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It was while he was dragging John, bloodied and incoherent with Guinness and rage, into the bathroom at 20 Forthlin Road that Paul first let himself be conscious of the clenched fist of anxiety in his gut, but actually it had been there for some time. From the moment John returned from Barcelona — all right; from the moment he’d left with Mr Epstein — it had been obvious that something had changed.
Oh, Tenerife had been fine, of course. Lovely, even! How lovely to have the means to dash halfway round the world for a week in the sun, with lovely Ringo, who was inexplicably fond of them all and already more a Beatle than Pete had ever been, and lovely Astrid, who’d never seemed to hold it against Paul that he’d wished her fiancé dead right up until it actually happened. Lovely. Except that Astrid made Paul think of Stu, and Stu put him in mind of the last time John had done this, thrown Paul over in pursuit of someone shiny and new. Barcelona, with Mr Epstein? It was obvious enough why he’d been invited, but why had he wanted to go?
Anyway, Paul had stewed distractedly and then he’d nearly drowned, no bloody thanks to bloody George, but it had been, in all, Lovely, or so he’d told Mike and his dad and Auntie Jin. Only now he had John getting blood all over the sink and Bob Wooler was on his way to the hospital, and perhaps the sick feeling rising in Paul’s throat had been there since long before this evening.
“The bloody cheek of it,” John was saying, flailing his arms unhelpfully, “when everyone knows —”
“Yeah,” Paul said, trying to imbue his voice with a calm he did not feel, “everyone knows Bob’s a poof, Johnny, so why do you care what he says? Eh? If he presses charges, we’re fucked.”
“He won’t press charges,” John said, but his voice had shrunk. “He was the one makin’ filthy insinuations. Fuck. Brian’s gonna kill me.”
Paul’s stomach twisted. Brian. He was still Mr Epstein to Paul, always, with his nice car and his nice suits and his nice face, what George’s mum called a proper gent. Brian! Carefully — and before he could think better of it — Paul said, “You could always sue him for slander.”
“Hmm,” John said, and looked away. “Always goes down well, that, doesn’t it? They’d look into it, and ‘course it’s true, isn’t it? I mean, about Bri.”
Paul’s heart stopped briefly, then sluggishly, anxiously resumed. “Did he tell you that?”
John shrugged. “We already knew, didn’t we? But yeah, actually. Had some interesting chats, me and Bri.”
He smiled up at Paul expansively, drunkenly, and Paul immediately wanted to smack that stupid little too-intimate syllable right out of his mouth: Bri. He dabbed at the cut on John’s cheekbone with more than the necessary amount of antiseptic and felt darkly satisfied when John hissed in protest. “Christ, Macca, gentle! You never learned much from your mum, did you?”
Paul was beginning to suspect that John had learned altogether too much from his, all the wrong things. “Sorry,” he lied, “but you’ve only got yourself to blame. Close your eyes.”
“And you’ll kiss me?” John teased, but did it. Paul scrubbed the wet flannel across his forehead and the bridge of his nose, where flecks of blood, not his, clung.
“You wish,” Paul muttered, obscurely embarrassed. It was only John. All this — everything about the state into which the party had disintegrated — was typically John, in fact. It was just that John didn’t usually beat up their actual mates, and he did at least try to behave in front of mams and dads and aunties. The fact that he’d flown so violently off the handle at a bit of innuendo made Paul’s throat feel uncomfortably tight.
Of course it’s true, isn’t it?
“Bob’s a twat,” John pronounced firmly. Paul threw the flannel into the sink and straightened.
“Just hope he hasn’t died of wounds,” he said, “for all our sakes. Honestly, John, if you go off on a jolly with a known queer, you’ve got to expect folk to wind you up about it.” He clenched his fists reflexively, then made himself ask. “Why did you want to go, anyway?”
John opened his eyes, and now the look on his face was soft and guileless. “I like him,” he said, “that’s all.”
The honesty of it made Paul cruel. “You like having your name first,” he countered. “You like havin’ power over him. You like the way he looks at you.”
John shrugged, his mouth curving up at the corners. “Can't expect all of them to look at you, Macca.”
Paul yanked the bathroom door open, his stomach curdling. “Fuck off. I’m getting Cyn, she can help us pour you into the wheelbarrow.”
As he stomped down the stairs he could still hear John behind him, drunk and loose with it, laughing.
***
George had been inside Mr Epstein’s house in Liverpool and afterwards had banged on for ages about how posh it was, how big and grand and how Mr Epstein had said that one day George would have a house even nicer. The flat they took in London, when they first moved down, was as nice, George said, but Paul assumed that Mr Epstein’s London place must be on another level. He hadn’t seen it yet. None of them had, or so he assumed until the morning he heard John crashing about the studio like a herd of elephants, upending furniture and scattering cushions in search of his current favourite jumper, and Mr Epstein said, “John, give up — you’ve probably left it at mine.”
John froze, prostrate, visibly calculating, and then said, “Oh, yeah. I took it off in the kitchen.” Then he stood, as if nothing at all unusual had occurred, and went back to his guitar.
Mr Epstein folded himself elegantly into a chair, crossing one immaculately-trousered leg over the other. Whenever he sat down, he tugged up his trousers at the knee, just slightly, to preserve the creases. Paul had started copying the action whenever he was out about town, so long as the others weren’t there. He didn’t want Mr Epstein to know how much attention Paul paid to his manners and his methods, his arsenal of gentlemen’s tools. Normally, when Mr Epstein looked at him, Paul looked away hastily, not wanting to be caught staring. Now, though, when their eyes met, Paul didn’t flinch. Let Brian look away.
Eventually, he did, his expression slightly troubled, but Paul found it didn’t make him feel any better.
As they were leaving that evening, Mr Epstein leaned over to remind them that Paul, George and Ringo were expected at the Domino Club; they were to show their faces as a favour.
“Like bein’ a whore, isn’t it?” George said, quite cheerfully. “You turn up and look pretty and they give you something in return; amazing, really.”
“If only you could look pretty,” John said airily, buckling his guitar case. Then he flashed a conciliatory grin and said, “Come on, you’ll have a good time.”
“You always get out of it,” George grumbled. “Wish I’d married Cyn.”
“Well,” John said, “you’d have no legs now, if you’d tried, so, just go to your little engagements and like it, there’s a good lad.”
As they left the building, John got into Mr Epstein’s waiting car — to be dropped off somewhere more central en route to the little flat he was in with Cyn, supposedly. But as Paul folded his limbs in to let Ringo get into the backseat of their own car, he wondered.
***
Thing was, it wasn’t something he wanted to be wondering! But John kept making it so bloody difficult, and it was so like John, really, to take an interest in something mad and then refuse to let it drop. Sometimes he’d be there in the studio with Mr Epstein before the others arrived, having a low conversation that cut off and turned abruptly into John’s usual patter upon being interrupted. Neither George nor Ringo seemed to have noticed a thing, which left Paul wondering uncomfortably whether he spent too much of his life thinking about what John was doing. It was something his own father had accused him of, more than once, but Paul thought it was hardly his fault if nobody else was ever as much worth thinking about.
Mr Epstein very rarely spoke to Paul alone. When he did, there was a wariness about it, as if Paul were something dangerous and unpredictable, one of those grenades they turned up on old bomb sites in Liverpool which might or might not still be live. Paul wasn’t used to it. Grown-ups, older grown-ups, usually ate him up with a spoon, spoke to him for preference, thought him the stabilising influence. Paul could only think he’d done something, said something once, to make Mr Epstein feel otherwise.
As a result, Paul never flirted with him as the others did, George and Ringo lightly and John with something closer to intent. Oh, he would have done. It was all flirting, really, this being a musician, but Paul had curried favour like that all his life. You flirted with mates’ mams and dads and aunties so they’d like you; with your teachers so you’d be their pet; with little kids so they’d think you were a sort of god. It was easy to extend this to girls at the Cavern and the lady who cleaned the toilets at the Kaiserkeller and the handsome man who might or might not want to sign you (and he had, of course). The only person it had never worked on was John’s Auntie Mimi. But with Brian, who should’ve been so easy a target, Paul was oddly reluctant even to try.
To Mr Martin, he applied the same methodology as he had to Mr Durband, his English master, and it was working in just the same way. Mr Martin already thought Paul was a sort of adolescent prodigy. The trick was to be casually brilliant but also to occasionally pretend to need help, so they felt useful. George and John were conferring in the corner over their guitar parts; as Mr Martin was passing, Paul made a loud sound of exasperation and slumped over his bass.
“All right, Paul?”
Paul looked up at him in what he hoped was a soulful way. “Can’t quite figure it out, Mr Martin.”
“Hmm?” Mr Martin dropped into an easy crouch in front of him. He had miles of legs like Paul did, but somehow he managed never to look out of control of them. “Play what you’ve got.”
Paul did, slowly; he omitted the last couple of notes so the riff ended waveringly in mid air. He turned hopeful eyes on Mr Martin’s face.
“That’s lovely,” Mr Martin said, “you just need to bring it in, you see. A, then a G to finish.”
“Like this?” Paul played it again, to Mr Martin’s specifications. “Oh! You’re right, that’s done it.”
“You were nearly there yourself,” Mr Martin said, smiling, and stood up. “Well done, Paul.”
When he’d gone, Paul glanced over to see Mr Epstein’s eyes on him. After a moment Mr Epstein said, lightly, “You already had the A and the G before.”
Paul shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned about having been thus perceived. He hadn’t realised Mr Epstein was there. He said, “Wasn’t sure about it.”
“Hmm,” Mr Epstein said, then flipped up The Times so Paul could no longer see his face.
****
It was a week or two later that John, bafflingly and without warning, tried to kiss him. It was late afternoon, the sun creeping over Paul’s bed and into his eyes, and John had announced his sudden urgent need for a wank. This in itself was not unusual; nor was the way John looked at him sidelong and arched one hopeful eyebrow.
“Fuck off,” Paul said, for the look of the thing.
“Come on.”
“You’ll go blind.”
“I’ll do you. It’s just better, you know it is.”
It was, of course, if the alternative was your own hand, but John still seemed to be fond of the furtive mutual toss-off even with his wife at home and any number of dolly birds undoubtedly lining the route there. It was convenient, Paul supposed — no messing around. But part of him felt nervously that perhaps he should be putting a stop to it, the same way it made his stomach dip when John climbed into his bed even when there were two available. He didn’t want to stop, but he didn’t want anyone else to find that out.
“Fine,” he said, “come here. Get your knee out the way.”
John scooted cheerfully across the bed so their thighs were pressed together, then unzipped his jeans without preamble. In his defence, he was certainly hard, and Paul felt his own prick twitch sympathetically at the sight of him, thick and swollen in John’s big hand.
He must have made a sound, or something, because John caught the direction of his gaze and grinned. “See, Macca? I’m dying here. Dire bloody straits. Go on, get your cock out.”
“John,” Paul muttered, blushing, but to his shame, he did it. Course he did, with John looking at him like that, his eyes avid and dark. John reached for him when he’d done it, an appreciative sound caught in the back of his throat.
“There you are,” John said, running the pad of his thumb over the head of Paul’s cock the way he knew Paul liked it. Sometimes it felt like John knew everything Paul liked, even when he wasn’t sure himself. “See, you want it an’ all, don’t you? Wanna let me touch you.”
Heat rushed up the back of Paul’s neck. “John!” he hissed. “Don’t — talk.”
“Shut me up then,” said John, and Paul furrowed his brow.
“What?”
John leaned in then, cat-quick, to press his mouth to Paul’s, and the speed of it made it impossible to avoid. It was over, though, almost as soon as it had started and when John pulled back there was something wary in his eyes, almost shy. Paul couldn’t imagine where John had got this from, this — kissing, like with a bird. Not from him, certainly.
The thought panicked him. Part of him knew it had not been a joke, but that seemed the only way to play it. He cleared his throat, then said, “Well, yeah, I s’pose you’ve shut up. Are you gonna move your hand or have I got to do everything ‘round here?”
John looked, Paul thought, something to the left of relieved: perhaps he’d expected a punch in the face. Perhaps Paul should’ve given him one. But there was something else there too, something Paul might have called disappointment if the concept hadn’t been so ridiculous.
He squeezed John’s prick in his hand, then started to stroke him properly, practised passes of his palm. John — thank fuck — closed his eyes, but Paul watched him for a long moment, thinking and trying not to.
***
Mr Epstein's London flat was, Paul discovered, not a flat at all, but in fact a house in which he planned to throw a housewarming party. George and Ringo were keen. John looked entirely too nonchalant about the whole thing, as if he'd already known about it and also quite possibly felt he'd done his share of the warming previously. Paul decided to pretend to have a prior engagement he might or might not be able to get out of, and then turn up at the last moment looking -- well. He wasn't yet sure how he planned to look, but it would be unforgettable.
John scuppered these best-laid plans with a single entreaty: "Come a bit early, yeah? I said I'd help him set up. You're good at all that stuff."
"Yeah," Paul said at once. "Okay, fine. Shall we go over together?"
"I'll see you there," John said, and clapped him on the shoulder as he left the room.
Later, in front of his bedroom mirror, Paul donned and discarded a series of outfits, eyeing himself critically. Nothing he tried seemed to be the thing. The problem was he wasn’t sure what the thing might be — what would Brian like Paul to wear to his party? And moreover, might Brian the manager and Brian the man have entirely differing preferences?
The thought made Paul flush crossly. Quite clearly, Brian the man had preferences which went nowhere near Paul at all, so what did it matter? He wasn’t going to tart himself up like some ugly bird hoping to catch the eye of a disinterested suitor. He was just going to turn up, establish what the hell John thought he was doing, and get out of there.
Thus decided, he went back to the first outfit, put it on, and then left the room without allowing himself so much as a final glance in the mirror. It would do, and John would be waiting.
When he arrived at Brian’s house, two things were immediately apparent. One, that the place was the residence of a man of wealth and taste; and two, that the man in question was not waiting by the door. The light in the hall was on, but the front windows were dark. Upstairs, Paul could just make out a faint glow that might have been a landing light. Paul chewed his lip, considering. John had said come early, but perhaps he was too early?
He rang the doorbell. It was one of those old-fashioned, sonorous things whose chime could be heard echoing within. Other than the resonance of the bell itself, no other sound was audible. Paul waited a minute, then rang again. After another interlude, he was about to turn on his heel and go in search of a pub to linger in when, on the first floor, a new light clicked on.
Paul found himself somewhat riled. Obviously, Brian had not been getting dressed in the dark, so what had he been doing (and why had Paul not been his first priority? Outrageous!). Paul drew himself up and occupied himself, as footsteps pounded down the stairs within, with what he would say when the door was opened: "Were you asleep? Did you forget I was coming?" He would say these things politely, of course, but with disapproving implication.
Keys rattled on the inside of the door, and Paul drew himself up in readiness. Then the door actually opened, and he felt himself deflate like a pricked and somewhat unsettled balloon.
"H'lo," said John. His hand curved around the edge of the door. He looked rumpled and quietly pleased with himself, his eyes dark and myopically soft. "I said early, I didn't say the day before. Christ. Come in then, no need to shake the door down."
"I only rang twice," Paul pointed out, trying not to sound as thrown as he felt. John was half-dressed in evening clothes, his collar open and his cuffs un-cufflinked. He was in his socks. He led Paul into the living room with an air of nonchalant purpose.
"Sorry," John murmured lazily. "Must not've heard you. Yeah, so -- thought we'd set up in here?"
Paul scanned the room, despite himself, with a critical eye. It would certainly do for a party. In fact it was the sort of room that looked primarily suitable for parties, and not at all for having a cosy evening in with a couple of mates, or a wife and kids. Not that Brian needed to worry on that score. "Yeah, it's good."
"Isn't it?" John said, and smiled his cryptic smile. "Why don't you start? I'll be back in a sec. Just gonna get Bri."
There was a box on the floor containing a dizzying array of liquor bottles, kept carefully separate with intersecting strips of corrugated cardboard. Paul, too shellshocked to do anything else, began extracting them and arranging them on the long table that stretched down one side of the room. He was still engaged in this task when the door opened again and John, cufflinks, shoes and tie now in place, re-entered, with Brian close behind him.
He looked immaculate, of course. It was impossible to picture Brian looking anything less than perfectly put together; Paul struggled to conceive of him swimming or lounging on the beach like a lesser human. He had evidently had a suit newly-tailored for the occasion, something richly navy which set off his colouring, as well as his shoulders. He looked important, self-possessed. He also, Paul realised slowly, looked a bit pissed off. And not with him -- with John.
John was trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed, but Paul knew better. John could swagger and front all he wanted, but he needed approval at least as much as Paul did, if not more. He was smiling, but there was something childishly defiant in it, an edge of anxiety underneath. He knew he’d done something wrong, and he was desperate to be forgiven for it. No doubt his next move would be an elaborate comedy show; when Mr Epstein laughed, John’s shoulders would relax. Paul had seen it a hundred times. He just wasn’t sure what exactly John had done — but he thought, sickly, that perhaps he could guess.
“Hello, Paul,” said Mr Epstein — Brian, Paul told himself; if John could say it, then so could he! — and his face transfigured itself into its habitual Pleasant Diplomat aspect. Nobody else would have noticed it, but Paul always did, because it was something he did himself. He always felt vaguely affronted when Brian did it to him.
“Hello,” he said, affecting airy willingness. “I told John I’d come early.”
“Yes,” said Brian, “well. John neglected to mention it to me, but never mind. Here you are. I’ve got a catering company arriving in a moment to set all those up, so you needn’t bother yourself, but perhaps you could help John choose some records?”
He shot John an unreadable glance, and then disappeared through the door on the opposite side of the room which led, Paul supposed, to the kitchen. Paul gave John an altogether less ambiguous look.
“You never told him I was coming?”
John shrugged. “Must’ve slipped my mind. Come on, Paulie, don’t be like that. Listen to what the man said. Records.”
Brian's record collection was nothing if not eclectic. As Paul leafed through it, it occurred to him that some of it (Swan Lake; a collection of Mozart's Greatest Hits, or however you were meant to put it) was very much Mr Epstein Music, while other things were much more -- just Brian. Paul wondered who Brian would prefer to be tonight.
John seemed to register Paul's predicament. Gently, he took Swan Lake from Paul's hands and slotted it back onto the rack. "Nothing Russian," he said. "Look, he's got Dave Brubeck -- that's dinner party stuff, isn't it?"
"Is it?" Paul asked, feeling clueless and not enjoying the sensation. He had never been to a dinner party in his life, as John well knew.
"Yes," John assured him. "It's cool, y'know -- no words to get in the way. He plays this one sometimes when we're -- well."
He stopped. Paul felt suddenly rent with indecision: part of him wanted to change the subject with indecent haste, steer John away from the nerve-wracking dangling thread. The other part felt like shaking John until the rest of the sentence tumbled out. When we're having dinner together? When we're entertaining high society types without the rest of you ruffians? When we're in --
"All done?" Brian strode back in, fussing with his hair as if it might possibly be anything less than immaculate. Cilla always said he was like Cary Grant, exactly what you wanted a posh bloke to be. Course, Cary Grant wasn't really a posh bloke; and Cary Grant had lived for years with a blond man whose shoulders Paul had envied as a teenager, in the pictures. Paul cleared his throat, rolling this thought up together with John's abandoned sentence and pushing the lot away.
"Yeah," he said. "Don't know if I was much help, though."
"Never mind," said John, "you're very decorative. Isn't he, Bri?"
Paul glanced nervously between them. He expected Brian to look flustered, or perhaps cross, the way he did when John misbehaved in front of somebody important. He didn't, though. He looked -- fond, almost, recognising the bait in John's voice but refusing to rise to it.
"Yes," he said, smiling slightly. "You're all very decorative. You wouldn't be remotely as successful if you weren't." He held out a hand to Paul. "Come on, up you come. You're going to crease your trousers."
People began to arrive. Some of them were familiar; but there were also a not-insignificant number of strange men in well-cut suits whose eyes lingered on Paul in a way that made his stomach twist oddly. To John, he muttered, "I dunno what I'm meant to be doin' here. What are we doin'?"
"Hosting," John said lightly, nodding and smiling at a bloke Paul didn't recognise but who John had clearly met before. "Evening, Sam; glad you could make it."
The gesture was so violently un-John that Paul couldn't let it pass, something rushing up in his throat that couldn't decide if it was revulsion or jealousy. "It's not our party," he hissed, "and you're not his -- fucking wife!"
The look John gave him was almost pitying. "Closed-minded, you are," he said, as if he hadn't been the one knocking seven bells out of Bob bloody Wooler for the mildest insinuation. "You wanna get on to that. Oh, look -- here's the lads."
Paul looked up hopefully. George and Ringo, in their nicest suits, were hovering in the doorway, nudging each other and laughing. Paul had rarely been so pleased to see them.
"All right?" Ringo threw a casual arm around Paul's shoulders and scruffed him playfully. Paul leaned into it. Ringo had a certain knack of making the uncanny feel mundane; nothing could ever be wrong for long when he was around.
"Yeah," Paul said gratefully. "Massive place, isn't it? Come and have a look around."
Once they were all four together, things were better -- easy, even. Paul felt his wariness seep away; told himself he'd been daft to feel it in the first place. Brian, the perfect host, was circulating among the guests. By the time he reached the four of them, he was tipsy and loose with it, his face reflecting the obvious warmth and pride he felt for his boys.
"So glad you could all come," he said, squeezing their hands in turn. "It means a lot to me, it really does."
When he was like this -- open, unguarded, unapologetic -- Paul loved him. They all did. Good old Mr Epstein. But Paul couldn't help but notice that he lingered longer on John than on the others, John's strong hand clasped between both of his.
At midnight or so, things started to thin out. Guests made their excuses and left. Ringo and George, more wired than tired, suggested going on to a nightclub.
Paul hesitated. “Isn’t it a bit rude?”
“We’ve been here hours,” George pointed out. “More than shown our faces. Mr Epstein won’t mind, will he?”
John was across the room, talking to Brian sotto voce, their heads close together. Paul swallowed, then looked back to George. “Look, you go. I’ll…”
“All right,” George said companionably. “Fine, you’re tired. Getting old, Macca. Me and Rings’ll have one for you, then. See you tomorrow.”
"See ya, Johnny!" Ringo called, as he opened the door.
John seemed to parse the sound belatedly. When he glanced up, he was just in time to glimpse George's back as it disappeared through the door. Alarm flashed across his face and then, blessedly, dissipated when his eyes found Paul, the blurry shape of him clearly familiar enough to identify even at this distance. He relaxed into a smile and Paul's heart skipped pathetically.
It was easy enough, now, for Paul to make his way across the room, the surging throng having thinned to a departing trickle. John reached for him as he neared, tugging at his arm in the easy, tactile way he had when he was pleasantly tipsy.
"There you are," he said. "I thought you'd gone, for a second."
"No," Paul said, now immensely grateful not to have done. John looked so glad to see him. "The others went off -- nightclub."
"You weren't keen?" Brian inquired. His tone was light enough, but Paul couldn't help but feel there was something under it.
"No," he said, slowly. "It's gettin' late."
"And you'd rather be with us," John said, the corner of his mouth curving upward. He glanced at Brian, and then away again, in a way that made Paul's stomach dip nervously. "Told you, Bri."
A muscle twitched in Brian's jaw. He looked rather stiff, although he hid it quickly when the final straggling group brushed up against his arm, wanting to say their goodbyes. When they left, his easy charm left with them, leaving a palpable nervousness behind.
Paul swallowed. Brian's anxiety seemed to be taking him over like a miasma. "Something the matter, Mr Epstein?"
Brian opened his mouth, but it was John who said, "Nothing at all, Paulie. Is there, Bri?"
Brian, very visibly, collected himself. "No," he said, giving John a warning look. "Would you like me to ring for a car for you, Paul, if you're tired?"
"He's not tired," John said; "we don't get tired, us Beatles. Let's lock up and have another drink. Yeah?"
It occurred to Paul warily that where John was attempting to prolong the evening, Brian was quite patently attempting to urge Paul out of the door -- Paul, and Paul only. This insulting realisation made Paul contrary. "Yeah," he said, "I'd have another drink."
Brian looked at John. John looked back until Brian, in obvious capitulation, dropped his eyes and headed for the door. As his keys scraped in the lock, John caught Paul's eye and smiled.
"Good lad," he said. "I knew you'd have the right idea."
"What's that, then?" Paul asked warily, but John only smiled more and raised an eyebrow in that arch way he had, which could mean anything or nothing.
There was a long, expensive-looking settee against the wall, upholstered in green velvet. John indicated towards it with his head and Paul, obediently, followed John's lead and sat. He couldn't stop turning around in his mind the thought of how much such an ornate piece of furniture must have cost; he found himself perching on the very edge of it, not wanting to create indentations in the velvet. John, sprawled against the cushions with his legs akimbo, evidently had no such compunctions.
When Brian returned, John reached for him and gripped him by the wrist, something casually possessive in the touch. Paul wouldn't have thought twice about it if it'd been George or Ritchie John had grabbed that way, but to do it to Brian seemed like defilement. Paul almost wanted to apologise on John's behalf -- as he often did -- except that Brian was smiling indulgently, letting himself be tugged down onto the settee on John's other side.
"All right," he said, in a very familiar way, "you've obviously got something in mind. What is it?"
"What," John said, all mock innocence, "me? Something in mind? Can't a lad just want a wind-down drink with his mates?"
Mates, Paul thought, rattled. Mates!
"Mates," Brian said, smiling around the word in his mouth. "Well. All right. What shall we have?"
"Wine," John decided. "We're in a posh house, we should have a posh drink."
Brian obligingly fetched the wine. There was an open bottle of something expensive on the sideboard -- Brian would undoubtedly know precisely what it was and all about its nose-notes and foot-notes and whatnot. To Paul, it was white. John, who almost immediately necked the glass Brian poured for him, seemed to have about the same level of expertise, despite all the time he'd apparently spent hobnobbing with Brian's posh friends.
"All right," Brian said, "it isn't a race."
"Says you. If I don't watch this one, he'll get through everything that's left before we've got a look in."
"Shurrup, John," said Paul. As if to prove just how untrue a smear this was on his good character, he made himself sip his own wine daintily, barely wetting his lips each time. Annoyingly, it actually was more enjoyable that way.
Brian, too, drank slowly. Between them, John sat rolling his empty glass between both palms, something all-too-cunning underlying his expression. Paul knew that look on John. It meant he was up to no good. (Sometimes, to be fair, it meant he was up to something very good indeed. Paul had the uneasy feeling that this wasn't one of those times.)
"So," John said, savouring the word in his mouth. Lingering over it. "You're here, Paul, and Bri's here, and I'm here. And nobody else is."
"What insight," said Brian dryly. Paul surprised himself by snorting a laugh into his wine, and Brian caught his eye and smiled at him. Brian hadn't often made Paul laugh -- hadn't often striven for it. Now, seeing how pleased he was to have done it, Paul felt his chest warm.
"None of that," said John. "What I mean is, we're all just lads together here. And you know what we do when we're all lads together."
A terrible, no-good, very bad feeling began to establish itself in the pit of Paul's stomach. Surely John wouldn't -- in front of Mr Epstein? (Brian, he's only Brian.)
Brian seemed to be feeling similarly. "John," he said, low.
John rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. You're both happy enough when it's just me and you. Much less queer with three."
Brian put his glass down sharply on the floor. "I don't know where you get your information from," he said stiffly, "but I disagree, not that this is my main concern about that proposition."
"But I'm dyin' here," John protested. The words struck an oddly painful blow in Paul's chest. That was what John always said to him. The realisation that it was apparently his universal line would have hurt, if Paul had been overly invested in their little games together -- which, of course, he wasn't! This was what they did together, he and John, or so he'd thought. Doing it all together with George and Ritch was one thing, but the idea of John doing it with another man -- with Brian, who was queer --!
He was on the verge of telling John to fuck off when Brian said, "We can talk about this later," in a tone of firm command.
Later, Paul thought. Later?
He put his hand on John's thigh and heaved a deliberately long-suffering sigh, so John would know just what a sacrifice Paul was prepared to make for him. Then he said, "Fine, I'll sort you. If you're quick."
John looked as if all his Christmases had come at once. "Y'see, that's why you're my best mate."
Paul's heart swelled with childish pride. John began to unbuckle his belt; Brian pulled himself upright again on the sofa and said: "Paul, you don't have to do what he tells you, not when he's like this."
This phrase -- the condescending, overfamiliar tone of it -- struck a distant, entirely inappropriate chord in Paul's head. His father, frustrated: "If John jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?"
Quite obviously, he wouldn't, unless somebody else decreed that he wasn't allowed to. That made it a different situation altogether.
"I know that," he said, setting his jaw, and pointedly unzipped John's fly. He'd never done that before. Before, they'd always unbuckled and unbuttoned themselves and only then, after a few priming strokes, reached for each other. Now, though, as Paul levelly met Brian's eyes, he found he wanted to take John out himself, coax his prick to full hardness. Brian had obviously seen it all before, a thought that made Paul fizz with possessive indignation. He couldn't be allowed to think he had the prior claim. If anyone knew how John ticked, it was Paul.
Between them, John spread his thighs lazily, letting his head settle back against the sofa cushions. He looked thoroughly smug, lifting his hips minutely against Paul's hand. "That's nice, Paul. Pants out of the way, come on."
"I know what I'm doin'," Paul lied. Now that it came to it, it wasn't that easy to undress another person like this, especially what with John's cock straining in his underwear, which was obstructive and, Paul had to admit, distracting. Experimentally, he laid his palm over it and pressed, and the thrill of John's little skipping gasp shot straight to his own cock. All right -- that was all right. John always got him going when they did this, their sounds and shivers feeding each other's arousal. It was perfectly natural, and --
"Paul," Brian said, sounding more than slightly strained. He reached over, as if to still Paul's hand, which provided the spike of irritation Paul needed to yank John's underwear down over the curve of his prick.
"Fuck," John said, and laughed, closing his eyes gratefully. "That's it, touch me, c'mon."
"Like this, yeah?" Paul now felt driven by spite alone, but it was doing it for him. John was hard in his hand, velvety and getting slick, and Paul stroked him firmly, once, twice, before Brian made a disbelieving little sound and made as if to stand.
He didn't manage it. One moment, everything about John's posture was loose-limbed and languid; the next, his hand shot out to grip the front of Brian's shirt, holding him in place. "Don't be like that," he said, turning his head towards Brian. "You could help, too."
"I --"
"C'mon," John said, low, "don't pretend you don't want to."
The ragged edge to John's voice made Paul's pulse jump, pounding in his throat in something between a terror and a lust response. He began to move his hand faster and, when he dared to glance up, he could see that Brian was wide-eyed, his lips slightly parted, reluctantly mesmerised by John. Paul hated to admit he knew the feeling, but there it was.
"You say --" Brian began, and then had to clear his throat. He was very pointedly not looking at John's cock, but there was no way he couldn't hear the sound of it sliding through Paul's fist, the slightly wet glide of skin on skin. "You say the most ridiculous things, when--"
"Shut me up, then."
John lifted his chin, defiant, and something white-hot, indefinable, lanced through Paul. Shut me up, then. So John had been using his Paul lines on Brian, and his -- his Brian lines on Paul? Paul's head filled with disbelieving, furious static even before Brian closed his eyes in surrender, leaned in and pressed his mouth to John's.
Paul's breath caught. On some level, he was aware that this was a ridiculously maiden-aunt sort of reaction for an adult man who'd witnessed more depravity in the past three years than most people would in a lifetime. Obviously, he'd seen men kissing before. The thing was that seeing dragged-up Hamburg rentboys necking with their johns in alleys that stunk of piss and spilled beer was not remotely comparable to this. In Hamburg, where anything goes, all that seemed in its place. Seeing this, here -- in Mr Epstein's expensive house, on his expensive velvet sofa, with his gentleman's soft hand on the curve of John's cheek -- here, it all felt entirely different.
It was immediately obvious that they'd done this, not just the touching, but the kissing, many times before. After a moment or two, Brian seemed to overcome his hesitation and, as if swept away by the reality of kissing John, let his mouth open, his tongue flicker out to meet John's in the shadowed space between their lips. The sight of it made Paul's hand stutter to a halt on John; like Brian a moment earlier, he too felt mesmerised. He never could have imagined Brian kissing another man like this, with such rapt gentleness, but then it had never occurred to him to try. To see him kissing John -- to see John's eyelashes soft on his freckled cheeks, his chin lifted to Brian's kiss --
It turned Paul's stomach, which would have been fine if the sick feeling were revulsion. Unfortunately, Paul now knew with a sudden awful certainty that it was, in fact, the same possessive envy that had once sent him barrelling into Stuart, a red mist behind his eyes.
He'd turned John away, himself, of course. That was the worst of it. He'd rejected this, and now, because some part of him was black and wrong inside, he realised he wanted it.
If John's wrong too, said a traitorous little voice in his head, perhaps it's all right? You're the same, then.
John wasn't wrong, though -- that was the thing. Everything John did, to Paul's mind, was transformed by his very touch.
He was still gasping through paralysis when John, at length, pulled away from Brian's mouth, looked at him. His lips were slightly flushed, slightly damp, and Paul's cock twitched miserably at the sight.
"Hey," John said, and grinned, "who said you could stop?"
Paul blinked at him wildly for a moment, thrown. John sounded so -- so normal, as if he hadn't just turned Paul's world on its axis. Paul's jaw worked; he struggled to speak until, as usual, the wrong words came out.
"Since when do you kiss blokes?"
John shrugged one shoulder, insouciant. "I didn't mark it on the calendar."
Paul heaved a breath, then demanded, his voice ragged, "But why?"
"Why d'you kiss anyone?" John shot back.
"Because -- girls like it!" Paul shouted weakly.
On the other side of John, Brian made a poorly-concealed coughing noise which made Paul want to hit him. "What?" he demanded.
"Paul," said Brian, in his most reasonable tone, "I'm very sorry, I am. I've let this get altogether out of hand, and that's my fault."
"It's his fault," Paul argued crossly.
"No," repeated Brian, "I should've -- I mean, I shouldn't --"
"Bri," John said, with exaggerated patience, "fuck off with that, we've all had a bit to drink, and you know I've dragged you both here by the scruffs of your necks, but it's not a big thing, is it? A wank between mates, so what? You're six years older than me, not sixty."
"You don't kiss in the middle of a wank!" Paul said, half-hysterical. He didn't know why he was arguing this point. Every cell in his body felt drawn to the darkened insides of John's lips, where the blood had rushed to them from Brian's kisses. He didn't know what he was trying to achieve. It suddenly all felt very hazy.
"Paul," John said, in his most condescending tone, "I'm not tryin' to kiss you, am I? You're not keen, it's fine. But me and Bri, we like it. Just --" he made a crude gesture with his hand "--keep on, yeah?"
Paul made an indescribable noise and lifted his fist; on some level his brain felt sure that his body, completely without permission from him, was about to enact some terrible violence on John. What actually happened was that he gripped John by the collar, just as he was turning to kiss Brian again, and yanked him close until their noses were almost touching, Paul's breath coming hard against John's mouth. John said Paul's name again and Paul, driven by who knew what impulse, kissed him, hard and biting, holding John ruthlessly in place.
For a moment, John was still. Then Paul, his body seemingly fizzing to life again and remembering its purpose in this bit of unexpected pageantry, returned his hand to John's cock, whereupon John swore into his mouth, then groaned, then began to kiss him back with desperate urgency.
This went on for some minutes. Paul felt he was losing time to it; unusually enough, he didn't care. John was hot in his hand and hot under his lips, and then his tongue was in Paul's mouth and Paul made a sound in his throat he'd never heard himself make. It was only when he heard a more distant, alien shudder of breath that he remembered Brian was there.
Paul jerked back, panting. He was hard, of course, his cock stiff and nudging at his zipper. That was by the by. What was more interesting was the fact that, on the other side of John, Brian was visibly hard too, his cheeks flushed and the perfect line of his trousers ruined by the insistent thrust of his erection. Brian seemed to register the moment Paul noticed, his flush darkening.
John, of course, had noticed too. A grin crept over his face. “Oh yeah, you like that? Course you do, with your proclivities. Here, you want to see us do Paul as well?”
Brian wet his lips nervously. “John, it’s…”
“Go on,” John said, and then he was unzipping Paul’s trousers, tugging his underwear awkwardly down over his prick. “See, he’s like you, no hat. Look.”
Paul’s breath caught in his throat, his hips jerking into John’s hand. He was dimly conscious of Brian making a similar sound, as John ran his thumb idly over the crown of Paul’s cock, angled it up and away from his stomach so — Paul trembled at the thought — so Mr Epstein could see.
Paul squeezed his eyes closed. Tentatively, he began to stroke John again, pleased with the reactive little sound John made, the way his own hand quickened on Paul. Paul had never been one for orgies, but there was something blackly exciting about this, he found: touching John and being seen to touch him, by a man who fancied men. He could hear Brian’s breathing. He wondered how they must look, to Brian’s eyes. John was very handsome, after all; Paul had always thought so. It was only natural that Brian should want him.
Moved by an impulse, Paul leaned in and caught John’s mouth again with his own. Brian’s ragged little gasp surged through him, the sense of power thrilling. His hand flexed on John’s cock. John’s tongue flickered against Paul’s and it struck Paul, with a sudden stab of arousal, that he’d seen John kiss girls this way, his jaw moving slowly, his tongue busy. The thought made Paul groan and buck into John’s hand.
“You’re very beautiful together,” Brian said, strained. “I knew you would be.”
John pulled away slowly. His mouth was wet and blurred with kisses, and Paul suddenly felt he’d like nothing more than to kiss him again, to keep kissing him. Why had he resisted the idea, he wondered. It was — harmless — it —
“Thought about it a lot, have you?” John teased, low. “D’you like Paul’s mouth?”
Paul felt a flush roll through him at this, even before Brian swallowed and said, “Anyone would, John. It’s outrageous.”
John laughed at this, pleased, then leaned back and cut his eyes shrewdly between the two of them, Paul and Brian. “Give him a kiss, then?”
Paul’s stomach flipped dangerously. Brian said, “Oh…I don’t think he’d like that.” But his eyes had darkened and Paul thought suddenly that anything John could do, he could do. That, and —
“I would,” he said truthfully, lifting his head. “Shall I come over there, or—?”
John made a stunned, approving noise. “Yeah, fuck. Go and sit on his knee, Paulie.”
It seemed dizzyingly too much, until Brian said “Paul, you don’t have to,” and Paul saw the way his cock had thickened further in his trousers, the uncharacteristic expression of want on his face. He looked ruffled, unsure, and it made Paul certain, wanting to show them both, unravel them with it. So, he stood, stepped around John, and then threw one long leg over Brian’s lap. He took a breath, steeling himself, and then sat.
“Oh,” Brian breathed. It was soft, reflexive, but Paul could feel the thick line of his cock against his backside. It was terrifying, and at the same time intoxicating. Sweat licked the lines of Brian’s throat and Paul thought: I’m doing this to him. I’m doing this to Mr Epstein.
“Fuck,” John groaned, his hand going to his own cock. “You little slut, Macca. Touch him, Bri.”
Brian’s hands had settled on his waist; now he looked up at Paul, dark-eyed, and said, “May I?”
Paul bit his lip at the sight of him like this, the supplication. He wasn’t begging, but Paul knew Brian would enjoy being allowed to touch him almost as much as Paul would enjoy being touched. He could give this to him — or take it away. Paul nodded, falsely demure, and looked up at Brian deliberately though the fan of his lashes.
“Yeah,” he said, “touch me. Please?”
Brian wrapped a hand around him. His arm was trembling finely. Like John’s, his hands were big, long-fingered; unlike John’s, they were smooth and uncalloused. Paul hissed through his teeth, looking at his cock in Brian’s fist, even before Brian leaned up and kissed him.
And oh, oh, he was good at this. Paul had always thought he looked like a man who always smelt good, and indeed he did, up close like this, expensive shampoo and Penhaligon’s and soap. He crooked his tongue into Paul’s mouth and Paul thought: he thinks I’m beautiful. The thought was heady. Often enough, Paul had caught men’s eyes and knew what was in their minds, but it had always felt unnerving, before, as if Paul were a prey animal. Now, with Brian, he was conscious only of the power in it, the power it gave him. Brian wanted him, and it immolated him. He began to see, now, why John had been unable to resist this sort of covetous desire, so different from the way it was with a woman.
“Move, Paul,” John rasped. “Give him something, come on.”
Paul moaned into Brian’s mouth. He could hear the slick sounds of John stroking himself; it was easy enough to let himself surrender to what his hips wanted anyway, to fuck forward into Brian’s hand and then back against his cock, riding the swollen heat of him. John cursed and Brian gasped into his mouth and, fuck, it was good, this, wasn’t it? Fucking good. No wonder queers liked it.
“Christ,” John said, “can we — Bri, can we go upstairs?”
Paul stilled. Doing this on the sofa was one thing; upstairs felt very different. And yet, he and John usually tucked up together on someone’s bed when they did this, the angles easier like that, the space more forgiving. Plus, the idea of seeing Brian’s bedroom, his inner sanctum — clearly, John was already familiar with it. Paul, too, deserved to be.
“Yeah,” Paul said, before Brian could find his voice. “More comfortable like that.”
Brian made a little disbelieving sound in his throat, looked at John and said, “You’re both staying the night, then, are you?”
John grinned. “Knew you’d see sense in the end, Mr Epstein. Come on, up we get.”
Automatically, Paul tugged up his pants and trousers as they moved towards the stairs, but John seemed disinclined to bother; he held onto his waistband loosely with one hand, his stiff prick red and curved up between his thighs. Brian, too, eyed it and then looked away. His eyes met Paul’s, looking away from John. Paul felt himself smile, oddly relieved, and when Brian smiled back, it made his chest feel lighter.
The master bedroom was at the front of the house, with a vast bay window. When Brian switched on the light, the heavy curtains were still open. Swiftly, he crossed the room to draw them. Paul could understand why. This would be an odd tableau should anyone be standing outside in the small hours: Brian and two of his Beatle boys, their clothes disarranged, the room illuminated. It was, Paul realised with a shiver, illegal — or was it? The waters had always felt murky there. It couldn’t possibly be illegal to sit about with your mates and toss off, not when everybody did it. Perhaps it was only buggery that was illegal, and there was certainly no risk of that.
When Brian turned away from the window, John surprised them both by reaching for him, kissing him, Brian’s face cradled between his hands. Brian hesitated for a moment, then lifted his arms to hold John in his turn. Paul’s stomach dipped, watching them. They were both such handsome men, straight-backed, broad-shouldered. Paul suddenly felt awkward in comparison, a motley collection of too-long limbs. He wondered what Brian looked like naked, and then, ridiculously, felt scandalised by the thought.
When John stepped back, Brian was slightly pink, a dark comma of hair fallen into his face. He no longer looked nervous, Paul realised. He looked dark-eyed, aroused, anticipatory. John reached up to unknot his tie and Brian allowed it, his eyes roving over John’s body.
Feeling suddenly isolated, Paul moved towards them, reached for Brian. It was oddly easy, this: to work on a task with John, the pair of them in perfect concert. He coaxed Brian’s jacket off his shoulders and then, in a flush of daring, leaned in to press a kiss to his throat. John was unbuttoning his shirt. Paul was both impressed and disappointed to find there was an undershirt beneath it.
“What’s this?” Brian asked, warm and lazy.
“Too many clothes,” John answered, undoing Brian’s belt. Paul found he agreed completely.
There were layers to it, of course. The more of Brian’s clothes they peeled away, the deeper the layers went. As Beatles and as men, they’d exposed themselves to Brian in countless ways; he had very rarely offered them the same liberties. It made sense, of course, and yet something about having Brian between them like this, finally, gloriously nude, felt like some sort of cosmic rebalancing.
Not that Brian was in any way diminished by the contrast. On the contrary, Paul felt his throat thicken with a basic and uncomplicated jealousy, looking at him. He was — there were no two ways about it — an extremely attractive man. His broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips; his legs were athletic-looking, dusted with downy hair some shades lighter than the hair on his head. Even his cock looked as if it had come from the Charles Atlas Manual of Beautiful Cocks. Paul wanted, with a sudden rush of yearning, to put his mouth on it, a thought which made his whole body flood with pleasurable humiliation.
“Get on the bed,” John said, soft, and Brian did, readily, obediently. The immediacy of it made it seem like something Paul shouldn’t be seeing, which of course only made him harder.
The bed was wide, certainly wide enough for the three of them, and Paul could tell without touching them that the bedclothes were expensive, silken on the skin. Brian parted his thighs just slightly, the sheets rustling under him, and Paul felt an unexpected shock of heat lance through him.
“Are you coming,” Brian asked, “or are you just going to look at me?”
“All right,” John said, beginning to wrestle himself out of his jacket and tie, “a lad’s allowed a look, isn’t he? You look dead fit.”
Brian blushed. Paul blushed too, the sense of prudish shock returning. Messing around was one thing, but John was talking as if he fancied Mr Epstein — as if they were going together.
Brian said, “John…”
John laughed. He was mostly undressed now, skinning out of his clothes like a teenager intent on throwing himself headfirst into a lake. When he was down to his skivvies he paused, glanced at Paul, grinned and then kicked them off.
“Just a minute,” John said — to Brian, Paul assumed, although he was still looking at Paul. “Three’s company, eh? Come on, Paul.”
Paul’s pulse skipped in his chest. He’d seen John naked a hundred times, of course: sluicing himself at the sinks in the ladies’ toilet in Hamburg, or ducking through the showers at the baths. This, though, felt different, and not only because Mr Epstein (Brian!) was there on the bed behind them, now idly palming his own stiff prick. John looked gorgeous like this, Paul had to admit, with all his fair freckled skin on shameless display, his gingery bush thick around his straining cock. Paul wanted to touch him. In a way, it felt as if his clothes were the only thing protecting him from betraying himself.
“Paul,” John coaxed. He stepped closer, thumbed the hem of Paul’s shirt. “You trust me, don’t you? It’s so nice, doing it proper.” Almost shyly, he leaned in, kissed Paul’s neck. “Paul?”
Paul’s breath escaped him in an uncertain shudder. “All right.”
“Yeah?” John sounded oddly relieved. His fingers slipped up under Paul’s shirt, stroked the fine skin of his stomach. “Gonna let me?”
In surrender, Paul let his head fall back. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” John said, pleased.
When Paul was naked, John took him by the hand, tugged him towards the bed. Paul felt — outside of himself, now: the ache in his cock had settled into something enduring, like a fact of life. The warm air in the room prickled the hair on his arms and legs. He was here, and John was here, and —
oh —
Brian was here.
John urged him forward gently onto the bed, into Brian’s arms. The next thing Paul knew, his thighs were either side of Brian’s, and Brian was reaching a grateful hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss.
“Christ,” John said, “if I’d known you’d — God, you look so good.”
Paul felt his skin sing with the compliment, and with the way Brian’s tongue felt in his mouth, lighting him up inside. He lowered himself, fecklessly, onto Brian’s body, and Brian arched up into it, appreciative. His cock dragged stickily against Paul’s stomach and Paul moaned, feeling it. Brian was smooth everywhere, his skin fine-grained and pale. Paul found he wanted to rub himself all over him, tangle their legs and press their hard and soft places together. Brian was gorgeous, under him.
God, Paul fancied him. Paul — fancied him, and John, too.
As a revelation, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. He’d have to stop kissing Brian, certainly, to give it the thought it deserved; and that meant it would just have to wait, especially now that John was running a hand up his spine, rubbing lazily between his shoulder blades. A gentling touch, Paul realised. He lifted his head and John, beautifully seamless, slipped in to kiss him instead.
“Lovely,” Brian said, his voice dreamy and half-distant. “John…what did you have in mind, my darling?”
The endearment fizzed through Paul, plucking at him in a way he couldn’t define. Brian said it so easily. Paul could never say such a thing to John, in his place; in his accent, even. Brian pronounced the looping curve of the g, the clear bright vowel of my. His voice seemed to lend the words legitimacy.
Above him, John laughed, considering. “Oh, I didn’t have a battle plan. You want to give us a blowie?”
This casual request startled Paul — the audacity of it! — but Brian only smiled and made a pleased little sound like a purr in response, shifting his body out from beneath Paul’s weight.
John settled on his back, leonine, smug. He parted his thighs just slightly, propped one hand behind his head in cocky expectation, and Paul watched, stunned, as Brian — he of the pristine suits and perfect manners — took John by his narrow hips and, in a practised movement, lowered his head to flatten his tongue against the crown of John’s prick.
Intellectually, of course, he had known that Brian was a queer, and that queers did things like this. Seeing it, though, that foreknowledge didn't seem to go very far towards calming the roiling bafflement in Paul's chest. Brian was so obviously keen, so good at this, and Paul felt tugged in every direction, watching him lap at John greedily, mouth at his tip, swallow him down. Paul had seen, but never watched another man getting blown like this before. He'd never wanted to, but watching John -- his stomach muscles tensing and relaxing; his hips jerking up towards Brian's wet mouth -- he found he couldn't tear his eyes away. John was beautiful like this, confident in his skin. No wonder Brian wanted to swallow him whole.
He knew it was rude to stare, and yet, for some moments, he couldn't help himself. There were so many fascinating aspects to it all: Brian's tongue, wet and pink, curling around the dark head of John's cock; John's rasping little breaths. The way Brian smoothed his hands up the outsides of John's long thighs, a rhythmic, gentle back-and-forth. John moaned, low in his throat, his eyes closed, and Paul felt saliva burst over his tongue, a strange and visceral sort of wanting.
It was John who noticed his uncertainty, of course. His eyes flickered open, then settled, dimly, on Paul's face. He reached out a hand.
"Don't be a stranger," he said, soft and warm. "Come here, give us a kiss."
Paul hesitated. It wasn't for lack of desire -- on the contrary, his heartbeat kicked in his chest at John's words, urgent. It was just that this…the reality of it…was suddenly daunting, watching John's prick disappear into Brian's mouth and hearing words like kiss spoken aloud.
"Paulie," John said, his hand still outstretched. "Come on, it's all right. Isn't it, Bri?"
Brian made a soft sound around John's cock, then lifted his head and smiled at Paul, his mouth flushed and shining. "Of course it is," he said, in his lovely low voice, all consonants. "Darling. It's all right."
Darling. The word stirred a memory, long-buried. When they were children, Dad used to call them that when he was in a sentimental mood: darlin'. They'd grown out of it, apparently. It seemed bizarre, that boys could grow out of their father's love, when girls never did. A son is a son till he gets him a wife; a daughter's a daughter the rest of her life. His mam used to quote it, regretfully. Paul had always wanted to argue; to say: no, Mam, I'll always be your boy. But he wasn't, was he? In her way, she'd been right after all. Still, Paul yearned to be someone's boy. To be….someone's.
He crawled towards them on the bed, decision made. Brian's expression softened, and he reached a hand for Paul's, cradling the back of Paul's fingers. Gently, patiently, he guided Paul's hand towards the familiar terrain of John's cock.
"Yes?" Brian prompted, soft.
"Yeah," said Paul, breathless. Brian nodded and then, slowly -- as if offering Paul the opportunity to pull away -- leaned in and kissed him.
It shouldn't have surprised Paul, and yet it did, now afresh, how much he liked this. It was, he supposed, because he'd never imagined queer blokes doing much kissing, but Brian was dedicated to it, laving his tongue over Paul's and biting gently at his lower lip. He licked at the corner of Paul's mouth and Paul felt the touch zing through his nerves, lighting him up everywhere. His hand quickened responsively on John's cock and John groaned beneath them, hips lifting.
"Fuck," John gasped, "you look good. Paul, c'mere. Come here."
Emboldened, Paul broke away from Brian's mouth and leaned down, setting his lips against John's lifted throat. John shivered under him; Paul ventured a glance down the length of his body and saw that Brian had resumed his former occupation, nuzzling at the head of John's cock and then shifting to let it slip into his mouth, into the clutch of his throat. Paul released his grip and drew his fingers up instinctively through the thicket of John's pubic hair, flattening his hand on John's stomach.
"Paul," John said, his back arching. Paul drew a stuttered breath, leaned up and brought their mouths together.
John sighed through his nose, low, and curved his big hand around the back of Paul's head, holding him there. For a moment they kissed like that, Paul on his hands and knees, and then John's hand slid to his neck, down his overheated back. At first, Paul was too dizzied by the kissing to understand his intent, but then John pushed more firmly and Paul sort of collapsed and then, then it made sense, his cock bumping against John's hip, sliding against his skin.
He whimpered, unable to help himself, and John made an answering sound of affirmation. His hand shifted lower, onto the curve of Paul's arse, and Paul let himself be gathered in until they were flush together, his knee slightly lifted over John's thigh. Between John's legs, Brian wordlessly moved to grip Paul's calf, kneading at it idly as his sleek dark head rose and fell. Over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, Paul could hear the wet sound of Brian's mouth on John, his soft little inhalations. Everything smelt of sex and sweat and boy, with an edge of expensive washing powder beneath it, and the combination was making Paul frantic, his hips bucking.
"There you go," John murmured, mouthing along the curve of Paul's jaw. He was flushed all down his chest, shimmering faintly with new sweat. "That's it, love -- rub off on me, yeah? Is it good?"
He was breathless; Paul noticed vaguely that his other hand had now twisted itself into Brian's hair. He was moving his hips more purposefully now, staccato little thrusts, and Brian moaned and swallowed him down and Paul felt himself pulse in sympathy, his cock spilling a sluice of precome onto John's belly.
"Fuck," John breathed, "Paul --"
It was obvious, the moment his climax hit. The hand on Paul's back tightened; Paul felt himself crushed to John's side, pinned between John's hand and his trembling thigh. John's eyes squeezed tightly closed, and his back arched, his mouth opening soundlessly. He yanked at Brian's hair -- through a wave of arousal, Paul thought it must surely hurt -- and yanked again; then Brian groaned deliberately around him and John shouted: oh, oh, Bri -- fuck --
To Paul's astonishment, Brian kept John in his mouth well beyond his peak, nuzzling at him until John's body had gone lax and loose. Only then did Brian lift his head, smiling, his eyes storm-tossed and dark. John was a shipwreck, gasping for breath. Paul was suddenly so hard, he felt he would burst if anyone laid so much as a finger on him. He'd always taken guilty pleasure from hearing John come beside him, but getting to watch him like this, to feel him -- Paul imagined John saying his name like that, Paul, fuck, and shivered, unable to resist pressing his stiff cock against John's body again.
John allowed it without comment, stroking the small of Paul's back with trembling fingers. After a moment Brian leaned up, caught Paul's mouth, and Paul registered only dimly that he must have swallowed; the taste of him was faintly musky, but not unpleasantly so. In fact -- and, fuck, it probably meant he was wrong in the head -- something about it was working for him. He'd always liked the mess of sex, the rawness of it. Was it really so surprising that he'd like this too, the taste of John in someone else's mouth?
The thought made him shiver. He threw his leg more firmly over John's and began to rut in earnest. Everything was getting slick between their bodies, his cock leaking into the shallow of John's navel, and when Brian said, "That's it, Paul," his voice was lower than Paul had ever heard it, something primally stirring in it.
Paul reached for him on impulse, only to find that John had already done what Paul had intended and pulled Brian close against his other side, the two of them on one wavelength as always. Brian was mouthing at John's throat, not rutting on him the way Paul was but wanking himself furiously, his cock slick and scarlet in his fist. Paul couldn't decide if this was more or less adult than what he himself was doing, but he was certain that Mr Epstein shouldn't be left to see to himself, not after all the effort he'd put in. He reached across John's body and put his hand over Brian's, stomach dipping pleasantly when Brian sighed and let his own hand fall.
His cock was weighty in Paul's smaller hand -- elegant, if ever a cock could be. Paul could hear his own breathing in his ears as he stroked him, something so hypnotic about the task that he didn't realise he'd stopped moving until Brian took him reciprocally in hand, setting up a steady rhythm.
"Fuck," John groaned, sounding half-cut; "God, yeah, come on, finish on me."
Even in the midst of the fog that signalled a swiftly approaching orgasm, Paul felt dizzied by the fact that John should want that -- should so obviously welcome it. And yet, the thought of it rushed like liquid silver through Paul's veins: his spend and Brian's, intermingled on John's skin. It shouldn't turn him on, but fuck, it did; and if it was all right for John -- if it was all right for Mr Epstein --
Paul came, hard, the force of it hitting like a wave and leaving him panting through it. Dimly, he was aware of wet heat between his fingers, and he let his hand slow, his pulse throbbing in his fingers. When he opened his eyes, the sight of it sent little aftershocks tripping through him: John, sleepy and sated between them, his chest and stomach spattered with white. Paul groaned faintly and Brian echoed the sound, pulling his hand slowly away from Paul's softening cock.
It struck Paul that he hadn't seen Brian finish -- he didn't know, still, how he looked when he came; whether his eyebrows drew together; whether his mouth fell open at the moment of climax. He was still at a disadvantage. There would, then, have to be a next time; there was nothing else for it.
He let himself relax against John's side, his fingers trailing upward through the mess on his stomach. John turned lazily and kissed him, soft; then Brian stirred with a groan and said, "I'll fetch a cloth."
It was odd, for some reason, watching Brian like this, so businesslike, seeing to them as always, but still stark naked, his hair disarranged. Paul watched him leave the room, and only noticed belatedly that John was looking at him, something thoughtful in his expression. It made Paul blush.
"What?" he asked, unwarrantedly and suddenly shy. It felt as if John was seeing something in him of which Paul himself was unaware.
But John only smiled slightly, shook his head. "Nothing. Was that all right?"
Something complicated snaked its way through Paul's chest. "Yeah," he said, and found that it was true. "I wanted…I wanted to know. If you did."
John's smile widened at this, and he leaned forward to catch Paul's mouth again. "I thought you would. And it's not a huge thing, is it? You see, now. 'S just fun. And it's nice for him."
Paul took in John's tousled hair, his soft eyes. He remembered, unbidden, that time in his room when John had tried to kiss him, just the two of them, no Mr Epstein in sight. He wondered whether John would try it again, next time. If he didn't, Paul resolved, then he would take matters into his own hands. As John had said, it was fun. It wasn't as if they were committing sodomy.
John, though. He could see in John's face that things were both simpler and more complicated in his mind than they were in Paul's. Mr Epstein was the fulcrum, the reasoning. So he leaned in, kissed John again while he could, and said, "Yeah, it must be nice for him."
If Brian caught the end of this discussion as he returned with the damp cloth, he made no mention of it, but his eyes met Paul's as he mounted the bed again, a sort of quiet assurance in them. John needed managing, sometimes, but that was all right. Many hands made light work.