Chapter Text
August 1983
“Oh fuck, John-” Paul gasped, fingers tightening where they were tangled in John’s lightly curled hair. He tugged a bit, earning a moan from the man knelt between his thighs that went straight to Paul’s cock. “You’re so good at this,” he sighed, half a whine as John’s tongue did something that nearly had his knees buckling.
He could practically feel John wanting to smirk, his hands shifting a bit on Paul’s hips to drag him closer, fingers digging into the soft flesh. Paul’s head thunked back against the door, his eyes slipping shut as he let John take control, knowing that in this sort of mood if he tried to fuck into his mouth, those hands would only tighten and stop him before he could get into it. That was fine by him.
One of his hands shifted to cradle the back of John’s skull, knowing how much he liked to have his head touched like this, the world blurring at the edges as John worked him closer and closer to release with a skilled, experienced mouth. God, his fucking mouth.
The sound of the front door opening had his eyes flying open. “Fuck,” he cursed, pushing at John’s head now instead of tugging him closer.
John glared up at him as he was dragged off his cock. “What-?”
“The door,” Paul hissed, quickly pulling up his underwear and trousers in one go, fumbling with his belt as the front door shut again and he heard the tell-tale jingle of keys as they were hung up on the hook beside the door frame. John was cursing now too, standing from his knees with a wince.
“Too bloody old for this shite-” he was muttering to himself, smoothing his hands over his hair and wiping the spit from his chin in a way that made Paul’s stomach go hot. He glanced away, trying to get his own breathing under control as he made his way over to the middle of the room, dropping down onto the carpet and pulling his guitar into his lap, which had the convenient effect of hiding how bloody hard he still was. They must’ve lost track of time, missing as the hour turned over to six when they were supposed to get back to writing.
He shot a wide eyed glance at where John was still standing in the middle of the room messing about with his hair, nodding to the bed when John caught his gaze. John huffed and muttered something unintelligible before taking the direction and sitting, leaning back against the headboard as he picked up his own guitar from where it’d been leaning against Paul’s dresser.
“Paul, you’ve got a letter from your aunt!” came the call from down the hallway while Paul quickly pulled over a notebook from a few feet away that had fallen open at some point, trying to make it look like he’d just been jotting down some lyrics.
“You can just set it on the counter-” he started to call back, but there was already a brief knock on the door before it swung open, a habit that really did piss Paul off to no end.
Julian stood in the doorway, the aforementioned letter in one hand which he held out to Paul before his eyes slid over to John and a look of irritation flickered over his features that were just a step removed from his father’s.
Paul put on a wide, beaming grin. “‘Lo, Julian. You can just set it there.” He jutted his chin out, indicating his bookshelf that was filled more with tapes than it was books. Julian set the letter down, looking away from his dad and back to Paul with what Paul was pretty sure was a scowl. Well, it wasn’t his fault he got on with John and Julian didn’t. “We were just, ah, writin’ some.”
“Right, I can see that. Well, I’ve got a girl comin’ over in an hour, so unless you both want dinner and a show-”
John was already standing, unlatching his guitar case on the bed and gingerly placing his guitar inside it like he’d spent the whole time playing. “We’ll get out of your hair. Won’t we, Paul? You can come to mine, if you’re still looking to finish up that song.”
“Sure,” Paul agreed easily, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, avoiding Julian’s heavy stare. He continued to ignore it as Julian went back in the sitting room and continued to ignore it even harder after he’d gathered up his things and left his bedroom, John close behind.
John went out the door first, after pulling his son in for a quick hug with a pat on his back, leaving Paul to keep ignoring the look he was getting from his flatmate.
“What?” he finally snapped, feeling a tad aggravated with the entire situation. It wasn’t Julian that’d gotten interrupted mid blowie, now was it?
Julian shook his head, settling down on the couch after he’d flicked on the telly. “I still just think it’s weird, that’s all. You playin’ music with my dad. And don’t think George hasn’t noticed you slaggin’ off on practice with him and your mates, either. Y’know. For your actual band.”
“When’ve you talked to George?” Paul asked, incredulous, skirting around the actual substance of Julian’s complaint.
“More than you, apparently,” Julian shot back, sighing as he sat back. “Look, mate, it’s not any of my business, really, but…” He shook his head, frowning like he was mulling over what he wanted to say but must’ve given up, thank God.
“George knows I’ve been busy and- well, look, I'm sorry, but he’s John Lennon, isn’t he? I’d be an idiot if I didn’t write with him. And y'know what, me and George’ve got a show booked next week. Practicin’ with your dad can't hurt.” His mind flashed for a moment with images of all the sorts of practice he’d been getting up to with John and he felt his cheeks heat. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Give you space with your girl.” He shot Julian a wink before quickly opening the door and putting him and his guitar through it before Julian could say anything else about how weird he found him and John being friends.
As Paul bounded down the rickety steps that lead up to their flat, he pulled his hat securely over his brow like he always did when he went anywhere with John, and tried to pretend like his stomach wasn’t still a flutter of nerves after all these months.
**
The second the door was swinging shut on John’s London townhouse and they’d set their guitar cases down, he was backing Paul towards the sitting room, crowding into his space and pressing his mouth to the back of his neck. Paul couldn’t help but laugh, his nose wrinkling up as John continued his attack on his neck, spinning around in the circle of his arms to catch his lips in a proper kiss. He sighed into it, letting John walk him towards the sofa.
John went down first, pulling Paul into his lap, where Paul happily settled as a grin stretched over his lips. “Thought we were ‘sposed to be writing,” he clucked, but he was already leaning down to kiss John again, his hands sliding to his shoulders.
“Oh, baby, let me get my hand on your prick,” John crooned in a horrible melody against Paul’s lips, making him pull away with a snicker. John only took the opportunity to lean up and start pressing kisses to his jaw. “There, one line of a new Lennon original done.”
“Think it could use a bit more, yeah? Maybe something ‘bout lettin’ your baby fuck you?”
John huffed a quiet laugh against the skin of Paul’s neck where he’d trailed his lips, nipping lightly at the skin and making him groan. “We’ll see,” he hedged, cryptic, his hands running over Paul’s back before untucking his shirt. “This thing is hideous,” he groaned as he slid his hands up under the shirt, cold where they met Paul’s over-warm skin.
“It isn’t,” Paul protested, a haughtiness in his voice that melted into a sigh when John started kissing at his collarbones that were exposed by how far he’d unbuttoned his patterned button-down. It was loose on him, a pale blue with a floral sort of design. He liked wearing it with his denim jacket- he thought the whole ensemble was rather fetching. “You’re just upset that you’re ten years out of date, old man,” he teased, not really meaning a word of it. John was always fashionable to Paul and anyway, Paul wasn’t exactly rich enough to be keeping up with whatever was current any more than John was young enough to be.
John slid a hand down to swat lightly at his arse for that one, earning another laugh from Paul as he bent to kiss him again. Kissing John was addictive- better than kissing any other bloke or girl he’d gotten with before. He nipped at his thin lower lip as one of John’s hands trailed around to his front, popping the button of his jeans and dragging the zip down.
Paul gasped as John made good on his promise to get his hand around his cock, his calloused fingers wrapping around him and making Paul’s hips jerk forward into the touch. “Oh-” He ducked to bury his face against John’s neck, kissing at the skin he found there, open-mouthed and wanting.
“Look at that, you’re already so wet for me,” John practically cooed, his other hand coming up to tangle in Paul’s hair.
“I- ‘s not my fault Julian got home early,” he defended, voice gone a bit thready as John’s thumb moved in a slow, torturous circle around the head of his cock. “Been about ready to bust for an hour, Johnny.” If there was a bit of a pout in his voice, it was only because he knew it got John hot.
“Aw, poor thing.” There was a sarcastic lilt to the endearment, but it still had Paul arching into his touch and dragging his lips over John’s Adam’s apple greedily. “Need daddy to take care of that for you?”
Paul went red at that, even though he knew John was only joking. They hadn’t- not actually, not like that. Still, he let out a rather embarrassing noise, fucking into the circle of John’s hand a little faster. He only went redder when John started laughing, a light, pleased thing as his hand stroked through his hair.
“Fuck you,” he huffed against John’s now damp skin, without any real heat behind it.
“We’ll get to that, love.”
With an expert twist of John’s hand, any thought except for how much he couldn’t wait for exactly that flew right out of Paul’s head.
September 1982
The first time Paul met the John Lennon, former lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist of the Beatles and one of the most famous men of anyone's generation, he almost took a cricket bat to his head.
He was just getting home from work- a double shift at the posh little French restaurant he'd gotten himself a job as a waiter at last summer when he’d moved into this flat- and came up short when the door was already unlocked. Julian would still be at work himself and George would know better than to come over on a Wednesday. Hair still stuck to his forehead with sweat, Paul quietly and slowly reached for the cricket bat leaned against the door frame for moments just like these. Julian had called him paranoid, but you’d better bet Paul was going to hold this one over his head for ages if he didn’t get murdered by whatever madman had broken in.
The lights in the kitchen were on and he could hear the heavy thud of boots on the linoleum as whoever the fuck it was moved around- what the hell were they looking to find in the bloody kitchen, anyway? Money stuffed in the biscuit tin?
As Paul rounded the corner, he brought the bat up over his shoulder, ready to defend himself against whatever type of person thought there'd be anything worth burglarizing in their shite little flat.
He was met with a middle-aged man just about his own height, though he was much thinner and had a pair of glasses balanced on his long nose, his eyes looking unimpressed behind them as bushy eyebrows rose up over the rim. One of his first thoughts was that the man was strikingly handsome, and not in the dignified sort of way most men his age were. No, he was gorgeous.
Right on the tail of the first, his second thought was that he had to be hallucinating, maybe someone slipped something into his after-shift drink, because the man currently standing in front of his stove was easily one of the recognizable people in the world. Paul’s grip loosened on the bat, his mouth dropping open into a little ‘o’ of confusion.
“The hell d’you think you're doing with that, son?”
If there’d been any brushing it off before, the unmistakably familiar sound of his voice absolutely cinched it.
John Lennon was standing in Paul’s kitchen.
Paul faltered, his heart hammering hard in his chest as he tried to rationalize what he was seeing. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the Tube? But no- he could still feel a bead of sweat rolling down his face and the way his all-black uniform was sticking to every uncomfortable bit of skin imaginable.
“Er-” he started, not really sure what he was supposed to say. John’s eyebrows went up under his glasses, expectant, like Paul was failing some sort of test. “You’re- what the hell are you doin’ in my flat?” he finally got out, the words sounding far away and tinged with television static in his own ears. He wanted to clamp his teeth shut to stop them, but it was too late. He winced.
But John was barking out a laugh, lips splitting into a grin that showed his teeth. “Not just your flat, is it? My son lives here.” He thrust a hand in his pocket, emerging with a ring of keys. He spun them around on his index finger before shaking them a bit, like he was proving a point. Paul wanted to ask why he had a set of keys to his son’s flat, but- stupid question, wasn’t it? He could probably buy the place outright, if he wanted. No, he could. Why the hell was Julian slumming it with Paul, if his dad was…
“Your son- his name’s not Lennon, though,” Paul protested, dumbly, almost groaning at the words as they slipped out. Christ, could he manage to say one thing that didn’t make him sound like an absolute idiot?
“No, it’s not,” John agreed with amusement, nodding at the cricket bat still held in Paul’s hands. “You going to put that down, then, or should I be getting security?” He was obviously joking and the laughter in his voice twisted Paul’s stomach up into knots as he turned red, quickly putting the bat back down in its resting place.
John eyed him for a moment, gaze sliding over Paul in a way that made his entire body flush with warmth, before going back to his task at hand which was, Paul realized, cooking.
John Lennon was cooking in his kitchen.
He finally took him in, then, blinking away the static in his head to try and register anything beyond the starstruck awe that was rooting him to the spot. His hair had grown out again, pulled back loosely, though a few gray-red strands were escaping to fall over his pale skin. His cheeks looked a bit fuller than the last time Paul had seen him on the telly. It was a faintly embarrassing and overwhelming thought now that he was faced with the real and living man in the flesh, that just two years ago he’d been glued to his television set on his dad’s sitting room floor, seventeen and hearing that his music idol had been shot and had come out the other side. And here he was, pushing something around in a pan in Paul’s kitchen, wearing a dark green turtleneck with its sleeves pushed up.
He looked so bloody normal.
When John glanced over at him, Paul realized he was just gaping like a bloody fish and he quickly schooled his expression. Fuck.
This just wasn’t on. He couldn’t be some starstruck fan that would more than likely just get on Lennon’s nerves if he didn’t amuse him. Hell, Paul’d met a handful of the rich and famous at the restaurant he’d worked at and never acted like this. Then again, Elton John hadn’t just turned up in his flat one day with no warning.
He squared his shoulders a bit, willing his lungs to expand as he quickly bent down to unlace and take off his shoes before walking into the kitchen, leaning himself against the counter behind John. He watched as he cooked, the muscles of his shoulders shifting under the tight fabric of his turtleneck. He snapped his gaze away, focusing on the salt and pepper shakers to John’s right.
It was just his flatmate’s dad, that was all. If Paul was going to get through this conversation with any grace, that’s all he was.
“Julian didn’t mention that you’d be stopping by.”
John hummed, glancing back at Paul for a moment before turning around completely, leaning himself against the counter opposite him, arms crossing over his chest. Paul very pointedly didn’t track the motion.
“Didn’t tell him I was. But I‘ve got some things to give him.” Paul glanced at the pan on the stove, raising his brows in a clear question. As if reading his mind, John answered like he’d spoken. “All you had in your fridge was booze, so I thought I’d better cook up an actual meal before one of you croaks from malnutrition, or whatever it is doctors are warning us off these days.” Before Paul could open his mouth to defend himself and Julian, John was untucking his hand from the crook of his elbow and waving it absently. Paul couldn’t help but notice a noticeable lack of a wedding ring. “I was a young man too, believe it or not. Did my fair share of living on a liquid diet.”
Of course, Paul knew about all that. But he didn’t want to tell John that he’d poured over every magazine and biography about him that he could get his hands on, reading all the sordid details of the Beatles’ time in Hamburg until he could close his eyes and imagine it all happening to him.
But what he could ask had been bothering him since his brain had started working enough to start asking questions. “Right- I mean, why is he here, anyway? Shouldn’t he be living in some- I dunno, penthouse you bought him in Mayfair with private chefs and all that?” Not in a flat with Paul where they had to stuff blankets into the windows during the winter and the lights flickered in the bathroom any time a slightly determined wind blew.
John snorted a laugh, bracing his freed hand on the counter, drumming his fingers against the surface. “Sure, if he was anyone but Julian. Likes going it on his own, you know?” He glanced around the flat, eyes fixing on a spot on the ceiling where water had started leaking in January. “But if you can talk him into that penthouse, I’d owe you one, ah…?” he trailed off and it took Paul a moment to realize he was asking his name.
Shit. He hadn’t even introduced himself. George would bloody well murder him if he saw him just then. “Oh, er, Paul. McCartney. Julian never mentioned me?”
John shrugged. “He might’ve.” In the tense of John’s shoulders as he turns back to the food, Paul remembered Julian saying he didn’t really talk to his dad. He’d been sympathetic then, his own relationship with his dad was a pretty strained one lately, but now knowing who his dad was… Well, if Paul were Julian, he wouldn’t be ignoring him, that was for sure.
There was silence for a beat, just the sound of something sizzling away in the pan, and then John was talking again. “So, Paul, what is it that you do that isn’t harassing people with cricket bats?”
The sound of his name on John’s lips had Paul’s arms breaking out in gooseflesh and he crossed them over his chest, gripping his forearms hard enough to ache. He had to get a hold of himself. “I’m a waiter,” he answered, dropping a hand to gesture to his uniform- black button down that he’d unbuttoned halfway down on the Tube to cool down, black slacks, black shoes, and black socks. In his back pocket, he’d stuffed his black bowtie. “But, er, I also get a few gigs a month with my band, and that’s alright money too, but not nearly enough, so- waiting tables to pay the rent it is.”
He knew John had never had a job like that- rocketed to stardom before he had to worry about moving out of his aunt’s house. Paul probably could’ve stayed with his dad, if he hadn’t royally fucked that one up by getting caught with his hands down another boy’s underwear in his bedroom.
If John had any reaction to him being in a band, Paul couldn’t see, and he was almost glad- he was sure he had plenty of people telling him all about their little bands all the time and that wasn’t how Paul wanted to come off. “You’ve got yourself a band?” John asked, continuing when Paul hummed an affirmation. “You any good?” The tone was teasing, coiling hot in the pit of Paul’s stomach in a familiar and dangerous way.
“Yeah, we are,” Paul answered immediately, cheeks going warm as he realized how arrogant that sounded. But he wasn’t going to lie, even to humble himself in front of one of his biggest inspirations. They were good.
John flicked a dial, turning the gas off and moving the pan to another burner, setting the spatula aside on the spoon-rest. “Go on, then. Show us. Saw you had a guitar in the sitting room,” he was saying as he spun around to wash his hands, quickly drying them off with the flannel hanging off the handle of the oven door.
Paul blinked, his stomach swooping- this time with nerves rather than anything else. “Now?” he asked, embarrassed to note how his voice cracked a bit- it hadn’t done that in a while, at least a year or two.
“Unless you’ve got plans to fly back with me to New York. C’mon, you can’t say that’s not exactly what you were waiting for when you told me you played. Chance to show off to a Beatle, what d’you say?”
“I wasn’t,” Paul muttered, but- well, he couldn’t say he hadn’t been hoping for it, just a bit. Not wanting to look like he was nervous, he pushed himself off the counter and made for the sitting room.
After giving it a quick tune up (it would be embarrassing if his guitar was out of tune the only time he got to play for John bloody Lennon), he sat himself on the arm of the sofa, looking up at John where he’d come to stand a few feet away from him, eyeing him expectantly. More strands of hair had come loose from his ponytail, falling to frame his face, softening his features in a way that had Paul’s heart thumping painfully in his chest.
Christ, get a hold of yourself, McCartney. So he was about to play a song for his lifelong crush- literally, some of his earliest memories were playing his dad’s Beatles records over and over until his dad’d begged to hear anything else. And then he’d played them again, just to hear John’s voice playing out over the speaker one more time. Well- so what? John was just a middle-aged bloke like any other, when you got down to it, and he’d impressed plenty of those with his playing before.
“So, what would you like to hear? I do requests, y’know,” he drawled, lips pulling into a grin for the first time that evening, pushing down the nerves trying to make their way up his throat.
“Know any Cochran?” John asked, lip lifting in what was probably a sneer, a private in-joke with himself that probably went something along the lines of: kids these days wouldn’t know real music if it bit them in the arse.
“Sure,” Paul answered, shrugging a shoulder. “‘C’Mon Everybody’ or ‘Twenty Flight Rock’?” He drummed his fingers on the fretboard, itching now to play for John, the nervous flutter in his stomach hardening into excitement. Cor, George was going to be jealous enough to take his head off when he told him.
“You don’t know ‘Twenty Flight Rock,’” John scoffed, challenge clear as day in his words. It was a challenge Paul was more than willing to meet and so with a quick duck of his head, he started playing. It was nearly eleven in the evening and he was pretty sure he’d be getting a call from the landlord about neighbor complaints, again, but as his fingers flew over the strings and John’s eyes stayed glued on him, he couldn’t give a single damn.
By the time he finished, John had sat down on the sofa next to him, leaning into his space a bit as he watched him play, clearly paying attention to the chords- it was almost what Paul thought guitar lessons might’ve been like, but he’d never been able to afford them. He let the song drift to an end, grinning wide and proud as John leaned back, giving a fake round of applause while Paul gave an exaggerated bow over his guitar.
“That was actually one of the first songs I really learned how to play,” he admitted once he’d righted himself again, looking over at John and flexing his fingers out for a moment. “I wanted to challenge meself, y’know?” One of- that was the key phrase there. The first song he’d learned to play was ‘Across the Universe’, but he wouldn’t be owning up to that one any time soon.
“You’re good,” John told him outright, no trace of hesitation or resignation in his voice, just pure, plain admiration that Paul was going to keep with him on cold nights. “Hell, better than I was at your age,” and there some bitterness slipped in, just a bit, but Paul wouldn’t expect anything else from him. “What else’ve you got? I know you write.” It was an assertion, even though Paul hadn’t mentioned a word of writing his own songs.
The way John was looking at him… if he didn’t know any better, he’d say it looked like the same way some of the older guys at the clubs would look at him before he’d blow them in the bathroom, high as a kite and loving the bone-deep feeling of being wanted. But John wasn’t one of those blokes- at least, not seriously. Paul’d read the interview a few years ago where he’d talked about him and Yoko Ono being bisexual in theory, but never putting it to the test, and that was the last he’d heard of it.
Still, having John’s gaze fixed on him made his chest go hot and his grin turn into something a bit smaller, more private. Having John talk to him was even better and that he did plenty of while Paul showed him a few of his songs, including the one he’d written with George a few months back that they’d bought studio time for and sent ‘round a few tapes of to some labels, big and small. Hadn’t heard much back, but when John told him how good the song was, it suddenly hardly mattered at all if any big wigs in their stuffy suits and office chairs thought anything different.
Over the next few songs he played, John moved closer to him, his arm stretching out over the back of the sofa and his thigh pressing against Paul’s while he leaned into his space. It made Paul’s heart beat faster and his fingers slipped on the chords a few times, but it was exciting. With the way John’s eyes kept catching on his lips or his fingers, he started to wonder if he wasn’t wrong about John being that sort of bloke after all.
Paul wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth and he found himself leaning right back into John, nearly forgetting who he was and why he was here in the first place- and why returning his flirting with his own was a bloody awful idea. And it wasn’t just the flirting either- no, John was actually interesting. Eventually, Paul stopped singing, merely strumming along absent chords while the two of them talked like they’d known each other ages, heads bending together in private laughter at some daft joke or another. Their sense of humor just clicked, like Paul had just been waiting for him to tell all his jokes to.
It was, barring his first night performing on stage with Wings, Paul’s band, the best night of his life.
By the time Julian got home nearly an hour late, neither of them had noticed, let alone cared about the cooling supper still sitting on the stove. The mood changed on a dime, leaving an awkward, tense silence. John got up from the sofa without a glance at Paul, talking with his son in low tones in the kitchen while Paul tried to figure out what he ought to do with himself. After a half hour, and as the low tones started to turn louder and more biting, he put his guitar back in its case and decided he’d take a shower.
When he came out again, John had left and Julian had gone to bed.
The meal John had cooked sat untouched on the stove. It was steak, anyway, so Paul wouldn’t have eaten it, but the sight still sat oddly heavy in his chest. He shook the feeling away, scraping the cold meat into the trash and putting the pan to soak in the sink before he went to bed himself. He had practice with the band in the morning- getting some sleep wouldn’t be a bad idea.
But unsurprisingly, sleep wouldn’t come. As Paul stared up at the ceiling, watching a fly buzz around aimlessly, all he could think about was the warm press of John’s thigh against his and the warm puff of his breath on his cheek whenever he’d moved too close.
December 1983
“Open the fuckin’ door!”
Silence.
Paul let out an irritated huff, the breath curling in front of him in the cold, London air. He brought a fist up to the door again, the fabric of his gloves cushioning the blow as he pounded on the panel again. “Come on, I know you’re here, I can see the bloody lights on!”
Still more silence.
For the next minute or so, Paul continued to stubbornly pound on the door until even his gloves didn’t stop the ache starting to blossom in his knuckles, pausing to ring the doorbell between assaults on the wood. Just as he was about to open his mouth to spout some more choice words for the owner of the house, the buzzer next to the door sounded.
“Leave, why don’t you? Don’t think I won’t call security on you, they’ve dealt with worse shite than a kid from Liverpool with a stick up his arse,” came the familiar, irritated nasal intonation.
Indignation bloomed hot in Paul’s chest, tangling up with a sense of relief at hearing John’s voice for the first time in two bloody months.
“I’m not leavin’ till you let me in so we can talk like adults.” It sounded silly, coming from him, and he knew it the second it left his mouth, causing his cheeks to flare red and not from the biting cold. But fuck it, he wasn’t wrong. Twenty three years older than Paul and John was acting worse than Mike.
“You’ll be waiting a long time then. Say hi to old Kris Kringle if he shows up, will you?”
Silence again, broken only by a passing lorry honking loudly at some car that must’ve cut it off.
It was the day before Christmas Eve and Paul ought to have been at rehearsal for the Christmas show Wings had booked- but here he was, freezing his arse off in front of John Lennon’s door while two determined fans watched the whole display wide-eyed from behind the wrought-iron fence.
“He won’t let you in, you know,” one of them called, a shorter woman who looked like she must’ve been around the right age to have been one of the screaming fans during the height of John’s Beatle years. “He never does, dear. You might catch him if-”
“I’m not a bleedin’ fan- how do you think I got in the gate, huh? He’s too stupid to change the code!” The last part was shouted loud enough for John to hear from wherever he’d holed himself up in, followed by another pointed bang on the door.
Feeling very tempted to give the old bint watching the two fingered salute and rather graciously tamping it down, Paul sat down on the front step, slumping over his knees and tucking his hands under his armpits to warm himself up.
If John thought he’d scare him off with empty threats of freezing out on the London streets, he had another thing coming.
**
Just as the sun was starting to dip in the sky and Paul was pretty sure the hair sticking out from under his cap had frosted, the door opened, a wave of heat pushing out into the frigid air and making him shiver. His head whipped around, looking up to find John holding the door open with an impassive look that told him the man was well and truly peeved. He was always terrible at hiding his emotions, written like words across his face.
“Well? Are you coming in or aren’t you?”
Paul didn’t scramble to his feet- but it was a near thing, if only because he was bloody freezing and the idea of getting inside so his nose would stop hurting sounded divine, even if he had to deal with the world’s biggest cunt to do it.
He had to push past John, who was stubbornly angled to half block the doorway. The heat hit him in an instant, shooting pinpricks to the tips of his fingers and making him all the more aware of how damp he was. Behind him, John shut the door and brushed by him. “Take your boots off- don’t want you tramping in all that city muck over the floors. Just got these put in, you know.”
Paul rolled his eyes, knowing full well that John was hardly that posh, and followed behind him without taking off his shoes- a little dare, asking John to push it. At the sound of his boots against the hardwood, John shot him a look, but didn’t say anything. Paul’s lips twitched in a half-aborted grin, feeling rather self-satisfied about that as he followed John into the kitchen that cost at least ten times the value of Paul’s childhood home. Hell, the price he must’ve paid for the countertops alone must’ve cost an amount that would let Paul’s dad retire comfortably for the rest of his life.
Without a word, John walked towards the bar he’d had installed just past the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of scotch and two glasses, pouring a generous amount in each before picking one up and gulping down at least half. The other glass, he pushed towards the end of the bar, nodding at Paul to take it. Paul didn’t need to be told twice, snatching the glass off the bar like John might change his mind and pluck it out of his hands before he could swallow any of it down. He downed a good amount himself, the warmth instantly settling in his stomach and spreading out through his limbs. He sighed, studying the pattern etched into the glass (frosted flowers- maybe peonies?) for a moment before flicking his gaze up to John again, steady and unrelenting.
“Well?”
“Well?” John parroted, taking another sip of his scotch and peering at Paul from over the rim of his glasses in a way that had started out endearing and had only started to irritate Paul the more he did it with obvious condescension.
“Come off it, John. You let me in. You know why I’m here.”
“Because you’re an obsessive little queer who thinks you managed to get the almighty John fucking Lennon to fall in love with you? Well, tough shit- you made that up in your head, son. I‘ve already said everything I have to say.”
Paul’s jaw ticked and he let the words roll off his shoulders with only the slightest bit of a sting. John was like a cat- putting up his hackles when he was pissed, covering up his hurt with bollocks that he didn’t even believe.
“No. You’re not doin’ that. Not with me.” If John was stubborn, so was Paul. He took a longer drink this time, knocking back the rest of his scotch before reaching for the bottle John was still holding onto. His fingers brushed over John’s and the man flinched back. Even the brief touch had Paul’s breath catching somewhere in his chest, but he just poured himself another glass before setting the bottle back on the bar.
John bristled a bit, snatching the bottle back and shoving it back under the bar. Paul eyed a swirl in the wood- John’d fucked him on top of that bar, once, with Paul’s nails digging into his shoulders and his heels into his back. It was only a few months ago, but it might as well’ve been another life entirely for how far away it felt.
“You think you can tell me what I’m doing, then? Trust me, Paul, you’re not that important.”
“Stop that,” Paul snapped, feeling the words lodge somewhere under his ribs as a sliver of doubt crept in. But- no, John was just posturing. In the last few months, they’d gotten to know each other like they shared one mind. He wasn’t misreading him, he just- he just had to push him a bit, that was all. Wasn’t it? Had to be.
“Stop what? Giving you a well needed dose of truth? Someone has to and if your dad, or friends, or little fanclub won’t, then I guess I have to.” He set aside his glass, rounding the bar to step closer to Paul until they were nose to nose, sharing breath. Paul’s breath caught, John’s scent flooding his senses and making him go a bit lightheaded. Before Paul could react, John was reaching up, catching his jaw in his hand, tilting Paul’s chin towards him in a tight grip. Heat flooded Paul’s veins and the urge to let his eyes slip shut was a strong one. He kept them open though, meeting John’s gaze straight on.
John continued. “You’re not special. Hell, you’re not even unique. I’ve seen dozens of you come and go- you’ll have your minute of fame with your band, you’ll see the world and think you’re on top of it, and then it’ll be over. You’ll pump out a few more albums that won’t make the charts and then it’ll be dance halls and telling your grandkids all about the good old days when you were a star and you fucked the rich and famous. But that’s all you’ll be, Paul, can’t you see that?”
His tone turned almost pleading at the end, like he really was begging Paul to see how useless his dreams were. He let go of Paul’s jaw abruptly, pushing himself back and shaking his head. At his sides, Paul’s hand that wasn’t holding his drink had clenched into a trembling fist, his nails digging into his palm through the fabric of his gloves. “It was fun while it lasted, kid. I mean that. I’ll have plenty a good wank thinking ‘bout that mouth of yours. But that’s all it was. You’ve got to move on now.” He waved a hand towards Paul. “Go and find that minute of fame and make it all yours.”
And that was just like John, wasn’t it? To end his stupid bloody speech with a feel-good pep talk, like he hadn’t just dug his nails into Paul’s flesh and yanked out the core of him. Paul’s throat burned and it was barely from the scotch. Even if John was just spouting off, it didn’t change how cruel the words were and- fuck that.
Everything he’d wanted to say to John drifted out the window. He’d wanted to tell him off for leaving him alone in a different bloody country, for ignoring him when he got back, pretending like he didn’t get a single one of his letters or that Paul hadn’t asked Julian to tell John he wanted to talk to him, for that stupid fight- none of it mattered, he realized. Absolutely none of it.
Staring at John, the lines around his eyes and the thin slouch of his body, looking like a ghost against the backdrop of his expensive wallpaper, Paul knew he was right. Not about him being nothing special- they both knew that wasn’t true. He would make it. Just as far as John had, if not further. But he was right that Paul needed to move on from him. Looking at John now, he knew he’d drag him down- even if it was Paul’s own fault for being so caught up in him he’d let everything else slip.
He’d missed the rehearsal time by more than a few hours, but maybe if he left now, he could show up at George’s and tell him how much of an arsehole he’d been lately and beg his way back into his good graces and a late-night practice.
Stiff with John’s words still swirling around in his head, Paul moved forward to set the still half-full glass down on the bar with a final thud.
“You’re wrong,” he declared, shoving his hands in his pockets as he began backing his way towards the front door. “About me, I mean.” He shook his head, lips pulling into an ugly grin that felt completely empty. “But it doesn’t matter, anyway. I don’t care what you think.” He did. God, he did. Paul wanted his approval so badly that sometimes he thought he’d trade it for air. “Have a nice life, John.”
He turned away then, winding his way back through the kitchen that was worth more than his entire life, and out into the cold December air.
John didn’t follow. The two women had long ago left, as had most of the late-night wanderers. As he hunched his shoulders against the cold and started down the street towards the bus stop, it felt like Paul was the only person in London at all.