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Paul bent over the bathtub as he checked the temperature of the water. Astrid’s apartment was strangely quiet behind him, which Paul would consider being more concerned about if he wasn’t so preoccupied with ensuring that his shirtsleeves weren’t kissing the soapsuds. He tugged the fabric toward his elbows, brusque and impatient, but the fabric kept slipping to pool around his wrists. With a huff, he took the shirt off entirely, angling his body so that he didn’t have to look at the hungry frame in the mirror.
Weeks of performing at the Kaiserkeller had left them dirty and depleted. Huddled together in front of the rickety stage of wooden planks and beer crates, Astrid’s offer to let them use her apartment for the night seemed like a ray of sunshine sent from Eden, slicing through the endless nights and neon debauchery of Reeperbahn. John and Paul had jumped on the opportunity at once: eyes meeting through the dim lighting, an eyebrow raised, lips ticked upward, a slow blink, watching one another in such a way that George, Stu, and Pete knew to make themselves scarce.
Letting his shirt drop carelessly to the floor, Paul threw some more soap in the tub, watching in satisfaction as the foam rose higher. The prospect of bathing in urinal water seemed to evaporate with every groan of the rusted faucet and whiff of Astrid’s girly bath soap. Lavendelseife. Standing up, he was startled to see John leaning against the door frame, an oddly unreadable expression on his face.
“Bath’s ready,” Paul remarked, feeling like stating the obvious. John hummed in agreement, his watchful, half-lidded eyes prompting Paul to fold his arms across his chest. He almost expected John to smirk at the shy gesture but he merely smiled, a now-familiar softness clouding his sharp features.
“You gettin’ naked without me, princess?”
The bathroom was tiny; the toilet, bath, and sink were all wedged close together, and the mirror was clouded with steam. Paul wiped it half-heartedly to see two faces staring back at him. His reflection turned toward John with a frown.
“As if you’d let me go nude without you for long, Lennon.”
“Aye, it’s my sixth sense, y’know.”
Paul pushed out his bottom lip, pretending to ponder the claim. “And here I thought everyone was entitled to five.”
“It’s to make up for havin’ to wear me specs.”
Paul barked out a surprised laugh. “Well, at least you came out with something more useful.”
John grinned, pushing himself off of the door frame and stalking forward. He pulled Paul flush against him by his belt loops. “Mm, the most useful.”
Even after three years, the feeling of John pressed against him was unlike any other. Paul inhaled sharply, heart thumping against his ribcage, breathing in the ever-present scent of cigarettes, spilled beer, and stale sweat that had begun to cling to his boyfriend like a shadow. He placed a hand on the curve of John’s hip, slipping underneath soft white cotton to caress warm skin, and John melted against him with a shaky exhale.
Although it seemed as if they spent every waking moment living on top of one another, they were rarely ever completely, truly alone. When they weren’t playing to their horde of Hamburg denizens, there always seemed to be more pills to try, booze to drink, girls to woo, bandmates to put up with. As fun as it all was, Paul knew that John craved their intimacy as much as he did, and when they spent too long apart Paul felt an ache like he was missing a part of himself — like the whole world was spinning slightly off-kilter on its axis.
The lavender steam from Astrid’s bath enveloped them in mellow fog, and the humidity was beginning to make John’s hair curl well beyond its hastily-oiled ducktail. Paul’s heart clenched at the sight and he tugged him closer, reveling in the feeling of John’s lips on his neck, near the sensitive patch of skin by his ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, God, I want him everywhere —
“Jesus, Paul, you stink!”
Paul pulled back, blinking. “What?”
John was grinning like a madman in front of him, hair collapsed to one side and nose wrinkled in childish distaste. He pointed at Paul accusingly, hand shaking with laughter. “I said Paul, you fuckin’ stink!”
Paul furrowed his brows. “Cor, really?” He lifted an arm to sniff an armpit assessingly. To his dismay, John quickly followed suit, ducking down to press his long Roman nose into the dark hairs at the juncture of Paul’s arm and shoulder. Paul laughed at the feeling, squirming slightly as his breath blew over him, although John’s large hands held him firmly in place. “Well?”
“I suppose I couldn’t tell before, with us all smellin’ the same in the club an’ all, but Christ Almighty!” John pulled a disgusted face and started waving his hand wildly, as if to ward off the offending smell. His other hand pinched the bridge of his nose. Paul rolled his eyes and pushed him lightly away.
“Oi! That’s enough from you, now.” Even if he was the butt of the joke, Paul secretly cherished moments like these, where John was lighthearted and jovial, momentarily shedding off the weight of vitriol and bitterness he often carried in his words, in his movements. Paul turned around, shutting off the tap to hide his grin, glancing at John coyly over his shoulder. “I have to say that you’re no lollipop either, love. I’ll just leave you to bathe by yourself then, yeah?”
To his gratification, John appeared instantly remorseful, sinking to his knees like a repenting supplicant. “Oh please, sir! I didn’t mean it, sir! Let me keep smellin’ your underarm odour, sir, I assure you — I find it quite delightful!”
Paul laughed at the faux-posh accent that John had adopted, heaving him to his feet with a light (and appreciative) grip on his biceps. They stood facing each other for a breathless second, John’s eyes immensely fond, his freckles standing out in sharp relief against the faint flush that painted his cheeks. If he’s beside me, I know I need never care, Paul thought, and couldn’t help but pull him in for a kiss. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, pressing the words against the corner of John’s mouth.
“You smell,” John rejoined, but then turned to kiss him back long and deep, causing Paul’s brain to briefly short-circuit. John kissed with a single-minded intent that was intoxicating, electric and heady, but imbued with an unmistakable gentleness that made Paul want, want, want. His hands skimmed across John’s broad back to tangle in his hair, the Teddy strands thick and greasy and perfect, the only thing tethering Paul to the ground. He felt drunk and high and deliriously in love: with John, with the solitude — almost completely silent except for the drip, drip, drip of the faucet into the bathwater, the intermittent exhalations as they paused in between kissing — but mostly with the rare moment in time that Astrid had gifted them. Running my hands through his hair…
John moaned, low and broken, and without breaking the kiss he shrugged off his shirt, letting it fall and join Paul’s in a heap on the ground. Paul soaked in the new expanse of skin suddenly made available to him, inexplicably feeling as if the bathroom had become even smaller. He pressed into John’s mouth and whimpered as the pressure was returned, slick and sure and so, so good. Paul felt his body flush all over; the bathroom tile was a shock of cold against his feet.
“God, John,” Paul gasped, feeling as if he had to whisper, even if it was only the two of them.
“I missed you,” John whispered back, breath tickling Paul’s face. The quiet timbre of his voice reminded Paul of late nights in Forthlin, sneaking John in through his bedroom window with a muffled, boyish giggle and a hand on the small of his back. Now Paul thought the memory seemed vaguely distant, their schoolboy innocence filtered through the dirty, sleepless lens of Hamburg.
“Aye, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Fuckin’ ages,” John agreed, taking advantage of the break initiated by the conversation to step back and strip down to his skivvies, grinning lecherously. “I reckon I’ve almost forgotten what that Irish bum looks like.”
“Oi!” Paul exclaimed, brandishing his own trousers to whip John teasingly. “I could say the same of you, Lennon.” He sat back against the edge of the tub, raising one pointed eyebrow in a manner well-practiced and long-perfected. His eyes trailed from the noble planes of John’s face, to the smooth skin of his chest, to the lanky, auburn-haired stretch of legs that hopped spastically from side to side as John tried to peel off his last sock. “Go on then,” Paul said drily. “Give us a show.”
John promptly made a grotesque face, the visual compounded and made even more alarming by the fact that he was half-naked, bent over and surrounded by his filthy leathers. Paul loved him so much he could die.
“You like what you see, Macca?”
“You’re a bit of all right,” Paul lied. John grimaced, pulling another one of his Lennonesque expressions that never failed to leave the crowd howling down in the clubs.
“Well, we can’t all be Paul McCharmly, y’know.” Although John said it lightly, intending it more so as a compliment toward Paul than as a commentary of himself, Paul knew John well enough to detect the thread of insecurity that ran through the words. He pushed up from the tub and knelt at John’s feet in one smooth motion, lifting a foot to gently tug the offending sock off and onto the floor, looking up at John through his lashes.
“Don’t be daft,” Paul chastised. He raised John’s foot from where it was still cradled in his hands and kissed it reverently. “You’re the most gorgeous bloody thing I’ve ever seen.” John spluttered and Paul grinned, pleased at having left the one with all the witticisms lost for words. Nobody can deny that there"s something there. He gently placed John’s foot back on the floor and clambered to his feet.
“Right,” Paul said, leaning in to give John a quick peck on the lips. “What shall it be, love? Big spoon or little spoon?”
John, still red and flustered, weighed his options. Paul could see his thoughts playing across his face as clear as day, his hard Teddy face awash in vulnerability like sunlight filtering through dark clouds. “Little spoon,” he said, finally punctuating his answer with a defiant jut of his chin, as if expecting to be ridiculed. Paul, who thought John should know better by now, merely smacked another sweet kiss against his lips.
“Okay,” he said simply. He stripped off his own underwear, enjoying the way that John’s eyes lingered. “Help me in the tub then, would you?”
The hot water felt like pure bliss against his skin. He sighed, sinking down low into the lavender soapsuds, blinking up at John beguilingly. Paul watched as John’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, reminding Paul of some skinny, long-legged bird as he stepped carefully into the bracket of Paul’s legs.
“Fuck,” John breathed, settling back against Paul’s chest. The weight of John’s body against his satiated something deep inside him.
“Yeah,” Paul agreed to the unspoken sentiment, wrapping his arms tightly around John’s chest. One of John’s hands came up to rest on his forearm, absently stroking the dark hairs. Beautiful hands, Paul thought dizzily, thinking of his hands gripping the neck of a beer bottle, shaping banjo chords on a beat-up guitar, beckoning Paul over with a lazy flick of his wrist. Changing my life with a wave of his hand…
The moment was so perfect, so wonderfully tender after the hardness of Hamburg, the grotty hours spent slumped over his guitar on stage, that Paul felt his mind drift.
“Come off it, Paul,” John complained half-heartedly, twitching away from where Paul hadn’t realized that he was tracing sloppy music notes onto the curves of John’s stomach. “You composin’, or summat?”
Paul started, then planted an apologetic kiss on John’s damp shoulder. “No,” he fibbed, words muffled by humidity and gentle press of skin against skin.
“Liar.” John tilted his head to smile softly at Paul, his eyes drooped and brimming with contentment. Paul squeezed him tighter. “Ye never know when to take a break, do ya, Paulie?”
Paul ran a soothing hand over John’s chest, disrupting the soap and sending it into abstract oblivion once more. The heat of the water was getting to his head, seeping into his knackered bones, and he was suddenly overcome with a wave of affection so overwhelming, so fierce and unfathomable, that he almost couldn’t bear to think about it. He settled for a smirk instead.
“S’not serious,” he murmured into John’s ear, delighting in the way it sent a shiver through the other man’s body. “S’just something that I have floating in me head, like.”
Apparently deciding that this news was something worth sitting up for, John carefully unstuck himself from Paul, turning in the bath so that their limbs tangled together, Paul’s resting just above John’s, hairy and knobbly and protruding ever-so-slightly from the water. A splash of water cascaded over the edge of the tub and onto the floor. It was becoming increasingly evident that this particular bathtub was surely not designed for two, but John and Paul, as they treated most things in life that didn’t suit them, promptly ignored this detail.
“It have words, yet?” John asked, voice low and warm, skin flushed sweet and pink from the heat of the water. Paul blinked slowly, thinking about the scant lyrics that he had written to adjoin the melody. Here, there and everywhere.
“Just the tune, I’m afraid.” He began to massage John’s leg, grinning as he was met with a low groan of approval. “Could be that I’m in need of a brainstorming session, like.”
John’s eyes were dark as he watched Paul. “Is that all you’re in need of?”
“A pen would be nice,” said Paul seriously. “A couple napkins. Gotta get the ideas down while they’re fresh, y’know?”
John’s eyes danced with mirth. He shuffled forward into the bracket of Paul"s legs, bathwater still sloshing slightly, and tapped a dripping finger against Paul’s forehead. “Y’mean yer thick head can’t remember it all? Fuck all, McCartney, the condition must be gettin" worse than we thought.”
“Piss off!” Paul retorted, but his protests were rendered null and void as he sighed, the pleasure of John’s fingers scratching against his scalp getting the better of him, urging him to lean closer. “You just have a bad habit of ruinin’ me concentration.”
“You callin’ me distractin’?” John tugged playfully at his hair, proving his point.
“I could call you a lot of things,” Paul teased. He gave in to John’s ministrations, finally, and leaned forward to press their foreheads together. He felt his breath against his face, intoxicating.
“Let’s start with just ‘John’,” the man himself suggested, his voice cracking ever-so-slightly. Paul was about to agree, angling his head to demonstrate his enthusiasm, albeit with a lot of tongue, when John kept talking. “But then it’ll be ‘Jesus’,” he said, face looking quite solemn. “That’ll be my next thing, y’know.”
Paul opened his eyes incredulously, tension draining like water from a tub. “Bleeding hell, John —”
But just then John kissed him, their lips crashing together in an electrifying surge of heat that Paul was helpless to resist, every time. He moaned, savouring the way that John’s hands cupped his face, then smoothed down his arms, his chest, his skin slick and warm with water. John laughed as he pressed sloppy kisses to Paul’s jaw, his cheek, his nose; the sound ringing joyfully throughout the tiny bathroom.
Him and John, two halves of a whole, mirror reflections of a singular self, knew each other in a myriad of profound, complex ways, but this was by far one of Paul’s most treasured: the act of sharing a bath, of enjoying hot water and lathered soap, washing each other’s shoulders without clothes or other veneers under which to hide, all barriers stripped cleanly away, permeated with such trust and intimacy that Paul would never take it for granted. Especially when it gave him this side of John, so relaxed and docile, a far cry from the Teddy boy with a chip on his shoulder that Paul had found all those years ago at the village fete. No longer weaving witty wordplays, or spitting cruel insults to push him away before he got too close, John’s lips were soft and eager, meeting Paul’s own over, and over, and over; only pausing to exhale tiny sounds of want that he would inevitably deny later, armour back on.
Paul’s heart pulsed with the force of a thousand unsaid declarations, promises, lyrics never set to music. But they had time. They had all the time in the world, the future stretched before them like the toppermost of the poppermost. For a rare moment in time, Paul felt unhurried, content to remain where he was. He kissed John languidly, the scent of lavender hovering around them, his leg cramping slightly where it was pressed against the side of the tub. John tasted like tobacco, and a little like salt, as if his seafaring ancestors had instilled the ocean into his very bones.
They could probably stay like this forever, Paul mused, in a hot bath in some ramshackle flat in western Germany, living off of music and Predulin. Something stirred within him, though, propelling him to action, and he pulled away from John with a wet sound. John whined, low and urgent, chasing Paul’s lips with a soapy hand on the back of his neck. Paul quelled him by kissing the side of his proud nose instead.
John looked beautiful like this: auburn hair careless and wayward, his normally concealed freckles strewn across his shoulders, his cheeks flushed from both the water and from kissing Paul. The sight of him flooded Paul with a dizzying combination of tenderness and arousal.
“You wanna hear what I have so far?” Paul asked, because he wanted John to hear his song, to listen to the half-finished lyrics and know the truth of how he felt. He also wanted to hear John’s thoughts, because no matter what else they were to each other, they were partners foremost, and whatever they created, they created together.
Pleasure flitted across John’s expression, delighted at the prospect of acting as Paul"s sounding board, eager for the chance to offer up his own musical genius. “Okay,” he agreed easily, falling back against the tub with closed eyes. “Let"s ‘ave it, then.” A pause, then John opened one shrewd eye. “But Paul?”
“Yes?”
“You’ll let me scrub ye good after, right? Cause no offense, mate, but you still fuckin’ stink.”