunno,” Paul shrugged. He gave John The Eyebrow. “We didn’t talk much.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

“It’s called chemistry, I think.”

“Yeah? In the States, it’s called statutory rape.” Paul left off admiring himself long enough to gape at him; John smiled nastily. “You don’t want to go to jail, Macca. You’re too pretty. You’d have some big queer’s dick up your ass before you could say ‘Here’s the soap.’”

Paul turned from the mirror and gave him a long look. It wasn’t exactly angry, but it was perturbed. “Are you so pissed you don’t know what you’re saying, or are you just fucking with me?”

It was a fair question, John supposed. Sometimes he did like to bait Paul just to bait him. Just to make him angry. Sometimes he liked Paul angry, partly because angry-Paul was honest-Paul, and partly because it was reassuring; it reminded him that under the high-gloss finish, Paul was just as messy and rotten and fucked-up as everybody else.

“I am pissed, as a matter of fact, but I’m not fucking with you, Paul. I’d have to queue up with all the little virgins for that, wouldn’t I?”

Paul just rolled his eyes and turned back to the mirror, stripping off his shirt and tie. Jesus, what a fucking peacock he was, watching himself get undressed.

“Was she a virgin?”

“No.”

“Is she legal?”

“I told you” - Paul bit off each word – “I don’t know.”

“And you don’t care.”

“Not really, no.” Paul tossed his clothes on a chair. His face in the mirror was carefully bland - what Brian always called “Paul’s I’m-Not-Listening-To-You Look” – but his eyes had a hard, flat shine, and a muscle was working overtime along his jaw. John gloated inside. Paul always gave himself away with that, fucking always. “Why do you care, John? Why do you have such a bloody problem with this?”

Another fair question. John might even have answered it, if he’d known the answer. “I don’t have any fucking problem, you know. You’re my only fucking problem. Mr.-Three-Drinks-And-I’m-Anybody’s. Good thing Maureen buried that quote, eh, Macca?”

Paul snorted a laugh in spite of himself, and it occurred to John that he might not be high enough to provoke. He was weird that way, Paul was. He could be an astonishingly mean drunk, but when he was only slightly pissed, he just loved the whole goddamned world.

“I’m glad you think it’s so funny, Paul. Won’t be funny some day. Some day that fuck-'em-and-run routine of yours is going to piss off the wrong bird, and she’ll come after your ass with a story in every fucking paper she can find. Then it’ll be my problem, won’t it, son? Mine and George’s and Ringo’s.”

Paul made a face. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” He picked up his comb and went to work, taming the moptop. “And when did you start caring what’s in the papers?”

“When did you stop?” John countered, and Paul shook his head irritably.

“I know what I’m doing, John.”

John rose from the bed and walked around it to the dresser. He hovered rather unsteadily at Paul’s shoulder, watching Paul preen for a moment, letting it feed his restless anger. “Going back to the party?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it? Maybe you’ll find George or Rings warming up another bird for you.”

“I can get my own, thanks.”

Dry. Smug. Just short of bragging. It pushed every button John had.

As, no doubt, Paul had intended it to do.

“Don’t pull that fucking high-and-mighty shit with me, Mr. McCartney! Like you’d never fucking stoop so low! I fucking know you, son. I know how you work. I watched you fucking bird-dog Billy Wyman’s girl at the Ad-Lib – you remember that? - just to be a prick. Just to show everybody you could. You could have had any other fucking girl in the place, Paul, but you picked her. Why was that?”

“I didn’t want any other girl in the place, you know,” Paul said, reasonably enough. He gave John a pointed look. “And Billy Wyman’s not my best friend.”

John ignored the implicit compliment. He knew he was working himself up again - making more of this than it was, maybe - but he couldn’t seem to help it. Maybe he didn’t want to help it.

“Y’know, that’s the thing with you, Paul,” he continued, as if Paul hadn’t spoken at all. “You do it because you fucking can. Do you fucking need to be the cutest thing in the room all the time, Macca? Do you need it that fucking bad?”

Paul put the comb down - slapped it down - and faced John squarely. “So first it’s ‘she’s too young’ and then it’s the papers and now it’s just that you wanted to screw her yourself…Next time, could you make up your fucking mind what you’re pissed off about before you start in on me?”

“But it’s all the same fucking thing, Paul, isn’t it? It’s always the same fucking thing. It’s how you never think of the rest of us and how much fucking better you think you are than everybody else. With your goddamned classy looks and your goddamned classy friends and your goddamned classy life—What’s it about! What a selfish fucking prick you are, Paul, that’s what it’s about.”

The point made, he turned away, but Paul took a step toward him, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. Strangely, Paul was smiling, but it was nothing like his usual smile; it was taunting and twisted and mean as dirt.

“Better than a jealous fucking prick,” he said.

John yanked his arm free with a snarl. Paul shoved him out of his way, hard; John shoved back even harder and had the fleeting pleasure of seeing Paul’s head hit the wall about a second before the rest of him did. Did it hurt? John hoped it hurt. It must have hurt. It looked like it hurt.

So why the fuck was Paul still smiling?

“You are, Johnny, you fucking are—" His voice was easy, teasing, almost playful. Almost.

John clenched his fists. “Shut up, goddamn you, shut your bloody gob!" He took a step closer, then another, until they were inches from touching. “I’m not fucking telling you again—"

“Admit it,” Paul said then, very softly, very deliberately, and John stopped dead, knees shaking, body shaking, face frozen and hot. He stared at Paul, amazed as always at that blank, pretty look he could slip on like a mask, at how he could always look so fucking innocent, even now, even when he was being a dirty cat-mean bastard, taunting John, tempting him, bringing up crazy old shit that John, and maybe both of them, had tried very hard to forget. Paul fucking knew what he was doing here, he did, but it didn’t show. It never showed, and it made John want to hit him or shake him or knock him down or something. Get him even dirtier, or something. Make him real.

Or something.

Paulie wants to play, well, that’s all right, then, we’ll fucking play—

And he pushed Paul back against the wall again and kissed him.

His mouth was different than what John remembered, soft, but not as soft as it looked; there was stubble that caught with John’s and scratched and burned, and tastes of Scotch and Coke and tobacco and even the girl, some faint berry taste that was probably her lipstick. His mouth was different but it was fabulous, as exciting and forbidden as it had been at that party all those years ago, and John snaked his tongue out, wanting Paul’s in return.

Paul hesitated; John could feel it in the slight tensing of his body, the slight jerk of his head, and he moved in closer, dropping a hand from Paul’s shoulder to his waist, not pinning now, not forcing, just touching. Gradually, Paul relaxed into the easier contact, his lips parting at last, a hand winding in John’s collar to hold him in place. John teased his tongue inside and then Paul was kissing him back, his tongue warm in John's mouth, his cock hard against John's already, and oh, that was even better, Paul was some fucking bloody good kisser, wasn’t he, no wonder the birds came in droves and left so dizzy-happy. Not that John would ever tell him that.

John’s shirt was hanging open and Paul’s was still on the chair across the room, and the skin-to-skin contact was amazing, more arousing than John would have ever credited. The smooth slide of their bodies together, the shared heat, the prickle of fine hairs against his stomach and the hard points of Paul’s nipples against his chest – all of it was new, all of it was strange, so unlike sharing a woman’s body, but just as erotic. God knew they’d been naked together countless times, even slept naked together (or practically so) on occasion, but this was different. Everything was different now.

The kiss was certainly different. Much better than their first one, those two horny little boys who had been even drunker than this and practically virgins besides. They were men now; they were experienced; they knew what they wanted and how to get it.

He would never have guessed that they wanted this.

It went on and on, and John wouldn’t have willingly broken it – ever - but between the blood rushing to his groin and the tongue Paul seemed intent on shoving completely down his throat, his head was spinning. He pulled back and managed a single hoarse gasp before Paul grabbed his head in both hands and kissed him again, nearly slamming their bodies together. Their erections bumped again, a hard shiver snaked up John’s back, and quite suddenly he wanted more. More Paul, more cock, more skin. Skin-to-skin, like they’d never done it before, and where it would really count.

He reached for Paul’s zipper, tugging and fumbling, but his fingers were drunk and stupid, and finally he gave up and just yanked. Cloth ripped, the button flew; Paul chuckled warmly against his mouth, but it turned into a gasp as John’s fingers wrapped around him, and when John squeezed his knees buckled, only the wall and John’s body and the arm he’d hooked around John’s neck holding him up.

John marveled at how perfect Paul’s cock felt in his hand, how right, the size and the shape and the silky, swollen heat of it. It felt familiar and natural and comfortable. It felt like his own.

Like his own…

He scrambled to free his own erection and then he had them both in his hand, rubbing them together, squeezing, stroking. The sensation was unlike anything he’d ever felt, jagged bursts of pleasure, like electric shocks, exploding in his balls and his belly and at the base of his spine. Paul was feeling it, too, had to be; he was going crazy, writhing against John, thrusting shamelessly into his hand, groaning and panting in John’s ear, his neck, his mouth. It was incredibly sexy. It was Paul unhinged, Paul with all his masks off, and it made John wonder what it would be like to be under him, to be used by him, to have that cock driving not into his fist but his body, his ass, and Paul on top of him, sweating and straining and making all those same gorgeous fucking sounds.

Then Paul gasped, “No, shit, Johnny, stop, I can’t, can’t stand—" and Paul’s hand joined his, pushing and pulling, and then Paul’s fingers were wrapped around him, long and strong and clever and rough. Paul was rough, too, stroking John the way John was stroking him, quick, hard, finding all the really good spots no bird ever seemed to find, and when his mouth met John’s again, tongue matching the rhythm of their hands, John knew both of them were as good as done.

But, dammit, this was one time he didn’t want to be first.

His lips left Paul’s and moved down, along the line of jaw and throat, and, oh, this was sexy, too, almost more intimate than the stroking or even the kissing. He could taste Paul here as well, not just his mouth but him, his body, his skin - the salt of his sweat, the slight bitterness of his soap or aftershave. He could feel Paul’s pulse here, labored and throbbing beneath his lips. Paul’s pulse. Paul’s heart.

He kissed the spot, a light sucking kiss, and Paul‘s breathing hitched, and the hand stroking John faltered and paused, poised, trembling. Waiting? John sucked a bit harder and Paul arched against him, groaning, babbling, begging for something, and for the first time in three years, John let himself embrace the memory of that night in Hamburg, all of it, every last detail, and he bit down, hard.

“Jesus!” Paul gave a violent shudder and went rigid beneath him, and John felt the orgasm all over him, everywhere, not just the cock pulsing in his hand but the surging heartbeat under his lips, the clenching of the belly pressed to his, the curse that was nearly a sob muffled hot and explosive in his ear. Paul’s fingers tightened convulsively around him, once, twice, three times, in measure with the spasms still shaking him, and that was it, that was all it took, and John was coming as well, coming so hard he literally lost his senses, a roaring vacuum in his ears, great bursts of black and red before his eyes.

They collapsed at exactly the same time, John against Paul and Paul against the wall, both of them sweaty and sticky and panting like a couple of old dogs.

“Well,” John breathed, when he could finally speak, “I’m glad you admitted it,” and when the expected outrage made Paul’s jaw drop, John just grinned and kissed him again.

***

London, 1965


“Are they still at it, do you think?” Ringo asked.

George made a face. “’Course they are. We’ve only been up here five, maybe ten minutes. I expect they’re good for at least another fifteen.”

Ringo sighed. “What started it this time?”

“Weren’t you paying attention?”

“I hid in the loo,” Ringo confessed.

“Well” – George leaned back and stretched, lighting a fresh fag - “Paul’s doing the crossword.”

Ringo frowned. “And?”

“And he asked John for a word.”

“And?”

“A nine-letter word for ‘insufferable.’”

“And?”

George quirked a bushy brow. “How many letters in ‘McCartney’?”

“Oh.” Ringo tried not to laugh. “Oh, shit.”

“Right.”

Ringo chuckled wanly and shook his head, looking down at the sleeping street. “This is getting to be a regular thing, you know,” he noted, sobering. “A scheduled event or something, like high tea.”

George shrugged. “That’s the great Lennon-McCartney for you,” he said. “They’re fucking mental, the both of them. It’s nothing new. They’ve always been like this. You don’t know, Rich, you haven’t always been here. You should’ve seen them in Hamburg, on the pills. They were always at each other for something or other.” His laconic tone went bitter. “I expect it must be the price of genius.”

Ringo was silent. He had been there; he’d been in Hamburg, too, just like the rest of them, played the same clubs, taken the same pills. He hadn’t been a Beatle, no, but he’d known them, knocked around with them sometimes, even sat in for Pete once or twice. And he’d never known Paul and John to be like this. Competitive, pissy, prickly, and – yes - occasionally “fookin’ mental,” but never like this. Who got the lead, who got the solo, who got the blonde with the killer tits and not her great soft cow of a friend – these were the things John and Paul used to bicker about, and (in Ringo’s most humble opinion) those were things worth bickering about, if you were going to do the deed. They were the types of things even the best mates fought about on occasion.

But this…this was madness. For the last few months, ever since the tour ended, John and Paul were going at each other almost constantly, like they were just looking for reasons to quarrel. And it was always about the softest bloody things. Who ate the last ham sarnie in the kitchen. Who drank all the tea. Who used up all the toilet paper and forgot to replace it. Last week, that one had been, and Ringo still couldn’t get over it. Toilet paper, for Christ’s sake. “The Two Most Important Composers Since Shubert” were fighting over the supply levels in the community crapper, and if that was the price of genius, Ringo was glad he was just the dumb monkey who banged out the beat.

Even the way they fought now was different. Before, it had been all yelling and cussing, posing and bluffing, heated threats to thump each other and maybe a little chest-bumping once in awhile, just to bring the point home. All the normal stuff normal blokes did. And it had been quick: they’d have their row, they’d make up, and half an hour later they’d be huddled off in the corner, laughing and trading song bits and being inspired together again. “Getting exalted together,” as George liked to say, and that would be that.

But the new John and Paul didn’t fight like that anymore. Their rows now were quieter, and - for all their ridiculousness - rather meaner. Their rows now were cutting insults and fiery stares across the room and long, cold silences that didn’t end for hours. If at all. Usually, they would still be giving each other the treatment when the day’s recording was done, and they’d end up having to go off to Paul’s house to write, still not speaking, walking close but not quite touching, the tension between them so real Ringo felt he could reach out and pluck it and hear a taut twang.

Off to Paul’s house. Every bloody time.

And afterward? Why, they’d be just fine. For days, even weeks afterward. Better than fine, actually – as good as new, all smiles and hugs and friendly little shoulder-punches, joking and bantering, exchanging those funny intense looks that Ringo still found so fascinating and George, so annoying. All smiles and hugs and punches and looks…but no new songs, strangely enough. None. Ever. At all.

Ringo shifted uneasily and sighed.

George nudged him with a foot. "Earth to Ringo.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not your headache, Rings. Don’t let it bother you so much.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, though. But you shouldn’t. I mean, it’s not the end of the world. Or even of the Fabulous Four, heaven forbid. They’ll have their little lovers’ quarrel and then they’ll kiss and make up and everything’ll be back to normal. You know how it is.”

But that was the trouble, of course. Ringo didn’t know how it was. Not anymore. And George…did George know? Did he wonder, too? Lovers’ quarrel, he’d said. Kiss and make up, he’d said. Like he’d been reading Ringo’s thoughts. His very uncomfortable, increasingly suspicious, utterly barmy thoughts.

“Geo…”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever wonder…I mean, did you ever think that maybe…you know, this thing with John and Paul…that maybe it’s…well…not what it seems?”

George looked utterly blank. Too blank, maybe.

“What I mean is…have you ever noticed…or thought you noticed…anything…you know…off about it?”

George stabbed out his cigarette and pitched it, off the roof and into the dark. He still didn’t answer.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is—”

“Do I think John and Paul are having it off?”

“Yes!” Ringo said, shocked, but also vastly relieved. Sometimes George’s bluntness was a blessed thing.

“No.”

“No?” Sometimes George’s bluntness was disconcerting as hell.

“No,” George repeated. “I think it’s daft. I can’t believe you even brought it up.” His tone was flat and final and vaguely accusatory. At least, it made Ringo feel like defending himself.

“Christ, Geo, I just thought—“

“I know what you thought. You told me. And I told you, you’re daft.” George looked at his watch, his frown and the stubborn set of his jaw limned in moonlight. Ringo’s heart sank a little at that face. “We’d better be getting back.”

And without waiting to see if Ringo would follow or not, he got to his feet and walked across the roof to the stairs.

Ringo watched him out of sight. He was a little stunned by George’s reaction…but only a little. He should have known. He should have expected it. With what John and Paul meant to George separately, with what they did to him together…of course George could never see them like that. Could never even consider the possibility. Christ, John and Paul could probably bugger each other bowlegged on this very rooftop in front of half of St. John’s Wood, and George still wouldn’t see it.

And even if he did, he’d never admit it.

Wishing the session was over, wishing he was home in bed with Mo, wishing most of all that he’d just kept his fucking mouth shut and his suspicions to himself, Ringo got up and headed back to his job.