Work Text:
Liverpool appeared to have shrunk during the time Paul had been away. Hamburg was bigger, he supposed, but it wasn’t just that. It was more like he didn’t fit any more, as though the time away from home had made him grow out of the place that had once seemed endless, leaving him with a nagging sense of claustrophobia wherever he went.
It wouldn’t have been as bad if Hamburg hadn’t come to such a mortifying end. George had been so upset when he’d been sent home, and Paul’s journey back with Pete after being arrested had been a miserable affair, and they hadn’t spoken since. He didn’t know what had become of John and that was what made his stomach sink the most. What if John wasn’t coming back? What if they’d all embarrassed him and now he was going to stay in Germany forever with Stu and Astrid, and never want to talk to Paul again? He could picture it now, Astrid taking photos of them in their leathers, they’d all end up living together probably, and that vital closeness that had been more important than ever while they’d been there, would be lost. It didn’t feel like a friend just drifting away, it felt…
He didn’t have words for it, but it made his stomach twist and turn, the colour of it all black and horrible in his head, like the idea of John being gone forever was covered in rot.
He pulled up his collar against the cold and carried on towards the bus stop. Satan finds things for idle hands his Dad kept telling him, and he didn’t much like listening to his Dad, but if there was no band left to play with he didn’t see what choice he had. So he’d go to the labour exchange, find something to do, and that would be that. His Dad would get what he wanted.
And if John ever came back, he’d hate him for it.
***
It was two weeks since Paul arrived home before John bothered to let him know he was back as well. One week of working his stupid delivery job, sitting on a lorry for so long each day that his body was stiff and he was so bored out of his mind he considered jumping out the back of the thing while it was moving just for something to do.
But his Dad shouting up to him that John was on the phone was like sunshine breaking through clouds.
“John?” he said, pressing the phone to his ear.
“Alright?”
At the sound of his voice, the world burst into life again like hearing the first note of your favourite song. But he couldn’t let on how good it was, he wasn’t a kid who couldn’t control his emotions.
“Yeah. You’re home then?” he asked.
“Looks like it,” John agreed and Paul rolled his eyes, apparently his last few days in Germany hadn’t changed his usual unhelpful demeanour. “We’ve got a show tomorrow tonight, at the Casbah, did Pete tell you?”
“I haven’t spoken to Pete,” Paul said, twisting the telephone cord around his finger. He nearly had, a few times, but he kept talking himself out of it because he didn’t want to talk about Hamburg and he definitely didn’t want his Dad overhearing that conversation.
“Oh, right. George?”
“Not yet.” Which was worse than not calling Pete, because George was younger and Paul felt a certain amount of responsibility towards him.
“Me neither,” John sighed. They’d probably all been waiting for each other to make the first move, avoiding having to be the first to pick up the phone and face the way things had fallen apart so quickly at the end.
“Well, I’ll call him next then,” Paul said. “Tomorrow night you said?”
“Yeah, thought it would be good, you know?”
There was something unspoken hanging between them. An I’ve missed it although I miss you felt more like the truth. It was hard to explain to anyone else what Hamburg had been like, the long hours and the nasty living conditions, the thrill and the anxiety all muddling into one strange fog. But they’d always had each other, probably too much of each other. At some point the tiny room and the freezing nights and the drink and the drugs just meant any inhibitions fell away and when they needed to be close to keep each other going, to stay warm, to just be near someone who knew them, John was there for him and he was there for John.
And then there were all the good things. Singing on stage every night with his best mates, the stupid things they’d incorporate in their act to save Mr Koschmider shouting Mach schau at them, John always finding more and more outrageous things to do. Meeting Astrid and Klaus and their art friends, and the fact they were really doing it and people seemed to like it.
“I’ll be there,” Paul decided. “What about Stu, is he-”
“Still over there, I think, he was staying with Astrid,” John said. Well that was something, John back and no Stu to worry about. People thought he was needlessly mean to Stu, but pointing out that Stu couldn’t play bass was just a fact.
“Alright, well I’ll see you there after work,” Paul said, chewing on his lip a little in anticipation of John noticing what he’d said.
“After what?”
“Well I didn’t know what was happening, did I? So I got a job, they needed more delivery men over Christmas,” Paul said, offering an explanation that wasn’t asked for, knowing John would be judging him for it.
“That your Dad’s idea, was it?” John asked, his insinuation clear, his usual annoyance at Paul still caring what his Dad wanted. Heat flared across his cheeks, he hated this idea John had of him that he was just some stupid kid who needed his Dad to tell him what to do. He thought he’d got away from that while they’d been in Germany, John knew if Jim found out even a fraction of what they’d gotten up to he would have had a fit, and Paul had done it all anyway.
“Piss off,” Paul muttered. John just sighed.
“Alright, but you’ll be there tomorrow?” John asked, Paul assured him again, and couldn’t deny the bubble of excitement it brought, them being back on stage together. Maybe they’d never be famous, but they could carry on playing at the Casbah and he could have his job for a steady income and it would all be fine.
***
It had become normal in Hamburg to end up huddled up in one bed. After shows when it was late and neither of them could be bothered to clamber up to the top bunk, they’d just slide in together. It was cold anyway and there was nothing about it, but it was one of the things Paul missed most, whatever that meant. Sometimes it was like John forgot it wasn’t a bird in bed with him, would snuggle up or throw an arm over Paul, and then Paul wouldn’t be able to sleep because any skin that was touching felt like it had been branded with hot iron.
So it felt strange, to see John again and to feel like there was a new distance there. He supposed they were back in the real world now, where lads didn’t do things like that. John probably would have punched him if he’d gone in for a hug, so they’d all just got their instruments set up and said hello to people in the club they hadn’t seen for a while, like it was all normal.
And thank god it was normal when they started playing, like nothing had changed at all, they were just John and Paul and George and Pete and they sounded good. No, they sounded better than the last time they were here. The way they could intuit what each other were doing, the harmonies that fell into place like complimentary colours, sharing a microphone again, so close he could remind himself of all the little things about John’s face that he- that he nothing.
“Alright ladies and gents, shut up will you, we’re bloody stars now!” John shouted at the audience as one song came to an end. A few people whooped, but mostly the crowd just jeered at him. Paul laughed as well, which put him off hitting the right chord on the opening.
“But unfortunately, soft head here thinks that means he can get away with playing like shit,” John said, throwing a grin his way which was equal parts annoying and something that fluttered in Paul’s chest.
“You’re putting me off!” Paul insisted.
“Very well,” John said, putting on his silly posh accent and then standing straight as a pole with his hands clasped behind his back. “Play on good sir, no further interruptions from me.”
Paul started playing again, except John just stood as still as a statue watching him with a blank face, not even touching his own guitar, so the whole song fell apart in seconds as Paul got the giggles.
“Alright, alright, everyone give John a cheer so he can be a functional member of the band again please,” Paul told the crowd. As they started to shout John jumped back into life, and although he counted in far too quickly, they all met him there, sharing another grin that shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did, but it was sinking into a warm bath on a cold day, a bar of chocolate split in half to share, it was the moment when you’d practised a new chord enough times your fingers did what they needed to without being told.
It was John and Paul, exactly where they should be.
***
Direct from Hamburg
The Sensational Beatles
“Eh look at this Johnny, did we change our name to The Sensational Beatles?” Paul said, flapping the poster in John’s face.
“Give it here,” John said, grabbing it off him and taking a look. They were backstage at Litherhall Town Hall, a couple of days after Christmas, and things were okay. Good even. He had stuck at his job, got through Christmas, and they’d played a handful of shows together. Now there was this, billed as a ‘welcome home’ show for them although Paul wasn’t sure anyone in North Liverpool really knew who they were. But all that really mattered was that they were still playing together, that John still wanted to be playing with him.
“Christ, that’s a lot of people,” George said, as they went out on the stage. They’d been told the dance hall could hold well over one thousand people, but actually seeing it was something else. John and Paul exchanged a glance, they’d never admit they were nervous, but John always went a little bit quieter when he was. Paul tried to give him an encouraging smile, but he only pulled a face back.
He launched into Long Tall Sally and they’d never had a response like it. The whole room seemed to surge forward, one minute everyone dancing in the suitable, expected way, and then as though they all fell victim to the same spell, crowded the stage in one big wave.
When he finished the song, he looked at John to find John already looking at him with a look of disbelief on his face. As they started their next number, he tried to really listen to them play. Their set had become second nature over the past few months. There were only so many times they could play the same songs without them becoming background noise, but at some point they’d stopped sounding like a bunch of kids trying to find their footing, and like… well, like a proper band.
The thrill of it exploded in him, and he screamed into the microphone. He caught George’s eye and then John’s again, and they knew as well. It was different, this was different, they were different. The past few weeks of worry melted away and all that mattered was the four of them and the music and John’s face up close to his as they shared a microphone. Anything was possible for a moment, the world infinitely big and full of possibility, and simultaneously a tiny pocket where just the two of them existed and they could be this close forever.
They bundled off stage buzzing with a new energy, pushing each other around and shouting because the energy had to go somewhere and they were all in it together. Paul could have floated away.
In the van the excitement continued.
“Where are we going, lads?” John shouted, summoning their rallying cry from Hamburg. John had taken to pulling it out when any of them had been feeling low, the long shifts and the lack of food and drink sending them spiralling downwards. But this was triumphant, a celebration.
“To the top, Johnny!” Paul, George and Pete all shouted back in unison in bad American accents.
“And where’s that?”
“The toppermost of the poppermost!”
They dropped George off first, then Ringo. When they arrived at Paul’s house John got out of the van with him.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Paul asked him, trying not to let on that he would have been disappointed if John hadn’t followed.
“C’mon, the night’s not over yet, Paulie,” John said, pushing him up the path to the front door. He flicked Paul’s ear as he tried to sort his keys out, earning himself an annoyed huff as though Paul didn’t mind any excuse John found to touch him. The lights were all off, so Paul shushed him as they went through to the kitchen.
“Water?” Paul asked, grabbing some glasses to fill when John leaned so far into his personal space, that he had to back right up against the counters so they weren’t just standing flush against each other. Even then, there was barely anything in it.
“That was good, wasn’t it?” John asked, his eyes searching Paul for something, and Paul couldn’t think but he couldn’t break eye contact either because he liked John’s face so, so much.
“Yeah,” he said, hating how breathy it sounded.
“D’you think we can make it? Really make it?” John asked. It took Paul another moment to process the question, everything fuzzy with giddiness, the cogs in his brain grinding slowly.
“Yeah, I think so,” he said, and managed to nod. John nodded back, and leaned in further like he was about to…
John was going to kiss him and Paul was going to let him. That thing about John that he hadn’t been wanting to feel, was wanting to kiss him the way he kissed girls. It was wrong, he knew that, but he’d completely forgotten why it was wrong when John’s nose was brushing against his and his hand was on the surface behind Paul, crowding him in and Paul definitely, definitely wanted him to.
The light flicked on, and John jumped back.
“Paul?” His Dad asked, standing in his dressing gown looking blearily between them. “Oh, John.”
“John was just going,” Paul said, voice too high and squeaky with panic. “He just wanted some water.”
He grabbed the glass again and filled it up at the sink, mind racing as he tried to work out what his Dad would have seen. It was dark, so not much, and they hadn’t actually done anything, but what explanation was there for them standing together like that, almost, so close to… If his Dad had walked in a second later there would have been no hiding it.
He pressed the glass into John’s hand.
“Thought I’d crash here, actually, you don’t mind do you Mr. Macca?” John said.
“He does,” Paul answered for him, with a glare.
“Paul’s got work in the morning and I’m sure your Aunt would like you tucked up in bed,” his Dad added.
“She’s not the only one,” John muttered, and Paul flushed with something hot and spiky, little needles of shame pricking his skin. He hated him, or hated himself.
“I’ve got work,” Paul repeated. “Piss off.”
“Fine,” John said, setting his glass down without taking a sip, water splashing all over the counter. “Be a good little boy for Daddy and have fun at work tomorrow.”
He pushed past Paul and his Dad, and slammed the front door on his way out. Paul looked up at the ceiling, expecting to hear Mike shifting around, woken by the noise, but the house just settled into the quiet of the night again.
“Don’t mind him, son, he’s just jealous to see you becoming a man,” his Dad said. “You’re doing the right thing.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Paul muttered, and made his way upstairs. His Dad was right though, this was just what happened when you grew up. You got a real job with a proper pay check, you had a girlfriend who you’d marry and have kids with. His stomach churned with the thought of how close that he’d been to that reality earlier in the year with Dot’s pregnancy, but perhaps that would have been for the best. Would have forced him to grow up even quicker. He’d call Dot tomorrow and see her, that was all much more important than the band, than John.
Except when he closed his eyes, it was John who weaved in and out of his dreams as he drifted into an uneasy sleep.
***
At the lorry depot the following morning, Paul was handed a paper cup of bitter coffee by his boss and told to take a seat in his office.
“You’ve worked hard, Paul, but the busy period is over now which means we have to let some people go,” he said. He seemed genuinely sorry, and it wasn’t as though Paul even liked the job but it was another obstacle to overcome when he just started settling in here.
“That’s alright, I don’t suppose you know of anything else going do you?” He asked. The very least he could tell his Dad when he got home that he was trying . Or maybe this was it, and things would carry on like they were with the band playing regular shows and he could stick at that. But no, because Stu wasn’t back which meant he wasn’t entirely sure John wouldn’t just lose interest, and one more incident like the end of Hamburg would put an end to all of it.
“Tell you what, son, let me make some calls and I’ll give you a ring,” his boss said, so Paul left with a grateful smile and the remains of his coffee and not much to do, which was rather how he liked things. Mike would be at school still and his Dad at work, he’d usually head over to Mendips to see if John was about, but that didn’t seem like a good idea after the night before.
So he went home and noodled on his guitar, writing down scraps of lyrics that floated into his head and trying to make them fit a melody. It was easier when he did this with John. Everything was easier when it was with John.
***
News Years Eve arrived, and they were booked to play at the Casbah Club. An easy show, more like hanging out with friends than anything serious, only it was fraught with tension between him and John, as John tried to say as few words as possible to him.
The cold shoulder was worse than an argument, at least when they argued whatever John was feeling was all there on the surface for Paul to see, no matter how nasty or cruel or undeserved it was. It was better than not knowing, than John not looking at him when he usually would during the favourite parts of the songs or when they’d make silly jokes to the audience, always looking to each other for a laugh before anyone else.
Something began to niggle at the back of his mind, a little voice whispering that maybe he’d got it all wrong the other night. Maybe John hadn’t tried to kiss him, maybe Paul had got the signals mixed up, had projected something onto John that John wasn’t doing, but John knew now. He knew there was something wrong with Paul and wanted him out of the band.
The room heaved with people dancing, talking, singing along, shouting requests over to them. He was on stage with four other people, their friend Chas standing in for Stu on the bass. George, Pete, John, all there with him, singing with him, but Paul couldn’t escape the feeling that he was utterly alone, watching himself from outside of his body somehow with the distinct feeling that he was losing it completely.
He’d tried to convince himself that he hadn’t really wanted John to kiss him, but as he stood at midnight watching John kiss Cyn, the desire for it to be him instead hit him square in the chest. The way John wrapped his arms around her, the way she arched into him and he whispered something to her after that made her laugh. Paul wanted to claw him away from her, claim what was his in front of everyone.
“Do I get a kiss then?” Dot said, looking up at him. “Nice way to start the new year, isn’t it?”
So Paul tipped her chin towards him, kissed her soft and slow and sweet how she liked, all the time thinking about John in his kitchen, the buzz of that show still under their skin, the flicker of hope that maybe they could make the band work, the way John had looked in the dark, a slither of light from outside illuminating the shape of his nose.
He had leaned in that night, and when Paul broke the kiss with Dot, he looked over her shoulder to find John staring at him.
***
They were getting booked for more and more shows, a line of them now dangling tantalizingly in front of them, leading them towards their shared dream. But Paul wasn’t going to get swept away in the hope of it again, he got a new job at a coil factory. It was fine, he could handle the work and the boss had taken a liking to him, even suggesting he could be a manager in no time which Paul rather liked the sound of. When other people were bossing around, it brought him some comfort to think of doing the same back.
But then nights and lunch times with the band would come around, and the two lives he was trying to live pulled and pulled, splitting him in two. He could see both versions of his future so clearly, being a manager at the factory, marrying Dot like she wanted, doing the whole wedding and kids thing properly. Or the band made it. They got a record contract, became famous and spent their days writing songs. They’d have to tour, he and John would get to live in each other’s pockets again and no one would question the closeness.
One option felt more solid than the other. Life as a musician was a shimmering but fleeting thing, something that could slip through his fingers like smoke. But staying in Liverpool, living the same day every day just to make enough money until he died, was enough to make him wonder if the whole world was completely insane. Surely that was no way to live.
John would roll his eyes if Paul even mentioned work in his vicinity, lashed out with jokes about being the golden boy for his Dad, cutting remarks about his lack of rebellion. It hurt more than he let on, and yet for once he was getting something he’d never had. His Dad actually seemed proud of him. Each evening they’d arrive home at similar times, and there were things to talk about. Colleagues that had annoyed them both, bosses who were too big for their boots, jokes shared with the more likable blokes.
But there was no number of times he could hear ‘I’m proud of you son’ that made up for the coldness from John, or that made him happier than the moments John seemed to forget he was cross with him.
A hand on his shoulder as they left the stage, that grin, bright as a full moon on a clear night and just as impossible to look away from. Brief little moments where it seemed like things would be okay again, until John’s face clouded over, he looked away. The charge between fizzling back out to nothing.
***
Stu got back. Astrid had paid for his flight home so it was the five of them again, and another person pulling John’s attention away from him. It was even worse than John ignoring him when they were together, he and Stu constantly turning up late because they’d been off doing… Paul didn’t know what, back to their whispering and laughing together about things Paul wasn’t privy to. John always cosied up to Stu whenever he was pissed with Paul, and Paul knew it was designed to hurt him. He wished he could stop caring enough that it didn’t, but not caring about what John thought of him was about as likely as him not caring about a new Elvis record.
Luckily, things continued to go well at work, and although some days were mind numbingly boring and he wanted nothing more than to walk out, grab his guitar, and play wherever would let him, he found other days he could sink into it. The days he got into a rhythm had a solid sense of satisfaction at the end of them, different to the post-show adrenaline fuelled giddiness he was used to, but something tangible and good all the same.
One night he got carried away helping one of the other men finish things up for the day, and didn’t notice the time. They had a show, and he was going to be late. As he rushed into the kitchen once he got home and looked at the clock, there was a brief moment where he realised he could just stay at home. He’d been at work all day, he was tired and hungry, why should he turn up to play guitar for someone who didn’t even act like he wanted Paul there.
He sighed. He couldn’t. He fingers practised chord shapes when left idle, little melodies wove into his dreams as he slept, he couldn’t turn down the opportunity to be playing. And he couldn’t turn down a night with John, no matter how rotten John was being.
He arrived just as they were about to go on stage.
“What sort of time d’you call this, eh?” George said to him as Paul got his guitar out the case and slung the strap over his shoulder.
“Sorry, I got caught up,” he said, waiting for John’s reaction, which was bound to be less friendly.
“If you’re in the band, you’re on time,” John said. “Got it?”
Paul flushed out of either anger or embarrassment, he wasn’t sure. “Piss off, Lennon.”
John tightened his jaw and looked like he was about to make things ten times worse, when they were ushered onto the stage.
It was annoying how good they still were, when they weren’t getting along. How the practice they’d put in meant they could work together seamlessly while barely acknowledging each other. It was an odd feeling, to be on stage with him, to be so tied together like the music was threads through the air looping around them, and feel so far from him at the same time.
When they left the stage, John’s stare was a dagger in his back and Paul braced himself for whatever was about to come his way.
John waited until they were outside at least. “Are you in this band, or not?” he asked, squaring up to Paul. There was barely anything in their height, but when John was like this he felt twice Paul’s size.
“You know I am, but work-”
“I don’t give a fuck about your stupid fucking job,” John spat at him.
“Come on, John,” Pete said, but the look John threw his way made him slink back. Stu and George exchanged a glance and decided against stepping in as well. Fine. Paul didn’t need their help anyway.
“If you’re in the band, then you’re on time,” John said.
“As if you’re not late half the time anyway,” Paul pointed out, incredulous that John would try to hold him to a standard John would never stick to himself.
“Well I’m the leader, aren’t I?” John said. Paul bit his tongue, it was John’s band, it had existed in one form or another long before Paul came alone, but he’d always thought it was different for him than it was for George or Pete or even Stu. That he and John had something special, more equal.
“Well, then, s’pose the question is if you still want me in your band or not?” Paul said, and ha . That made him stop for a second. Something flickered across his face, worry perhaps, that maybe he needed Paul more than Paul needed him, which wasn’t true and made Paul sick to even hint at it. But it felt good to have the upper hand for a moment.
John stepped forward, and Paul was reminded of that night in his kitchen. The almost something that would have happened if his Dad hadn’t walked in.
“Tell your Dad to fuck off about this whole job business, this is your job,” John said, mentioning his Dad at the same time he crossed Paul’s mind, in that way that happened sometimes and only went further to making Paul think there was something special there. More special than John’s connection to the others. But he couldn’t give in that easily, wouldn’t. Hated people thinking they could boss him around more than anything, and so the next words left his mouth like venom before he could stop them.
“That was this is about, Lennon? Jealous I’ve got a Dad who cares?”
He braced himself for the smack, but John just looked at Paul like he was the one who had thrown a punch. The guilt of it immediately sank in his stomach, like an anchor in a dark, black ocean.
“C’mon, Paul,” Stu said, and took John by the arm, pulling him back. “That was uncalled for.”
Paul didn’t have a reply, because he hated agreeing with Stu, but Stu was right on this occasion. John stared at him, waiting for an apology Paul wasn’t going to give him because he was being stubborn and cruel and maybe they were all better off without him anyway. When the silence dragged out longer, John just shook his head, and let the others lead him off. They’d get the brunt of John’s anger now, another thing to drive a wedge between them and Paul.
He sloped home on his own, hitching a lift with a friend of a friend who happened to come outside with his girlfriend at the same time Paul began to walk off. His Dad was still up when he got there, reading a paper in the living room.
“Late one, son?” he asked, folding it up next to him as Paul slid his shoes off. Paul just grunted in reply. “Do you think it would be good to ease up on the shows, perhaps? You’ll be tired at work if you keep staying out this late. You don’t want that do you?”
“Maybe I do,” Paul said, between work and John, he’d had enough of people telling him what he should and shouldn’t be doing.
“Paul,” his Dad said, voice stern, the tone he’d use when he and his brother were children caught being naughty.
“What?” Paul said. “What do you want from me? I got the stupid job like you wanted me to, I go every day, can’t I do something for a bit of fun as well? Or am I supposed to end up like you? Miserable and old and on my own.”
He’d thought maybe his Dad would smack him, he wasn’t above it, although he hadn’t much recently after Paul had stood up to him one time. But he looked as taken back as John had been, and just as hurt. Paul was doing a glorious job of ruining things with everyone who cared about him today.
Paul didn’t wait this time, and was the one to leave, marching up stairs to his bedroom and hiding under his blankets from the world. He didn’t want what everyone else did, he didn’t want a grey life with a grey job and a grey family, when he’d already experienced so much more, the technicoloured dream of life on stage, the soul crushing lows that tied groups together and only made the mountain top highs so much sweeter.
And John. He’d been so close to John in a way he couldn’t imagine with anyone else. He couldn’t write like that with anyone else, couldn’t play as well, didn’t laugh as hard or feel as brave. John saw something in him that Paul had known was there all along, and taught him not to be afraid of it.
As he lay in the dark, truly considering the choice and weight of it, what it would really mean for him, he realised there was no choice at all. There was only his dream, and then a life he was only pretending he could be content with.
***
Paul was in the courtyard of the factory, where he was supposed to be sweeping, but he’d paused for a smoke while no one was around to bother him. He’d spent the last couple of days turning things over and over in his mind, nearly calling John to apologise and then bottling it, so it took him by surprise when John himself walked into the yard with George in tow.
“Still pissing about here then?” John said, looking around curiously. Paul met him halfway, trying to hide the joy that swelled in him.
“Well that’s what happens when you have job, you have to go to it,” Paul said, and to his relief there was a quirk to John’s lip, a tiny little tell that he knew Paul wasn’t being serious. He nudged George’s shoulder with his.
“We’ve got a show at The Cavern,” George said. “Are you in?”
Paul perked up. The Cavern was good. Something that could turn into a proper steady gig. They’d played there a handful of times before when they were still The Quarry Men, but they’d been shit then and were much, much better now. Everyone was saying so.
“How much?” he asked.
“Five pounds between us,” George said, looking to John to double check who nodded.
“Well, I’m getting seven pounds a week here,” Paul said.
“We’re not asking to quit Paul, we just want you to do the show,” George said.
Paul looked at John. “Do you?”
“Oh forget it,” John said. “Told you this was a fucking waste of time,” he added, turning to leave. Idiot Paul, Paul thought to himself, why was he still trying to push John’s buttons when he’d done more than enough already. He should be apologising, grovelling to come back to the group.
“Wait,” he said in panic, he had to try. He had to at least be able to say he tried. He leant his broom up against the wall, and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Alright then, come on,” he said. Hope sparked on both John and George’s faces.
“It’s not until this evening, Paul,” George said.
“Well we should probably do some practice shouldn’t we?” Paul said. “I’ll go home and get my guitar, will your Mum mind George? It’s the Cavern after all, we should be in good shape for it, shouldn’t we?”
John slung an arm around his shoulders then, not saying anything as they walked out the factory gates together, and not paying any attention to some of the other workers shouting after Paul. He could have skipped home, even with John weight around him.
“You’re home early,” Jim shouted to him as Paul got home, and immediately rushed upstairs to get his guitar, hoping for minimal questioning. They’d barely spoken since the other night as it was, and this wasn’t going to make things any better. He shoved a change of clothes in his bag, hoping to avoid another argument about his drainies, and when he thundered down the stairs found his Dad giving John and George a hard stare.
“Why aren’t you at work?” he demanded.
“They let me go early,” Paul said, the lie slipping off his tongue easily. He’d learnt to do this a lot with Jim, it was how he’d managed to convince him about going to Hamburg in the first place, making him think his school had okayed it.
“What are they doing here?”
Paul pushed past him then, not in the mood for the inquisition. “We’ve got a show,” was all he offered. His Dad was scowling when he looked back.
“They’re a bad influence, Paul, you can do so much better-”
“Oh, fuck off,” Paul said. “You don’t know what’s best for me, alright? If we mess it up we mess it up, but we’re going to try at least. You haven’t even heard us since we got back from Hamburg, we’re good now.”
Before his Dad could reply, he pushed John up the path, John who was grinning delightedly at him. George looked a bit taken aback by the whole exchange, himself having a family that was supportive of the band and a Mum who was always encouraging him to follow his passions.
“Little Paulie, growing up and telling the old man to fuck off, never thought I’d see the day,” John said gleefully, and whatever had still been tense and awkward between them disappeared in a split second, and Paul finally felt like he could breathe again for the first time in weeks. When John reached into his pocket for a cigarette, Paul reached for his lighter, and leaned in close as John placed the cigarette between his lips and let Paul light it for him, their eyes never leaving each other.
***
Aside from being scolded by the club owner for wearing jeans, Paul couldn’t believe the show. It had the same atmosphere that had been growing around them ever since they’d arrived home, hordes of teenagers packing the little club out to see them. Not just for an evening out or because they liked The Cavern, but for them. The Beatles.
He pulled John aside before they went on stage. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry,” Paul said. “I shouldn’t’ve said that about your Dad. I’m sure if he was here, he’d-”
“Oh piss off with that,” John said. “He’s a tosser, don’t even know where he is, do I? Not much chance of him knowing anything about me.”
It had that biting tone John was famous for, but Paul knew he wasn't trying to start another argument. This was them back to normal, banter between friends, self depreciation for the sake of an easy joke.
And so they’d gone on stage with a new ease, the magic returned. And yes, they had still played brilliantly when they’d been annoyed with each other, but it wasn’t this, nothing could ever be this. When they were fully John-Paul, Lennon-McCartney, their connection intact, strong, magnetic. Their voices clicked into place in perfect harmonies, and the jokes and chat between songs, easy and fun and only really intended as a way to show off to each other. He was flying by the time they finished, completely unaware of the rest of the world around them, music and audiences and John, John, John was all he ever wanted.
And as the others slipped into the crowd to find some drinks and some girls, John and Paul lingered in the dressing room.
“You left work early,” John said, closing the door gently behind his back.
“Yeah,” Paul agreed, uncertain what energy John was coming at him with now. He could feel it in the air between them, too big and strange and new to describe. His intense eyes held Paul’s and he moved further into the room until he was just a couple of steps away.
“You told your Dad to fuck off,” he carried on. Paul nodded, and John took another step forward. “Will you go back?”
Paul spoke without thinking, without even pausing to consider it. “No.”
He was done with that. Done with trying to hold on to two different things, when only one of them was what he really wanted. Who he really wanted. Relief flooded John’s face, clear as day. He closed the remaining space, and put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, a simple, friendly gesture that felt anything but when Paul had been dreaming about it for weeks, starving from John’s withdrawal of attention. Missing him. Missing him so much he ached with it.
“Prove it,” John said, voice low and soft, his fingers dancing from his shoulder, from resting on his jacket, up to the skin of his neck and making Paul shiver. It was utterly stupid to even consider it, enough reasons to fill a book on why he shouldn’t, but he felt somehow, that the universe was giving them a brief moment of respite.
He gently leant in and kissed John, a chaste brush of their lips that should have been more nothing than something, but it was definitely something when John said, “Paul,” so softly it could have been mistaken for an exhale. But Paul was so attuned to his voice, he knew, and nothing could be mistaken when John seized him by the collar of his shirt and pushed him against the wall, their lips meeting again in a heated frenzy.
Paul’s brain went blank, somewhere in the back of his head there was the faint sense that something about this was wrong, but the list of reasons he’d collected about why boys shouldn’t want to kiss other boys ceased to exist. John’s mouth was perfect against his, their hands pulled at each other’s clothing and hair like they were trying to convince themselves each other were real and this was really happening.
John broke away first, and Paul couldn’t even be embarrassed by the needy little whine he made at the loss of contact, because John was still so close, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
“Mimi’s in Edinburgh,” he said. “The house is- just come back, yeah?”
“You never told me she was away,” Paul said, it not occurring to him until too late that it was hardly the thing to be bothered about.
“Well I was pissed with you, wasn’t I?” John said, then ever so gently pressed his face into Paul’s shoulder. “Thought you were gonna leave,” he mumbled into Paul’s jacket.
Paul wrapped an arm around him, so they were stood tangled together and breathing together and to his disbelief, wanting each other together. How could he have considered leaving this, leaving John?
“I thought you hated me,” Paul said, remembering the whys of it, how he’d thought John wanted him out of the band. Perhaps he’d been trying to give himself a safety net for that eventuality.
John just shook his head against him. “I just wanted this,” he said, and they tightened their grip on each other and stood a while longer, Paul trying not to let the embarrassment and shame scratching at his ribs ruin the moment, until voices outside forced them apart.
***
It was strange to be in Mendips without feeling like Mini was watching them through the walls. He had a brief moment of panic that she would, somehow, still know that Paul and her nephew were getting up to no good but it was hard to keep any line of thought straight when his head was overflowing with John.
They headed upstairs without speaking, and John shut the door. The little bedroom was familiar and safe, cocooning them away from the rest of the world as John pulled the curtains over the bay window and switched the lamp on, casting their shadows onto the wall. They didn’t often write here, because Mimi didn’t like them to, but they had shared music, cigarettes, and the odd late night after a show.
“So,” John said, leaning back against his dresser and watching Paul hover. “Had you… been thinking about that?”
Paul couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, but he managed a small nod, eyes never leaving John’s face as he waited for any minuscule reaction, any sign that John was just messing with him, that it was all part of some grand design to humiliate him.
“Good,” John said, his mind apparently a million miles away from whatever cruel web Paul was imagining him weaving. He kissed Paul again, taking Paul’s cheeks firmly in his palms and kissing him like Paul had seen him kiss hundreds of girls. He felt outside of it in the same way, like he was watching John do it rather than feeling it, even though John was moving slow and soft, with teasing little flicks of his tongue.
He drew back, sensing something was wrong. “What is it?” he asked.
“I dunno, is this- I mean we shouldn’t, should we?” Paul said, resisting the urge to chew his lip.
“Says who?” John said. Such a typical John response that it was comforting. He still had Paul’s face between his hands, his quiff which had been perfectly styled hours before, had lost some shape, a loose curl falling against his forehead.
“As far as I can tell, anyone who ever told us not to do something has been wrong,” he carried on. “Don’t misbehave in school, don’t waste your time with a band, don’t go to Hamburg,” he mimicked in a stupid voice that Paul couldn’t help but laugh at. “But it’s all fine, isn’t it? We did it and it’s good, so maybe this isn’t any different.”
“Hamburg wasn’t fine,” Paul said. “The way it ended-”
“Forget that, what about the rest of it?” John said. Paul tried not to pull a face, because truth be told, most of Hamburg had been pretty grim. “Yeah alright, it was a bit shit and fucking hard,” John conceded. “But we did it, didn’t we? Together?”
Together. The word floated into his ears and into his heart, fluttery and hopeful. Of course it had been good because they’d been together, he’d spent the past two months longing for that closeness again, the raucous silliness and complete freedom in a far away city with his best friends, and the quiet, unsure moments where they’d needed each other to keep going, laying next to each other in bed, the steady sound of John’s breath the only thing that felt like home.
He pulled John in again, taking control of the kiss this time, and John gave a little moan that went straight to his already half hard cock. His tight drainies grew more uncomfortable by the second, as John pushed him up against the door. It wasn’t enough, even with their mouths moving against each other, wet and filthy, Paul wanted more, no space at all, just John John John everywhere.
“There you are,” John said. He’d untucked Paul’s shirt and slid a hand around his back, Paul shivered against him, goosebumps wherever John touched. “I reckon we know best, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Paul said, pulling John’s shirt to kiss him again, but John stayed put.
“We’re gonna make it, okay? Gonna be able to do whatever the fuck we like, and everyone will want to know us, be us,” John said, and pressed his thigh between Paul’s legs. He bucked his hips, grinding against John’s jeans a little while his own were pressing too tight against his cock. It was some sort of relief, but mostly just made the ache for more grow more insistent.
“No one will ever tell us what we can’t do again,” John continued, watching with dark eyes and increasing the pressure of his thigh so Paul gasped, not sure if he was more turned on by what John was doing or what he was saying. He tipped his head back against the door, eyes closed to allow himself to just get lost in the feel of it. He wanted what John was saying and he knew they could do it, if they were together they could do anything.
John’s lips were back on him, on his neck this time, sucking at the sensitive skin there in a way Paul was sure he’d regret tomorrow. He readjusted himself so his leg was between John’s as well, the thick line of John’s erection hot against him as John began to roll his hips, both of them sighing, moving together, and it seemed ridiculous that they hadn’t been doing this all along, insane that as little as this was enough to make Paul feel like a live wire.
“John, clothes,” he said, desperate to do something more rub off on each other before he came. John looked dazed as he leant back, like he’d forgotten there were more steps to this and would have been perfectly happy finishing in boxers, against Paul’s leg.
“Yeah,” John murmured, fingers clumsy as he tried to get the buttons on his shirt undone. Paul did the same, both of them stumbling around as they tried to peel their jeans off. He couldn’t believe he was seeing John like this, ring-leader John, loud, brash, rude John was kissing him, was hard because of him, was pulling them back together again like it was impossible to be apart from him.
They fell back onto the single bed which fit snug against one wall of the room. John was on top, which gave Paul the chance to touch . He ran his hands over the plain of John’s back, traced his fingers gently down his sides, threaded them through John’s hair and John was so responsive, rocking against him harder, groaning at each new sensation.
“Paul, can I- I wanna fuck you,” John said.
“What if I wanna fuck you?” Paul asked. And it crossed his mind briefly that he should be a lot more nervous than this, that saying out loud that he wanted to fuck John shouldn’t have been so easy, the anxiety should be rotting him from the inside, but there was nothing. No performance, no second guessing, just like writing a song together when they could test new ideas and keep what worked and throw out what didn’t with complete freedom.
John just laughed and brushed their noses together. “You can, but I’m going first,” he said. He jumped up and started looking in one of his drawers, which gave Paul a chance to wiggle out of his boxers. He wondered if John would mind how he looked, his chest wasn’t as broad and his legs were still a bit skinny, but John certainly didn’t seem to mind when he turned back around. He had a little tin of vaseline in his hand, but seemed to forget about it as his eyes dragged along Paul’s body stretched out on the bed.
“Catch,” he said after a moment, and threw the tin at Paul. He didn’t react quick enough so it clunked square against his forehead.
“Hey,” he said, and John snickered as he slipped his own boxers off. Then he was on top of Paul again, straddling his hips, his hard cock against Paul’s belly. “This is better than fighting, isn’t it?”
Paul propped himself up on his elbows and stole another kiss in answer, so light and easy, as though he’d been dragging heavy chains his whole life that were only noticeable now he was free of them. John a key to something he didn’t know needed to be unlocked. He gave an experimental roll of his hips, their cocks nestled against each other as they kissed, and it occurred to him how naked they were. It felt more so, somehow, than any time before, an extra layer he’d always kept on forgotten on the floor with their clothes.
“Have you done this before?” he asked, wondering if they were prolonging this because next… a little twist of nerves wrung in his chest.
“Can’t be hard, can it?” John said, but he didn’t look entirely convinced himself. “I could…with my mouth first, if you like?” He glanced down at Paul’s cock.
“Yeah, alright,” Paul said, nibbling on his lip a little as John slid down the bed, settling between his legs. He took it on his hand first, squeezing just enough to send more blood rushing there, a new spike of pleasure flashing hot up his spine. It shouldn’t have been as good as it was, he’d had enough handjobs that he didn’t lose control at the slightest touch, but with John watching him intently as he moved his wrist with languid strokes, his head began to spin with the same dizziness as the first time a girl put her hand in his underwear.
When John, uncharacteristically timid, darted his tongue out across the tip of his cock, he heard a soft gasp, then realised it had come from him. John’s eyebrows shot up, then he did it again, teasing little licks across his slit, John growing more and more confident as Paul tried to hold still, even though he felt like a coiled spring that wanted to push up and into John’s hot mouth and hold him there. He made another embarrassing noise at the thought of fucking John’s face, and John was still looking up at him with bright, warm eyes that made Paul feel a mushy muddle of much softer things. He reached out, putting all his weight on one elbow, and ran his fingers through John’s hair.
The contact, the reassurance perhaps, seemed to be what John needed as he took Paul fully into his mouth, closing his lips gently around him and sucking, a little hum sending vibrations through Paul and he could feel himself throb against John’s tongue, his toes curling as the delicious ache grew in him.
He was going to come after barely a minute, like a stupid kid.
Panic bubbled up his chest and throat, and he lamely tried to push at John’s shoulder, but John was completely lost in what he was doing, eyes closed and his lashes fluttering prettily against his cheeks.
“John, I’m gonna-” he tried to warn him, but as John hollowed his cheeks and Paul hit the back of his throat, a final burst of heat shattered through him and he finished on John’s tongue, who jerked back in surprise.
Paul collapsed back into the pillows and threw an arm across his face to hide his reddening cheeks, trying not to get lost in the warm, staticky afterglow like he usually would, focussing instead on the shame itching across the skin of his chest in angry blotches. That was, until John carefully moved his arm away, with a tenderness so unlike him that it made it worse. That was until-
“Christ, is there anything I’m not amazing at?” He grinned, and lay back next to Paul, who couldn't help but laugh.
“I’m not usually that quick,” Paul insisted, trying to keep hold of some semblance of pride.
“I should hope not, let my ego have that one, won’t you?” John said. Paul risked looking at him properly, and sensing the movement John twisted his head to look as well. He was smiling, peaceful in a way he wasn’t usually. “You really like it, it being me, I mean?”
Paul had forgotten for a moment that they shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be wanting this. But he never wanted to lie to John, and there was something blooming, unfurling in him that he didn’t have a name for, but was for John nevertheless. Words wouldn’t come to him, so he rolled over and kissed John again, and it only made that feeling in him glow warmer, something in him calling to something in John.
John rolled onto his side, their legs tangling up together as they kissed, holding each other’s face as their thumbs stroked each other’s cheeks. The sort of thing Paul always did to girls because that’s what they seemed to like, it had never occurred to him how much he liked it too. How much he liked to be held. John pressed in closer, until his cock was rubbing against Paul’s hip, and a new spark of arousal making Paul’s cock twitch again already. He slipped an arm around John’s waist, pulling them closer yet.
“That’s it,” he murmured, as John started grinding harder against him with barely contained sighs and moans. Paul moved his lips to John’s neck to encourage the noises, the salty taste of sweat on his tongue when he ran it over the hint of stubble on John’s jaw.
“Wait, I still wanna- can we try?” John said, stopping his hips then immediately starting again when Paul pressed back into him, not wanting it to stop ever .
“You’ll stop if it hurts?” Paul asked.
“Course I will,” John said, so Paul lay on his back again, and John retrieved the vaseline which had fallen onto the floor at some point and scooped some out. “I’ll try with my fingers first, yeah?”
Paul nodded, heart rate picking up again, but more unpleasantly. It was a lot to give to someone at once, and what would happen after? Would they just go back to being mates, or would this be what they did now? And what if everyone found out and hated them and they never got to make music for people again? Like a hurricane, his thoughts picked up speed, racing round and round and round.
But then John touched him, feather-light over the ring of muscle. Not pushing or going too quick, just a testing little touch that didn’t exactly do anything for him, but did centre him again.
“Okay?” John asked, an uncertain frown between his eyebrows that disappeared when Paul nodded. In the lamplight, John was dreamlike, gorgeous, and fuck Paul fancied him which was a ridiculous realisation to have at the same moment John was pushing a finger into him.
“Oh,” he said, squirming at the unfamiliar sensation. The vaseline had saved it from being a dry burn, but it wasn’t exactly nice. John held still, watching for any sign that it was too much.
“Do more,” Paul said, sure that at some point it was supposed to start feeling good so maybe they just had to get on with it. Not very romantic, but he had already come and John hadn’t so it only seemed fair. John slid his finger in further, and if Paul hadn’t been watching the whole thing he would have been sure John was using something bigger than a finger.
“ Paul , fuck, ” John muttered, seemingly to himself, staring at the spot where he disappeared inside Paul and then began to palm at his own cock. The sight of it made Paul’s erection start to grow again, and John began to move his hand steadily in and out, letting Paul get used to the strangeness of it, still not turning him on much, but he was able to relax into it at least.
“Another one?” he asked. “I think it’s better, you know, if you’re ready properly,” John said. Paul wanted to ask how John knew any of this, but he supposed it was just logic.
“Yeah, go on,” he agreed, wincing as John pulled his finger out too quickly.
“Sorry, sorry,” John said, slicking up his fingers again. “Here, I’ll go slow,” he said, pushing at Paul’s hole again. Surely two wouldn’t fit up there, one on its own had felt a lot. Paul swallowed the worry down.
“There, you’re doing so good,” John said. “Fuck, you look so good like this.”
And Paul wished, wished, wished that didn’t do something to him, that the praise wasn’t the thing that made his head swim or his cock lay against his belly fully hard, but he immediately wanted to hear it again, for John to keep talking because that was definitely doing something for him.
“How does it feel?” John asked.
“Fine, kind of weird- Oh! ” He cut himself off as John curled his fingers and hit a spot inside him that made him arch off the bed, his vision flashing with colour momentarily as a new, sharp edged sort of heat flared through him. John immediately stopped and held still.
“What?” he asked in a panic.
“I-I don’t know, do that again,” Paul said, their eyes locked together as John repeated the same action, curling his fingers so they found that same spot, his eyes widening as Paul whined, a horrible, needy sound that should never have come from him, but it was the only thing that went any way to explaining the feeling as his squirmed on John’s hand, needing less and more, and loving being wanted by someone he wanted this badly.
John found a rhythm, sliding his fingers in and out as Paul found it easier to relax, grazing over where Paul needed him to each time to cause that electrical surge that was too much and not enough and pain and pleasure all in one burst.
“Paul, can I try now? Please, fuck I’m so hard, you look so good,” John said, rambling now and Paul opened his eyes to find him fucking up into his fist. Paul’s own cock pulsed against him, startlingly hard again, and he thought about how next time he’d like to suck John off, a thought that caught him off guard considering only minutes ago he hadn’t understood the appeal.
“Yeah,” Paul said. John took his fingers out slower this time, a quick learner, and used more vaseline on his cock. Then he pressed the head against Paul, and he was gone. He liked his words to be filtered, planned, their effects considered, but whatever was coming out of his mouth now was none of that.
“Please Johnny, do it, I wanna feel you,” he said. And John’s mouth fell open a little as he pushed in, even in the half-lit room Paul could see his cheeks and chest were flushed and he squeezed his eyes tight as John kept going. He was obscenely full, John’s prick was bigger than his but seemed like a log once it was inside him. Paul’s thighs trembled, his hands grabbing at the sheets, anything to keep him from being swept away entirely because he wanted to remember this.
“Paul,” John said. “Oh, you’re so tight. Is it good? Tell me, baby, I wanna hear.”
“So good,” Paul replied. “John, you can go harder. Please, please, please.”
At this, John picked Paul’s legs up, and getting the idea Paul hooked them around John, pulling him in closer as they started to move together, after a few experimental thrusts John found the angle Paul needed, and it was even better than his finger had been.
“Christ, you don’t know-” John said. “I’ve thought about this, what it would be like, we do everything else together, why not this. Why not?”
Paul didn’t know if he wanted an actual answer or not, and he was sure there were a million reasons why not, he’d definitely been thinking of them earlier, but they all escaped him now. He dug his heels hard into John’s back, keeping him close, keeping him moving.
“S’like you said, Johnny, we can do whatever we want, yeah? We don’t need anyone else, don’t need to listen to any stupid rules,” Paul told him, repeating John’s words from earlier. And oh, the sounds John made. Fuck and Paul and God tumbling from his lips like a new, sinful prayer.
“Touch yourself,” John demanded, and if John had taken that tone with him any other time, when they were writing or playing there would have been hell to pay, but it seemed to stupid to not follow the order when he was achingly hard and slick with pre-come. “Yes,” John hissed, and Paul started stroking himself, sensitive from earlier, but he was too far gone to be slow about it, needing to come again with an alarming desperation considering he’d already done so once.
“I’m gonna- are you close? Paul, Paul, Paul,” John babbled, and Paul groaned because he knew. He could feel the pulse of John’s cock, the hard, thick length of him deep inside.
“Please, John,” Paul echoed back. “Wanna feel it, feel you, it’s so good, you’re so-”
John cried out as he finished, his come spilling inside Paul which tipped him over the edge as well, shooting over his stomach in thick stripes. He was overly aware of his body, the dull ache of holding his legs around John, the way each muscle was pulled tight like drawstrings, followed by the fuzzy warmth of coming down, the bed dipping next to him as John was there again, wrapping around him in and burying his head in the crook of Paul’s neck, beautifully vulnerable as they melted against each other. Triumph roared through Paul’s body, like he’d won a prize he hadn’t known he’d been playing for.
There was no more need for words for a while. He wiped the mess with his boxers before chucking them aside again, and they just lay breathing together. His heart hammered under his ribs, and he waited for the panic to settle back in, but nothing happened. People really didn’t know what was best for them, how absurd that anything about what they’d just done was wrong.
When John shifted again, it was to kiss him, so slow this time and chaste at first, delicate little pecks over Paul’s face before finding his lips. There was a brief moment where Paul wanted to curl away from it, a little nagging voice not so worried about other people, but worried John could still pull the rug out from under him. He wondered what John was thinking, but John only seemed to be concerned about kissing him, so he melted into him, sighing against John’s mouth as a low, smouldering heat built again.
“We don’t need anyone else,” John said, touching their foreheads together. He opened his eyes, fixing Paul with a look that was all possessiveness and affection that made Paul dizzy all over again.
“We’ll do what we want,” he agreed.
“Together?” John asked.
“Together.” And it was a promise, a contract, a vow. Something more important than anything any manager or club owner could make them sign. Paul closed his eyes and he could see it, their names up in lights, the songs they’d sing, the shows they’d play. The entire world could want them, want to be them, want to own them and never could. He was John’s and John was his, a strong foundation for what they were going to build.