Chapter Text
It feels as though these last few days in Hamburg have been like bath water gone cold, soapy suds now dissolved into unstirred water. John is distant in a way Paul can’t determine if he’s imagining or not. He’ll see John drinking alone or stumbling blindly into their room hours after the rest of them have crashed and the silence will gnaw at him. So the days curl back into themselves, routine rolling on. It’s more guitar strings leaving indentations in their fingertips, more aching feet swelling in their shoes, more sweat soaked shirts after chaotic shifts and more surges of arousal and longing - so strong it renders him useless. Sometimes he thinks he’s getting better at not surrendering to it and letting it get the better of him. And then it’s all knocked out from underneath when he realises he’s just settled in what he feels. That his mind could wander anywhere for any amount of time, but John would still be at home, nestled in the shadowed parts of his heart.
-
The photographs Astrid took of them at the fairground look incredible, glossy and clear enough to imagine as little opened windows to another world entirely. He tells her this, and it might be the first time he’s ever allowed himself to be truly enthused and not so awkward around her. Maybe he feels guilty about not trying hard enough at the start to get to know her, too off-put by how she gravitated so easily to the other boys, leaving him and Pete to make the effort. And maybe he’s not used to that, exactly. With girls back home, it’s easy enough to charm and interact with them. Astrid shouldn’t be different, just because she’s been enamoured with Stuart from the start. Maybe he’s just still a little spooked by her. She has the all-knowing air of a mother figure, eyes seeming to cut straight through any facade you might by shielding yourself with.
She gives him a soft smile, doe eyes glimmering in the low light of her mother’s kitchen, passing him a cup of tea. John and George are sharing a plate of biscuits between them at the kitchen table, admiring the photos, careful not to spill crumbs onto the precious prints.
“They really are fab, Astrid,” he tells her earnestly for what must be the tenth time, “You made us look really great.”
“God knows we need the help,” George laughs as he gingerly takes the tea that Astrid passes him and smiles sweetly as she pats his shoulder.
“You are handsome boys,” she reassures them, her English is stilted and heavy on her tongue - but all the more reason to lean in close when she speaks, as they already do.
“She’s as blind as I am,” John huffs with a grin and Paul’s pulse flutters as he watches his long slender fingers flip through the prints.
Stuart enters the room, hair damp from the shower he’s just had and looking brighter, “I’ve missed being clean.”
“I’m sure your girlfriend appreciates it,” John says, and Stuart beams as he looks over at Astrid.
It wasn’t really a shock to see them kissing under the low lights at the back of the club, but it had Paul feeling a little blue. He missed being able to kiss like that. Not so much in a frenzied erotic way, but in that soft intimate way that only real lovers could. It had him thinking about those nights where he’d be all lax and loose from sleepy drunkenness and John would be right there, within his reach. How badly he wanted to just slip in beside him and kiss him like that - at first because it would lead somewhere and then sometimes just because. To tilt his chin up with his fingers like Stuart would do to Astrid, to mould their figures together and lose track of who was who. He feels the heaviness of guilt weigh him down at the thought of it.
He had a letter to Dot in his pocket, a pristine account of his work and play, a reasonable amount of sorrowful ‘miss you’s and a variety of dull questions about life back at home. It felt odd to write it, given the state he’s been in since he got here. He’d been so unnerved by it, putting pen to paper and outlining all the lies he half-wished were truths. Maybe that’s why he had encouraged John to write to Cyn, offering to pay postage. He needed to clean messes, to fix things up and make them presentable and shiny and acceptable. Standing in Astrid’s shower and scrubbing his skin red and raw hadn’t been enough, scouring at his grimey scalp like he could shed all of this anxiety like snakeskin.
“We should post our letters,” he suggests as they leave Astrid’s home, descending the stairs as the happy couple waves them off.
“Right, yeah. Don’t want them worrying,” John pulls out a slightly crumpled envelope from his jacket, and Paul scoffs.
“You can’t send it in that state,” Paul shakes his head, smiling, “She’s been waiting for her boyfriend to write her and that’s what she gets?”
John peers at him curiously, “This one is for Mimi. Cyn’s is back at the club, left it on me bed so I wouldn’t ruin it. Wanted to draw something on it before I sent it, anyway.”
Paul’s face falls a little, “Oh.”
“You think I’m that useless, eh?” John takes a half-hearted swipe at Paul’s arm, “You just worry about yer own bird.”
“Do you think I should send my Dad a letter?” Paul wonders aloud as they walk, noting the streams of sunshine falling from above, warming the back of their heads. He had missed the sun.
“Tell him you’re going to church and eating three meals a day,” George titters, “Make him feel better about it.”
Paul groans, “Maybe I’ll put it off for another day. Don’t feel-”
“Like lying again ?” John finishes for him, and Paul feels his face go hot. He shoots him a half-amused, half-grimace but melts into a chuckle because John is pulling a face at him.
“Who is Paul lying to?” George queries, teasing.
“No one-”
“He’s telling Dot how much he misses her, that he’s been so many days celibate-”
“I do miss her,” Paul clips back, feeling shame bloom in the pit of his chest. It’s true, though, he does miss Dot and everything that once was back home. He wishes he could go back to the start, to blind himself to everything now that had simmered underneath for so long, now brought to the surface.
John doesn’t respond to him, just directs his eyes off to the side of the road and Paul wonders (always wonders) what he’s thinking.
-
He’s taken by surprise when John invites him that night to come with him and the shiny new couple to another bar. The first question that flashes in his mind, the question he won’t ask, is if it is that bar that he had gone to the other night. It dangles above his head, teasing and ringing in his ears as he gets dressed, as he combs his hair, as he makes the timid journey to the front of the club to wait for a taxi to take the four of them away.
He’s squished in between Stuart and John in the back seat, knees pulled up to make room. He keeps his body tight and tense so he doesn’t shift that much as the taxi curves around street corners. But he can still feel the warm press of John’s body at his side. Can see how his hands rest over his thighs and his stomach goes tight at how bloody anxious he feels now. It really shouldn’t matter this much, but he supposes there isn’t much point in lamenting about that. He’ll always care too much. When it comes to John, when it comes to the sort of place they’re going. The rumbling of the vehicle makes him feel slightly ill, though, and he just bites down on the inside of his cheek and keeps himself drawn in and tense. Whenever John looks at him, he can feel it, and he has to resist the force that always has him mirroring John’s movements.
When they finally pour out of the doors of the car and into the street, it is an odd mixture of relief and more fear. The street itself is relatively quiet, the air relatively still. He hears piano keys twinkling from the windows of the bar across the street, ears pricking up at how familiar the tune is. He can’t quite make it out though, mind too busy to really concentrate.
“Hey now, pup, come along,” John whistles and waves his hand in front of his eyes, snapping his attention back to where it should be. John laughs at his lost look, and just gestures him along to follow Astrid and Stuart down the street to a rather gritty looking concrete brick of a building with boarded over windows. Stuart opens the gate, nodding at an obscenely muscular figure smoking by the rickety gate, and allows the rest of group to walk down the steps and up to a thick door.
Another muscular man with a shaved head and yellowed teeth greets them, exchanging polite back and forth with Astrid in german too rapid for Paul to catch. He has a lit cigarette smoking between two thick fingers, and an inscrutable tattoo up the length of his forearm. He opens the door for them, and they stream into a dimly lit narrow hallway. At the end of the walk is a silky mauve curtain that obstructs his view of inside the bar, and all he can think about is how suffocatingly low the ceiling is, and how John’s figure looms in his peripheral vision. Stuart parts the curtain from the center in a breezy, effortless motion. Paul doesn’t look at John, straining to keep his eyes as detached and void of any real emotion. Still, he can feel eyes piercing through his armour, stepping into the bar with a careful sweep of his gaze over the setup. The walls are brick painted over in black, dim eggshell light emitted from light fixtures above and red cellophane taped over the lights on the floor. There are chairs and tables, booths closer to the end of the bar where people are dancing. And the figures that roam about and lounge with drinks in their hands are vague at first, in Paul’s haste to take everything in and digest it quickly enough to seem unbothered. The patrons are diverse, from immaculately groomed men wearing fitted clothes to androgynous figures wearing odd combinations of modern and old fashioned pieces. The noise is fuzzy in Paul’s ears, casual chatter and relaxed jazz and clinking glasses. At this point he knows John is looking at him, and he dares to glance back and give him a somewhat-relaxed smile.
They sit themselves at a table and Paul carefully observes the men slow dancing on the cherry-wood floor, heeled boots clicking softly as they sway, holding onto each other with serene expressions. His gut swoops at the thought of he and John doing just that, being soft and relaxed and unguarded. Though it looks so odd. So foreign to what he knows.
Astrid embraces a man wearing a white silk shirt that clings to his slender frame, and exchanges pleasantries in german. When she turns around to introduce the two parties, Paul has to swallow his pride and look the man in the eye. His features are soft like Paul’s, but he is elegant in all the ways Paul knows not to be. The grand gestures he makes with his hands when he talks, how his hip juts out when he stands and how he speaks - like a camp theatre actor. Men like that hide in the shadows of Liverpool, so he’s been told. And now here they are, all gathered and unabashedly themselves and different .
“This is Volker,” Astrid says, giving the man a gentle squeeze on the arm, “You know John and Stuart. This is their friend, Paul.”
“You play rock and roll music also?” Volker asks Paul, his eyes are just grey rings around blown out pupils.
“Yeah, with the band,” Paul answers, gesturing towards John beside him as he reaches over the table to shake Volker’s hand.
“That is wonderful,” Volker enthuses, clasping his hands together under his chin. It’s like he emerged from the imagination of the boys that used to tease Paul so cruelly about his femine features, and Paul can only painfully ruminate over how much malice this man has been plagued with for his natural mannerisms all his life. This may be one of the few pockets of Hamburg where he can be like this.
“Volker is a fashion designer and a poet,” Astrid informs Paul, “A good friend.”
Paul realises his knee is bouncing anxiously, and quickly stills himself.
John leans closer to him, mouth barely an inch from his cheek, and murmurs, “You nervous about all this?”
Paul retracts his body back, shivering a little, “No, not really. Must be the prellies I took.”
It’s a lie, because he’s relatively unintoxicated, but he doesn’t want to appear square or rude. Especially when John seems so at ease in this environment.
“You want a drink?” John asks, his voice still low under the wailing of the saxophone making it so Paul has to lean back in closer. The ends of his hair brush against John’s temple, and the proximity is so dizzying without the nausea to discourage him from continuing to linger so close.
“Yeah, I’ll come with you,” Paul affirms, the two of them take orders from the rest of the table and head towards the bar, sliding in between two pairs of men at the stools lining the counter.
“Come here often?” John mimics an American drawl and leans an elbow on the bar.
A smile flickers across his lips but falls victim to his own nerves when the bartender asks them for their order, and he’s snapped back into the reality of the situation again. He takes note of the bookshelf tucked in the corner, neatly arranged books and paperbacks - most likely the sort of literature he’d never be able to access at the bookstores back home. There is a fleeting temptation to tuck one of the books under his arm and take it back to the club to read - to comb through the pages for answers to all the questions that rattle him. But he wouldn’t steal, he lowers his eyes, and he certainly wouldn’t ever risk getting caught.
“Little different from the Kaiser,” he comments just for the sake of saying something, sitting himself up on a barstool. John does the same and sheds his jacket, throwing it over the bar next to his arm. Paul, suddenly aware of the humidity trapped between the layers of his clothes, follows suit.
“Reckon Volker had his eyes on Stu that other night ‘til he saw how cozy he and Astrid were,” John looks over his shoulder and observes the small clusters of people sitting at the tables behind them.
There is a kind of timidness in the way Paul replies, “Didn’t even bother with you?”
“Nah,” John screws up his face for effect and breaks into a soft laugh, “Good thing I’m not bent, I’d be all on me own.”
Paul’s mind stutters over a response, his mouth hanging slightly agape with no words spilling out to save him. You wouldn’t be alone.
“Plenty of fish in the sea,” he settles on, just because the silence has stretched out awkwardly long and John’s attention has turned back to the bartender.
“Useless when you’re a red-blooded mammal,” John counters, eyes drifting up to the shelves of liquor bottles and a random assortment of vintage vases and abstract sculptures.
“Suppose you’ve got a point there,” Paul inspects his fingernails, catching sight of John’s heel jumping up and down. If he’s actually nervous, he’s trying to hide it. He squints as he stares, seemingly everywhere expect back at Paul, and his thin lips remain in perfect straight line.
“You wouldn’t have much trouble,” John states like a fact, still not looking at him.
“Why is that?” he regrets asking but he knows regardless of whether he helps set up a joke for John he’ll still make it. John shrugs, the collar of his shirt is crooked (it agitates Paul, fingers itching to reach out and correct it) and flat - exposing his collarbone.
Paul blinks away the enticement occupying his thoughts, “Ye can’t just not follow through. Thought you had a gag ready.”
“I wasn’t joking,” John replies, and then he’s looking back at Paul. It’s like a kick to the stomach, seeing the warmth and the glossiness of his eyes in this light. Hearing those words without twisted humour to make him feel self conscious or attacked.
“Maybe I’d take pity on you, then,” Paul blurts, the ache of regret hitting him hard.
John smirks, “I don’t want pity .”
Arousal pools where common sense should inhabit and Paul licks over his teeth and angles his chin up, “What do you want?”
The bartender slides over five tall glasses and murmurs something that they both miss. The whiplash that crossing from one moment to the next temporarily incapacitates him, his vision fixed on John as he scoops up the drinks to carry back to the table. He springs back into lucidity and collects the leftovers to follow closely behind as they navigate the clusters of people to get back to their table. He watches John’s footsteps, the muscles in his back under his shirt when he has to angle his body to pass by groups of people.
Paul makes a misstep and grazes roughly against a lady dressed in a tailored suit with a maroon bow tie. She smiles kindly enough at him when he apologizes, but some of the alcohol had splashed over his hand, sprinkling her sleeve. Her hair is dark and cropped short, freckled face making her look younger than she probably is. Her arm is looped around the shoulders of another woman wearing similarly masculine clothes, grey suspenders over black button up shirt, long hair pinned back and slicked into place with oil. And it’s strange, he had seen women kissing each other on stage in the seedy clubs in the Reeperbahn when they first arrived in Hamburg, but that was just performing. These women had the casual intimacy of a couple, leaning into each other’s side, faint lipstick kisses staining the underside of their jaws. He hurries along, not knowing what the flurry of emotion he’s experiencing is trying to tell him.
“Danke,” Volker smiles, fingertips accidentally pressing over Paul’s as he passes over his drink, and he just hopes that the blushing sensation warming his cheeks doesn’t actually show.
“Volker knows where I can get paints cheaper,” Stuart informs John as they slip back into their chairs, “I can go over to Astrid’s and work in my time off.”
“Yeah? That’s fab,” John replies, knee knocking into Paul’s as he shifts over.
John’s fingers curl around his glass and Paul observes with almost overwhelming fascination for reasons he’d rather not pinpoint right here. His own drink is bitter and bites at the back of his throat, but the aftertaste is kind of sweet and he settles into the rhythm of it soon enough. The casual chat around the table mostly consists of talk about Astrid and Volker’s work, and Paul’s mind keeps straying off course and has him peeking over at the patrons interacting with each other.
A man with loose curls and a frilled shirt approaches and quietly requests a dance with Volker, who accepts with a pleased hum and follows him to the dancefloor. Astrid and Stuart venture off to dance soon after, leaving John and Paul with a table of half-consumed drinks.The impulse to ask John, jokingly, for a dance tips dangerously close to something he seriously considers doing. He sucks down the rest of his drink, listening to John lament over the lost lyrics to Roll Over Beethoven that he had only just found that morning, sandwiched between the mattress and the wall. Maybe he should care more about this, but his thoughts are muddled and mostly situated in the deeply embarrassing fantasy of dancing with John.
Stuart and Astrid are kissing as they sway, Volker and his partner are whispering and giggling as they half-waltz slowly up and down the space of the dance floor. Seconds seem to expand into painfully long minutes and John has stopped talking, drinking out of Stuart’s glass. Paul keeps glancing at the couples around the bar, fidgeting with his fingers under the table.
“Need another drink?” John asks and Paul leaps on the opportunity, following close behind as they journey back to the bar.
“Might try to sneak in a Carl Perkins record,” John mutters, tapping at the counter and passing over a palmful of coins for the bartender to collect.
“Yeah, this places needs it,” Paul adds, trying to be subtle when he admires John’s profile.
“Still, something to be said for slow dance numbers,” John half smiles and nods towards the dance floor where Astrid and Stuart are now kissing with heated affection. But Paul’s eyes travel beyond the young couple to Volker and his companion, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed. They kiss, somewhere in between chaste and lovingly. Conflicting emotions crash over each other at the sight, but he can feel his lips buzzing with the ghost of a kiss and he knows its longing he’s feeling most of all. Shame like dead weight presses on his gut, because he’s looking at something unnatural. And as much as he wants to flinch away as though he is truly scandalised, he remains staring. Arousal kindling and his heart thumping in a way he can feel all over. It pierces through the cold of his disgust, of everything he was taught and warned about growing up.
He forces himself to turns away and drink some more. The droopy buzz of the alcohol is starting to warm him, a dull sleepiness pooling over his eyes.
His jaw is slack and his words are mostly unfiltered when he mumbles into the lip of his glass, “Ask someone to dance, then.”
John scoffs, “Don’t think these birds are interested, mate.”
Paul doesn’t relent, “Ask a bloke.”
Some twinges sharply when he says it, because the thought of John dancing with another man makes him feel ill. If John possessed even a fraction of the lustful torment Paul is battling and acted on those impulses with another man, Paul would splinter and collapse under the devastation. John not wanting him half as much as he wants him. Not needing him, for music, for anything - that would be the harshest blow to the shaky stability he has cultivated out of fearful necessity.
“Can’t dance with a bloke,” John plants his glass down with a thud, “But by all means, Pauline, you go ahead.”
Paul thumbs at the condensation collecting along the side of the glass, “Wouldn’t want to leave you on your own, Johnny.”
Suddenly the music seems louder, ruby lights slanting in fat streams across the bar seem dimmer and Paul can see the nervousness John is holding in his jaw. All he can think about for a blurry amount of time is settling his hand down on John’s thigh to still his restlessness. Pressing into the soft flesh with his fingertips and holding him down, not letting him go. John’s hand sliding over his, the spiking of his heartbeat...
“Well,” John starts, but doesn’t follow through, leaving Paul holding his breath.
“Well?” Paul breathes out slowly. John raises his brow, and Paul crumbles under his stare.
“Guess neither of us are going to dance,” he sucks on his bottom lip, turning his body so he’s facing Paul straight on. Paul’s pulse points hammer, toes curling from the tension building and building. There’s something coy in the undercurrent of John’s words, and Paul knows it can’t just be his imagination. Each breath he’s taking is shallow and his mind is swimming in the cherry light splashed across the ceiling. He wants to reach out, take the step John isn’t going to make. The ebb and flow of the two of them, this is how it always is. He’s got to give.
“One way to solve that,” Paul murmurs as playfully as he can through the strain of nerves, “Fancy a dance?”
John looks at him, but not startled or horrified. It’s something crossed between wicked amusement and slight surprise.
“Can’t say no to that, can I?” John scratches at his chin, pushing himself off of the barstool. They walk side by side towards the dancing couples, the music swelling and piano slightly shrill in Paul’s ears. Heat trickling down his arms and legs, swirling behind his ribs and seeping through the gaps. They turn on their heels to face each other, but neither of them are giggling like they should be. Because they are just joking around, just doing this for a laugh. But no one is laughing.
John rubs the back of his neck, chuckling, “Feels wrong, doesn’t it?”
Paul’s heart leaps to its own defence, “Not really.”
He reaches out to rest his palms on John’s shoulders, the gap between their chests large enough that he hardly has to bend his elbows. John snickers and places his hands around Paul’s waist, and hot-blooded stiffness overtakes him.
“I’m not a bird,” he bursts with accidental volume, “Watch your hands, there.”
John tilts his head with a challenging expression, “One of us has to be.”
Paul blinks, stung by the words and he’s not even sure why. The whispers of regret begin to warm his face, but he can’t move his feet, let alone his hands, just watching John’s discomfort with helpless shock.
“That’s not how this thing works,” he protests, voice crackling on the last syllable, “That’s the point, innit? Neither of us are…”
Something stormy darkens John’s eyes, all jest and fun fading away, swirling around the drain and Paul has to either scramble to save the scraps or run away. He makes the grave mistake of looking over John’s shoulder, spotting Stuart watching them over Astrid’s shoulder with amusement. The desperation flares in both of them, John’s hands fall from his figure and he almost shudders from how much he misses the contact the instant it’s gone.
“Alright, just- Just try this?” Paul presses his thumbs into the muscle of John’s shoulders and pulls himself closer, and they are eye to eye. He can see the blush tinged over his cheeks, the nervous darting of his eyes around the room.
John grunts and shrugs him off, “Stupid idea.”
“It’s just a joke, John,” he frowns, panic convulsing and wringing his hope dry, “You’re making it-”
“Got a fucking sick sense of humour, don’t you?” John spits back, and then he’s storming away, leaving Paul in the dust.
Stuart steps into his line of vision, Astrid under his arm and looking confused. Paul wants nothing more than to sink into the floor and never emerge.
“Alright?” Stuart asks, genuinely concerned. Paul realises that if John has an outburst of anger, Stuart will never ask ‘ What happened? ’, neither will Paul. Because they both understand that the why shouldn’t be poked and prodded when John is in such a state.
Paul just looks at him, eyes unblinking and fear forcing its way into the cavities of his lungs. John wouldn’t have done this the other night. Just him and Stu. He would have been comfortable. Paul grits his teeth, and starts to head towards the door (not without collecting his and John’s jackets that had been left draped over their chairs). He spots Volker and his dance partner heading into the bathroom, holding hands. An awful pang strikes across his gut as he shakes the images out of his head and bolts towards the door.
The shadows of figures stalking up and down the streets are merely obstructions in his effort to race after him, infuriating Paul. He wants to claw the darkness, stop the anxious beat of his heart that is making him feel frantic and sucking up sensible thoughts like a ravenous beast.
John is across the street, shoulders hunched up against the chilly air.
“Fuckin’ hell! Lenon!” Paul calls out, darting across the road. John whips around, eyes glazed over and mouth screwed into a snarl. Paul slows down, holding out his jacket and the other boy snatches it quickly.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know how to dance like a poof?” John hisses, forcing his arm through the sleeve, his breathing audible.
“I don’t know either!” Paul exclaims, “Wasn’t the bloody point, was it?! Could ‘ave done a fucking jive, it wouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t a serious thing! Was supposed to be a fucking laugh, John!”
Cars groan along the road beside them, drunken hollers from bar patrons and women in long coats leaning on street lamps with cigarettes pinched between their fingers. And everything is too filthy and too fucking terrifying to cope with. Frustration scrapes against his throat, raging in a desperate effort to unleash itself. To not blame himself for once, to push the burden into John’s arms. Pin the blame on him so Paul doesn’t have to live in agony over this any longer.
“Seemed pretty important to you,” John snaps, “Had your paws all over me, didn’t you?”
His fingers curl into rigid fists, fingernails leaving painful crescent shapes in the flesh of his palms, “Come off it! You’re just embarrassed. Don’t take it out on me.”
“Yeah, I am embarrassed!” John steps towards him, nose crinkled and cheeks flushed rose, “Because I’m not a fairy! Not about to go dancing around like one!”
“I didn’t say you were,” Paul wants to scream, wants to rip his own hair out, but his voice just stays low and dark and stilted.
John’s expression transitions into something more pained and woeful before he turns around. He doesn’t walk off though, just stands there with his back to him. An obnoxious blue neon sign flashes beside them, igniting the sheen of John’s jacket and bathing him electric light for stuttered seconds at a time. Paul just stands there, feels his eyes going warm and misty and he feels like an absolute fool.
He sighs, “Christ, I’m fucking dead on my feet and I’m- I’m just… I’m sorry, alright? Thought it’d be a laugh. Didn’t- Didn’t think. Just wanted to crack up Astrid and Stu when they were all serious, like.”
John shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, huffing, “Let’s just go back.”
Paul swallows, “Back?"
John looks at him, bottom lip twitching, “To bed. Said you’re tired, so am I.”
Paul could burst right here, allow himself to woefully tend to the wounds he’s accumulated tonight. The boy is looking at him, brow furrowed, the energy around him isn’t radianting with a violent edge any more. He suddenly looks as tired as Paul feels, and that night in the alleyway floods back to him. How he thought he saw his soul reflected in the pools of John’s eyes, thought they were experiencing the same thing. And he feels it now, stepping closer and seeing how his movements stir up caution in shadows of his face. The grief, the apologies left unuttered, softening the corners of his mouth and the hue of his eyes.
He can’t let him see it, all of the emotion he’s tangled up in. All the unwavering devotion. He’d lurk in the shadows with John, he’d stand in the spotlight with him. He’ll continue to bask in the impressions John leaves in those strange sweet moments of sentimentality. He’ll live with the vacancy in the pit of his chest, he’ll endure the helplessness he hates - just to be there beside John. But he’s falling apart with it, can’t pull himself back together quickly enough between heartbreak. John can tell, he knows it.
There’s something palpable in the gap between their bodies, he can’t tell if it’s smouldering red or a sorrowful blue. Maybe it’s neither. Maybe, as they walk down the street passing by the women with their skirts hitched up to their knees, there is nothing more than the blandness of two bandmates sulking in the streets of Hamburg.
-
Stuart bounds up onto the stage halfway through the band’s set, much to Paul’s gloomy annoyance. He turns over to John, who seems to be unbothered by his mate showing up late. The entire day has had Paul on edge, John had disappeared for most of the day without letting anyone in on his whereabouts. So Paul had plucked the envelope for Cynthia out from where it poked out from under the mattress and posted it on John’s behalf just for something to do (resisting the temptation to look at the words and wonky love hearts scrawled across the enevelope’s side). The events of the previous night had kept sleep at bay, and any sense of peace was beyond him.
Looking at John now was unnerving, not able to read his body language without driving himself mad with frustration. Across the stage glances and pleading eyes were not enough, and all that emotion was welling up, spilling over into a brashness as he leans closer to the microphone and watches John’s eyes with an intensity that kind of frightened him. Anger and yearning.
John looks back at him, and instead of the hostility that Paul had expected, he finds something he can’t read. Like they’re trying to figure each other out. Paul sings out, guttural and strong.
“I can't stand still!
With the hippy hippy shake!
Ooh, get my thrills now,
With the hippy hippy shake!”
John keeps staring, sweaty streaks of his hair fallen across his forehead, bouncing on his feet. His lips curl into a grin, because having John’s eyes focused on him - seemingly unable to look away - is thrilling. It’s intoxicating. It’s sweet relief mixed with hot arousal. Pete is crashing about behind them at his kit, and it may as well be his own heartbeat. He tries to twist it up in his mind, imagine John is as enchanted as he is. Imagines that John wants to look away, but can’t. He licks over his bottom lip, bopping his head along to the rhythm and allows his eyes go half-lidded in the way the girls like. Maybe John likes it too, his fingers are sliding messily over the strings of his guitar but doesn’t seem concerned about it.
They start the next song, John moving closer with his body angled straight towards Paul, like the audience is totally irrelevant now.
“I'm going to Kansas City!
Kansas City, here I come!
They got a crazy way of loving there,
I'm gonna get me some!”
John’s eyes scan him up and down, not bothering with the chord change as he edges closer. Paul smirks before he pushes out a gravelly sound, like he’s expelling all the emotional angst he’s felt right into John’s face.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!”
John leans forward into Paul’s space to use his mic, echoing Paul with a slight quirk of his lips.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!”
Paul licks over his lip again and sings out.
“Hey! Baby!”
John laughs, echoing back again, “ Hey! Baby!”
All the tension is dissolved into electric joy, he doesn’t want this to end. They are practically chest to chest (or, guitar to guitar) and crying out with hoarse voices in a way they know they’ll regret soon enough when they have to sing again, but it’s too much to hold it all in. He has to scream about it, he has to shout. He shakes his head, twisting about and John does the same.
We’re dancing , Paul thinks with a fluttering of his heart. He wants this as much as he wants the dreamy slow dancing, and if this is all he can have then he’ll take it. But there’s something in John’s eyes that has him recklessly hoping that maybe he wants all of it too.
-
His hair is dripping with water after another attempt at bathing in the bathroom sink, skin still shimmering and wet, his shirt clinging to his torso awkwardly. He’s on a post-show high like he hasn’t felt in a long time, eager to rush back to the bar and see John. It’s ridiculous, how quickly things changed. All with a look.
He’s just about to reach out and order a drink at the bar when he fails to find John, but lo and behold, his bandmate steps into his path, in a different set of clothes with his hair combed into his artful teddy boy swirl, “Wanna go somewhere else?”
“Sure,” he replies, following John along through the crowd, passing by Stuart and the exis pair who seem to be organising their night’s exploits as well. It’s silly, but he feels an extra burst of joy that John doesn’t even look over to them. He just wants Paul with him tonight.
He barely feels the cold as they walk through the streets, winding through alleys between buildings where overflowing garbage bins reside. Something is building, something is shifting. And although he and John are exchanging casual conversation, it feels stilted and strange. He’s not sure why, maybe it’s his own head filled with the euphoria of tonight mixed with slight nervousness that he may mess up again.
They stop suddenly, standing behind an unfamiliar building on the concrete strip between it and a fenced off area. He looks to John, unsure.
“Heard about this film the other day,” John says, “They only play it here.”
“Oh, alright,” Paul nods, combing back his damp hair with his fingers. John nods as he turns towards the door and knocks a few times. The man that opens the door asks him something quietly, and John replies back with a mumbled answer that Paul can’t make out, and then they are ushered in.
The place is less of a cinema and more of a home with a viewing room that they wander towards after vague instructions given to them by a German pair of men stumbling out of the bathroom. Paul feels a new kind of tension now, but remains reasonably outwardly calm as they walk into the small theatre, darkened with a fuzzy blank screen of greyish light projected onto a blank wall. There are about ten or so other men, all dressed in various shades of black and white. It’s like they’ve both fallen into a film themselves, the room unaffected by their presence as they sit in the front row together.
Paul leans over, shoulder pressing into John, “Looks like an exis crowd.”
John keeps looking straight ahead, “Yeah, Astrid was the one telling me about this place.”
Paul nods, retreating back further into his seat as the hushed voices fade into silence and the projected film begins to play, the light fizzling to a black and white scene set in a forest. A man stalks through, looking lost and frantic as he weaves through the trees and fallen branches. He looks a lot like Stuart, pale and thin with feline eyes and high set prominent cheekbones. There’s a quiet humming of a violin that drums up a kind of tension as the man continues to search. Paul’s hands fidget in the meantime, wondering what John could possibly be thinking now.
The film cuts to another section of the sombre forest, where a white sheet lays over the dirt and leaves and a different man with darker hair is sprawled out on top of it, smiling serenely to himself with his eyes up towards the sky. The close up on his face holds for a long ten seconds, and Paul doesn’t really know what to do with himself. The violin picks up in tone as the first man steps into the small clearing and sees the other man, looking wide-eyed and bewildered. He approaches slowly, step by step and so slow Paul’s foot starts tapping impatiently on the carpeted floor.
He stops himself at the very edge of the sheet, peering over at the man who is unaffected by his presence, continuing to watch the sky calmly. Paul watches with increasing interest as the Stuart look-alike skirts around the perimeter of the sheet, eyeing the stranger thoughtfully, cautiously. By the time he makes it back to the corner he started at, Paul feels like the tension building up is going to become unbearable. Do something!
The man looks miserable now, mouth turned down and eyes cast to his feet. The shaky camera pans over to the peaceful man, who now looks up. His smile changes shape, shifting into something more curious before he starts to shift over the sheet. He slithers along like a snake, almost, and they keep eye contact. When he makes it to the edge of his sheet, he stops. He reaches out a hand, his shirt sleeve falling like silk around his arm and pulling back a little, exposing the dark fuzz dusting his arm. The first man takes a step back, and the camera closes in on his shoes sinking into the leaves as he does so. The violin is still humming, Paul is on edge. The man on the sheet pulls his body up so that he’s on his knees. His shirt unbuttoned to the navel, showing off his heaving chest and his eyes are still fixed on this stranger.
The focus shifts, dreamily, and the background is black for a moment. A pale hand cuts through the dark, reaching across. It glows and shimmers against the background. Another hand from the opposite side reaches out and grabs a hold of it - and the music swells up and up and up and suddenly the film cuts to the image of the two men as they were. But now, the slightly timid man takes a step onto the sheet. His shoe brings across dirt and foliage onto the pristine surface. He becomes shy, but doesn’t retreat. He falls down to his knees and faces the stranger. Somehow Paul feels that they are happy, can see it in the look they are giving each other. The film cuts back to the image of the two hands, and then back again to the pair of men. The music dies down, but not solemnly, and the two actors now lay down, their fingers intertwined between their chests as they gaze at each other, lovingly. It holds there, flickers of footage of leaves rustling in the breeze play every few seconds. Footage of flowers facing up towards the sun. Footage of clouds shifting across the pale grey sky. Paul feels his heart in his throat.
The scene drifts over to where the wind is blowing more leaves onto the white sheet by their feet. Dark grains of dirt spill onto the white, creating a stark contrast. The violin’s wailing becomes more shrill and panicked, Paul is nervously picking at the hem of his shirt. The two men whip their heads over to see all the leaves and dirt, now pouring into the clean space. They both become distraught, springing up and trying to kick against the mess, flinging it out with their hands. But it makes no substantial difference, and they are both sweating and panting and desperate. The white sheen of their sweaty foreheads, the dirt now covering their hands. They look to each other, confused and saddened. The violin lowers in tone, in pitch, in volume. The first man runs his hands over his face, dirt smearing over his cheeks and jaw. The footage of the two hands reaching out towards each other plays again, but reversed this time, so that they separate. Paul’s stomach drops from some great height because he knows what will happen next.
He watches with helpless sadness as the first man retreats back, stepping off of the sheet. A closeup of his face reveals tears now streaming through the dirt, revealing the pale white of his skin. He looks distraught, lips trembling. The second man watches him go, standing and seeming distressed as well. The camera slowly pulls back, revealing that the white sheet is now gone, and so is his companion. He falls down to his knees, curling over with his hands dragging back and forth through the forest floor. He lays down, eyes shut tight as he cries. The image darkens to black and the music fades into buzzing silence. Someone in the audience sniffles, and Paul realises his heart is thumping under his hand where he has pressed it against his chest. He looks to John, who has his glassy eyes still watching the wall that now only has a blank slate of white light projected onto it.
They don’t speak as they exit the room, and John seems depressed when he pushes the door open and steps on through back outside. Paul is watching him, feeling the urge to say something but he knows he can’t exactly be thoughtless when navigating this issue. Those men were in love, he knows it. He knows that the audience was a small cluster of queers. He knows all of this and so John must know it too. He just doesn’t know what to do with the information. The air is colder than it had been when they first got here. He rubs his hands over the goosebumps that rise on his exposed arms as the door slams shut behind them.
“What now?” he asks. Of all things that he anticipates happening, John laughing is not one of them. But of course, that’s what happens. He cackles in a way that startles Paul, and turns around to face him with his expression closely resembling the one John pulls before he insults someone. Paul braces himself for impact.
“What? Nothing to say, Paul?” like the words have been pushed out of his chest by force.
Paul wipes over his mouth, anxiously, “About the film?”
John looks almost angered by him, “No, mate, about the fucking weather. ”
It’s last night’s wrath regurgitated, and Paul really doesn’t want to do this again. He squares his shoulders and crosses his arms over his chest.
“I can’t talk to you like this,” he says and turns his back to his friend and begins to walk. John grabs a hold of his arm and turns him around again, and Paul’s mind flashes back to the image of two hands reaching for each other. He pushes back out of John’s grip with a frustrated sigh.
“Don’t leave.”
Paul stills and finds John’s mood has changed, unguarded eyes are now just pools of darkened pleas. His chest feels pressed, trying to steady himself amongst the evolution of John’s moods throughout these past two days. He may as well be a pitiful tugboat on the water battling against an epic and raging storm. It’s no use, he’ll never be settled with John like Stuart is. He’ll never be the friend he should be. And yet, John is asking him to stay. And there’s vulnerability there, and Paul doesn’t know if he should test it.
“I want to know what you thought of it,” John’s voice wavers slightly.
He swallows, “I-I don’t know. It’s not something I-”
John’s face falls a little, and Paul’s pulse picks up, “- I liked it, though. It was different. You said Astrid told you about it? Makes sense, she’s got good taste.”
Something stirs between them, and Paul has to take a step back into the wall to be able to breathe. He wants to ask the same question, but can’t find the courage amongst all the confused fear charged in his gut.
“She didn’t tell me about it,” John admits and steps closer, “Volker did.”
With only foggy moonlight to guide him, he observes the subtle changes in John’s eyes. From reluctance, to fear, to defiance and back to fear. He blinks back the emotion seeping into his own body language, tilting his gaze upwards towards the tops of the bare branches of the trees. He can’t stand this. Can’t stand the uncertainty. The flickering back and forth between hopeful wanting and painful yearning. He needs John to strike down his hope down so it’ll never rise again all the while he needs him to affirm everything he is suffering through with-
A kiss? He swallows his pride and meets John’s eyes. Do something!
With shaking hands, he surges forward, stopping just short of the tips of their noses brushing. He lays his hands over John’s shoulders, fingers trembling. John’s lips part as his breath hitches, and then he’s closing the gap between them and pressing his mouth to Paul’s.
The heat radiating from John’s face, his body - it warms Paul into a liquid-like stance. They press together, Paul’s back knocking into the wall behind him and his breath gusts against John’s cheek like a sigh. John echoes it back, hands holding the sides of Paul’s face with his fingerpads pushing through his hair, pressing into his scalp. John’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip, and the moans rising up from their throats are almost primal, but there is something so soft about how they kiss. He pushes closer and closer, chasing all the buzzing warmth, drowning in it. His fingers curl around John’s biceps, squeezing and holding on for dear life because he can’t rely on his feet. John sucks on his bottom lip, hands cradling Paul’s jaw and holding him in place. It’s mind-numbing. It’s vivid and crisp and so fucking hot. His skin is burning with it, grinding a little against John with it. His hand snakes back up to his shoulder, and then around the back of his neck, blunt nails probably digging into the skin and leaving marks. His hips are incessant in chasing John, to feel every inch of him. All the possessiveness he’s ever felt pours out from the deepest place inside of him and tangles around the both of them. Their mouths feel bruised and wet and he doesn't want this to stop.
“Ah, fuck,” John whines between kisses, Paul mouthing at his jaw in an attempt to pull him back. John’s hands grab a hold of his hips, but unlike the previous night, Paul doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind the way John’s thigh slots between his because they are two halves of a whole being pulled together, and everything feels too good to pull away from. His jaw is lazy and a little slack as John presses kisses into his neck, hands slipping under his shirt and holding the warm flesh of his waist.
“Oh,” Paul moans, head tilting back and eyes glazed over with the ecstasy of the friction they’re creating. His lashes flutter, feeling the strain inside his pants. Feeling John strained against him, too. And he knows that John is a randy bastard at the worst of times, but he feels flushed and hot at the thought that he did that to him. That Paul drives him as mad as he could hope. The lewd sounds he’s making seem to stir John further, so he keeps it up - but doesn’t overdo it. Solar flares burst behind his ribs when he hears John groaning his name into the shell of his ear. Everything is burning up and brilliant.
When they split apart, breathing heavy and warm into the space between their raw red lips, the intimacy is still there. It stays locked into place - in the soft hold Paul has on John’s shoulder blades, in the press of John’s thumbs into the flesh just above Paul’s waistband, in the sweep of their lashes as they absorb the moment.
Their foreheads press together, breathing in the intimacy, “I- I can’t… It’s so good, with you.”
Paul’s chest could burst with how he’s feeling, his voice is a little croaky when he says, “I know. I’m not- y’know. But this is just...”
John’s lips ghost over his, and the tingling sensation has him shivering. There is something feather soft drifting back and forth between their eyes. Paul has to look away for a moment, overwhelmed with how it feels for John to look at him like that.
“I’m not either,” John’s assures, “But... I want it. With you. Feels good, getting off with your best mate.”
Paul’s chest swells, and he can only nod and murmur, “Feels really bloody good.”
John smirks, huffing a small laugh, “D’ye think, maybe, we’ll just go for it… when we feel like it? ‘Cos I’m not givin’ up birds or anything… not giving up Cy-... ‘m just saying it’s- us ...together .”
He’s dizzy with how it feels for John to tell him this. His pulse points are like butterfly wings beating. The slight tremble in his voice when he speaks, the eyes boring into him with intensity - it's what Paul couldn’t have even dreamed up. Not in the drunken and aroused states he’d work himself into at the bar with John nearby, skin dewy with sweat and laughter rattling him. Not even in the golden soft moments back home, writing songs and singing in sweet harmonies together.
“So good,” his mouth feels like fuzz, and his voice is still quiet and low.
John smiles, half shy and half teasing when he rolls his hips against Paul’s, “ Good , eh?”
Paul arches his back, chest flushing in arousal, “Fuck...don’t-”
“Don’t what? Don’t tease you?” John snickers and pulls his hips back, “You’re the biggest fucking tease I know.”
Paul arches a brow, steadying himself against the wall with his eyes half-lidded, “How am I a tease?”
John licks over his bottom lip as he looks Paul up and down, “You just...get to me.”
The moment folds into something soft and dazed, affection curling around his heart. He feels himself blush at the look John has right now. They don’t have to talk about last night, about the anger and tension and everything that happened before tonight. Frankly, Paul would be fine if they never discussed it. Maybe he’d wonder when John first started to notice him, but right now he’s certain that it was always there for him, so it would have always been there for John as well. And he never wants that perspective to change. Wants to keep the rosey interpretation and always know it to be true. If John ever decided that this was just a perverted whim and tossed him aside, he doesn’t want to believe him. The way he’s feeling right now, with John looking at him like this, he won’t ever believe such a thing. They’ve been baring their souls to each other for the last few years, piece by piece, and now they know each other completely. And he won’t let go.
“Are- are we going to go back?” his head is so fuzzy with sentiment he barely knows how he means that. Don’t go back. I want to stay like this.
John looks over his shoulder, “Want somewhere more private. Could just lock the door to our room, can’t we?”
Another wave of heat surges over him, “Yeah. We’ll do that.”
-
The room is empty (Paul almost cries out in relief), and the lock doesn’t take much forceful persuasion to clamp shut. A wonky wooden chair that had been used to hold up George’s bag is repurposed into further securing the door shut, propped under the doorknob. There’s uncertainty in not knowing what will happen when John turns around to face him again. He sits himself down on his mattress, hand smoothing over the pillow John had given him, taking slow lungfuls of air and breathing out slowly.
John approaches him with caution, but glides his hands over Paul’s shoulders smoothly and pushes them both down against the mattress with half-confidence. It doesn’t take much to become frantic again, grinding and kissing with feverish desire. It’s like they are the burst of fire against the dark and dreary backdrop, all the heat and energy kept between their bodies.
John rolls off of him onto his side, fumbling with the fly of his pants with one shaking hand and tugging them down. Paul does the same, overwhelmed by the sight of John’s hard cock flushed red and pressed up against his hip. When he finally grips himself, stroking slowly - just for a bit of relief - he whimpers. And the sound is swallowed up when John kisses him again, pulling him over and on top of him. He straddles him, pumping himself as he sits back on John’s thighs and watches him. In the desperation to absorb everything, eyes darting from his hand to his eyes and back down again, he pushes up his hips. Their knuckles knock together, as they jerk in time with each other. And it would be enough, but John is writhing about and huffing and Paul knows what he wants. He nudges John’s hand away, and without much thought or consideration behind it - just heat and lust, he wraps his fingers around John’s prick. He leans forward, pressing their cocks together. It has his entire body shuddering and tingling as he pumps them both. He’s sensitive and obscenely hot all over. It builds and builds, like nothing he’s ever known before. John has his face half-mashed into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut like he can’t take it.
“Look at me,” Paul breathes out, and John responds. His thighs are shaking underneath him as they watch each other, keeping the rhythmic rocking of their hips because it would burn if they separated for even a second.
“Fuck,” John reaches out to wind his slender fingers around his cock and hold him for a moment before he starts up in time with Paul. Their fingers brush together, it feels too good to keep up for too long. John spills out with a shudder, head falling back and mouth agape. Paul fucks up against the heat the visual invokes, skin sliding together and rubbing raw, the goosebumps along his spine rising when his body quivers and he comes over their hands.
He slumps over, half of his body crumpling on top of John as the afterglow envelopes him in a glorious leisurely buzz. They stay there, catching their breaths, Paul rolling over onto his back, feeling pleased when John follows his movements and turns over to curl close to him. His mouth is pressed to Paul’s shoulder, their ankles locked together. The intimacy swirling around them is tangible, Paul could almost reach out and thread his fingers through that golden blur. He can’t string words together, his throat an odd mixture of wet and dry. His body feels like it’s glowing, maybe they are glowing. He exhales in exaggerated way, making John smile against his skin.
“John…” Paul starts, but doesn’t know where he’ll end up, so he shuts his mouth and closes his eyes.
“Hmm?” John’s fingers trail up his arm - like they’re real lovers. Paul’s heart clenches, lips fizzling with the gentle kiss he wants to press to John’s mouth right now. He’s boneless and heavy but so elated, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
The sound of footsteps outside their door makes them both jump.
They hurry and wipe themselves down and reach out to grab their pants off the floor. The knocking on the door comes just as they manage to appear somewhat presentable, Paul sitting up on the bed as John bounds over to the door. Then his posture changes from rushed to relaxed, and he looks over at Paul with some kind of expression that clearly reads as cheeky scheming.
“Hello?” a voice calls out to them.
“What’s the password?” John replies, making Paul laugh.
“The password is ‘I need sleep’,” Stuart’s voice calls back.
“No, sorry, son. Got to keep this place safe. Need the right password,” John clicks his tongue. Paul looks over at him, leaning against the door with a wicked grin. His cheeks are flushed pink and his hair is a laughable mess, and he looks so good. The best he’s ever looked, Paul thinks.
“How ‘bout, ‘Open the bloody door, John, I need some fucking sleep’?”
“That’s not the password either,” John tuts, folding his arms in a camp way. The door starts to rattle but John doesn’t give in, Paul gives him a questioning look but no explanation for his stubbornness is given.
“You know, if you’re shagging someone, you just had to say so,” Stuart sighs, still sounding a little amused, though.
“So!” John flashes a grin and Paul just sinks back into the mattress and holds back his giggling.
“Christ, you drive us all mad, John,” Stuart gives up with a half-laugh and his soft footsteps fade away as he leaves, and the silence that follows cracks them both up into laughter.
“You’re going to pay for that,” Paul sighs, watching John through sleepy eyes as he walks back over to sit at the foot of the bed.
“I’d like to see him try.”
“He’ll quit if you keep it up,” Paul warns, but it’s in jest, “I suppose Astrid’s bed is better, though, he might thank us.”
“Thought that’s what you wanted, for him to quit. Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” John muses as he shifts himself back to lay down shoulder to shoulder with Paul.
“Might not be the best thing, either,” Paul quips back, “He’ll hold a grudge against us for forcing him to buy that bloody guitar.”
“Don’t be so cynical,” John teases, tugging the pillow from under Paul’s head for himself, “He wouldn’t have found his precious girlfriend without us.”
“Oi! I was using that,” Paul protests, but he’s smiling.
“Give to the needy.”
“Yeah, right,” Paul rolls his eyes, humour lacing his tone. And then John is sliding over the pillow, and they both rest their heads on it, nose to nose.
“Charity starts at home,” John mumbles, eyes falling shut. Home . Paul wants to pepper his face with kisses, all this fondness warming his chest.
“Could do with some more charity,” Paul mutters, watching the grin stretch over John’s face.
“I could give you another handy, but I’m dead tired now,” John simpers, “How’s that for charity?”
Paul feels himself starting to drift off, sleep clouding his mind pleasantly, “Very generous of you.”
He doesn’t know how much time goes by, a few minutes, a half hour? But he knows that he’s teetering on the edge of actual deep sleep now that the flurry of emotion has settled into his bones. And he knows when he hears a sharp intake of breath on John’s side of the bed that he’s about to speak. He can feel it in the air in the mere seconds before he says anything.
“You know it was always you.”
The words encase his heart, securing everything into place. He can barely make his lips twitch into a small smile, let alone open his eyes to acknowledge him. Maybe he really is asleep. Maybe he’s dreaming. And as terrifying as this will all be when he wakes up, he can hardly bring himself to care now. At this moment, he’s snug and secure and relieved, so he’ll always make sure John knows. That he knows he’ll see it all in Paul's eyes, reflected back. Two mirrors facing each other, two hearts opened to each other. Lennon and McCartney.