Work Text:
Isn't life strange
A turn of the page
A book without light
Unless with love we write;
To throw it away
To lose just a day
The quicksand of time
You know it makes me want to cry, cry, cry
-’Isn’t Life Strange?’, The Moody Blues
Summer of 1973
The 90 degree heat stretched on in New York, a near 32 degrees celsius range if John were still in Liverpool, he ruminated. He had felt the pooling of sweat drench the lower back of his shirt. Drip. Drip. Drip. Moist air in the apartment barely was avoided with the electric fans constantly on. The apartment’s silence stretched on in a rebounding echo.
The white room he sat in was nearly empty and reverberated when he so much as spoke, not that he did much speaking himself these days- mind you. John had moved into a different apartment in the city. Away from Yoko. Away from anything and anyone that reminded him of how little he was doing as a former rockstar. John pulled himself out of the white leather chair, his sweat-slicked skin took its time unsticking from the chair. His hands brushed off any gross feeling from peeling off of his seat from his legs.
Since living on his own, he had decided to not to be glued to the TV constantly. He was by no means a man that was against the loving programs that on occasion slandered him and his relationship to Yoko. Yet despite this oncoming premonition of thinking, he couldn’t help but embody the personality of a couch potato. He grabbed a tabloid absentmindedly and padded over to his bed, still not made from this morning. He glossed over the drivel when he plopped down in bed. Tabloids were always something that occupied his mind. It seemed that a lot of the time, there would be some awful news about the war if not about slagging off celebrities. Not that he didn’t agree half-heartedly with some of the gossip. Like that of Paul McCartney. While John stayed at home and grimaced at the paper, which raved enthusiastically about his new album “Wings’ new lead single hits record high in US charts!” He frowned just thinking about that headline. John glanced at a personal column.
There was a perverse part of John that was obsessed with looking into the personal column section of the paper, something about feeling down to earth. He could easily thumb through the pages of the tabloid and see something just, if not more gratifying than whatever was on television. Man offers big cash for tulip bulbs! Psychic palm readings available in Bushwick for cheap! Sassy brunette seeks out a kind tall man mid 20s-30s… All things that blurred fame, which is what he needed. It made him feel like how he felt before all the Beatles nonsense, untainted by fame. No more stress watching interviews of Paul, or George for that matter (his complaints might rival that of the bloody press!)
One little section caught his attention,
“If you like piña coladas,
and gettin' caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga.
If you have half a brain.
If you like makin' love at midnight
in the dunes on the cape.
Then I'm the love that you've looked for,
write to me and escape.”
John’s lip curled upwards as he read it. There was no specific audience it was addressed to. No sender information besides the likes of the sender and bold, flirtatious statement. The love that he’s looked for. An offer of escape .
John imagined that whoever wrote this was a smart bird, one possibly half as crazy as him. One that didn’t care who he was or talk about The Beatles . Lord knows he wants to speak to someone with half a brain that didn’t gnaw at his energy. He sighed and flipped onto his back, tabloid laid flat on his stomach. He didn’t bother taking off his specs. He could still feel the small hairs on his neck plastered to his skin from the humidity of the afternoon.
The muggy air enveloped him as he closed his eyes and daydreamt about this mystery woman and her ad in the paper.
A pair of lips closed into a kiss on a straw, a swirly one connected to an ice cold piña colada.The sweat on the glass of her cocktail would drip slowly. The heart-shaped lips had been rosy pink and lithe fingers appeared out of nowhere soon after and took out the little cocktail sword from the top, pierced into a fresh pineapple. John felt himself lick his lips. He could almost feel the refreshing coolness of the drink pressed against his skin.
John couldn’t see that mouth belonging to Yoko. John thought of that elusive vision clouding his mind, but there was no long inky black hair in it. There was no smile in his thoughts of her. Only her expression as it had been in the past year or so. Her eyes would narrow when they met John’s. A blank look painted her down to the way she stood. There wasn’t that warm smile that felt enveloping. The love that had been there faded in the years. The monotony of their same song and dance lost its shiny newness it once had. He couldn’t feel the pang of guilt that he knew he probably should have with this revelation.
“Don’t worry John, I’d never tell you off for not writing an album.” The mystery woman would say, whispering in his ear. He wanted to believe that to be true.
“Now come make love to me in the sand!” She’d carry on with. And he would. He rolled his eyes internally. But the more he thought about it, that wouldn’t be too bad. It had been a while since anyone had gotten his rocks off; but not any longer if he had anything to do about it. There was no doubt about it that this bird would put out to someone who wrote back to her. A repertoire dream of sandy delights creeped its way into his mind incessantly.
John chewed his lip and abruptly sat up. He couldn't say why, maybe it was just his need to figure out anything that didn't sit in his understanding immediately. Or a need to investigate the odd. Place himself at the foot of danger. People looking for anything close to love look for something that pleases themselves. And themselves alone. John remembered that in a book by a wrinkly geezer psychiatrist, which said something about that. It was called Id. The whole principal, really, was that we all have this unconscious need to please ourselves and seek out something that serves us, rather than save face. That was for the other bits. This letter offered refuge. Today, id-driven wankers owned the streets of New York, Liverpool, and all other places too. No one offers sanctity for the sake of wanting to help others, without some underlying goal. Not unless it pleased their own bloated egos. If they said they did, then they were lying through their bloody teeth. John wanted to seek her out. Why would she end it with an offer-up of escape? To entice the working man from his bonds of yuppiedom? That escape promise just fluttered constantly. What did this woman think she had to free her suitors? Sex? Yoga? Piña coladas? Well, he sure could go for a romp in the rain if this weather was to keep up. But that wasn’t enough to free a person’s mind completely. Free therapist maybe?
Chewing on the idea, he spied the telephone and quickly dialed in Ringo’s number. He didn’t know if he should just go for a random romp in the hay with someone. He needed advice.
Was this what he was to do for a decent conversation? John picked at his bottom lip and sat completely still. He didn’t know if he should do it. The idea was entrancing, go meet up with a stranger to get his rocks off and talk to someone who isn’t entirely incompetent.
The phone rang and after 5 seconds of waiting, Ringo faithfully answered the phone. “ ‘lo? John?”
“Evening, Rich..” He paused, uncomfortable, winding the telephone wire around his finger like a fidgeting teenager. “Say…You don’t think it’d be daft to meet up with a bird from a personal ad, do you?”
An even longer silence followed, before Ringo’s voice popped up on the telephone again. “Don’t see why not.” And just like that, John felt silly for even asking.
“Ta, talk to you again soon.” It took a while before John’s mind came back to him. He could hear a dialing tone from the other side and hung the phone back on the receiver and heard it click.
Before he started to feel too light-headed, he quickly grabbed a receipt from the bedside desk next to him and jotted down one brief sentence. The desk rattled as he wrote. “WRITE BACK TO MYSTERY WOMAN!” John underlined it twice in two sharp drags of his pen.
***
If the balminess of the day didn’t wake him up, the blaring alarm clock certainly did. John rose out of bed, stretching his arms above him. His joints popped and he smacked his lips, then grimaced at the stale taste in his mouth. Today was going to be busy.
He slipped into the shower after a cup of coffee and John couldn’t help but feel giddy. His fingers thrummed with energy, he scrubbed his scalp and stood under the spray, the cool water soothing on his skin. The cold water didn’t make up for the whirl of moths he felt in his belly. He had to write back something and something good. He couldn’t just blather any random thing. It had to be smart. Secondly, he couldn’t let her know who he was. If he just said he was John to some random girl in the paper, then she’d use it as a means to take his money, or more than that, talk to him about The Beatles . Which was the last thing that he wanted to do. He squeezed his eyes shut under the water and stood there until the water pruned up the tips of his fingers.
After shutting the water off, John stepped out, scrubbed his hair with a towel, got dressed and set about writing back a response to the paper.
Normally when writing a song, he wrote down anything that came to mind. Simple as. No doubt about whatever blithering foolishness was written down on the paper, but this actually had him dripping with a nervousness he hadn’t felt in a long while. No more than performing for the Ed Sullivan show. John decided not to think about it before writing and just be direct. No better way to approach someone than to put all the confidence forth before you stumble.
“Yes, I like piña coladas
and gettin' caught in the rain.
I'm not much into health food,
I am into champagne!
I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon,
and cut through all this red tape.
At a bar called O'Malley's,
Where we'll plan our escape.”
He chewed on his pen as he jotted down his response. There was a bar not too far from the mediocre apartment that he stayed in. It had low dim lights that could almost pass for an Italian restaurant if not for the strong presence of sticky alcohol.
He’d been in a few times before, stopping in whenever he started feeling a little too low to go home by himself, which happened to be more than a couple times a week for the past month or so. Then drink himself into a stupor. But aside from that, it was a promising place to bring a bird. At least he hoped. But whatever, it wasn’t as if he knew how this woman looked. If she showed up. Or if she was even real.
He had checked over his letter three more times before John got up and found an envelope to send it in. He resisted drawing on the page, anyone who knew him would instantly recognize it and sell it on the market for a ludicrous amount. John thought about if he should wait to send the letter in immediately and risk sounding too desperate or if he should stay put for a couple days just to stay safe. John thought, Damn it all, when did I become such a coward?
John didn’t take the easy way out when he started his skiffle band. Certainly not when booking tickets to Hamburg, just to end up living in a stuffy, damp bathroom while they played for 8 hours a day, barely scraping by. He didn't act scared when he spoke to the press about being “more popular than Jesus.” And he still stood by that sentiment. This was practically nothing. He was just out of practice.
So he went to the post with his shiny new envelope in his hand and dropped off that pale piece of paper into the metal box. He was going to pray that this would lead to something good.
**
There wasn’t an immediate response. And so, with trepidation, he waited to go. John was trying not to let himself go mad with impatience.
John dressed as nice and subdued as he could without looking like a total clown. He looked at himself in the mirror and he saw a pale man with eyes that had seen better days. He felt older than he looked, eye bags and sprinkles of stubble on his chin. He had shaved before splashing his face with water and shaking off his nerves for the evening.
Time ticked on slowly for the final hour before their meeting. John bit his finger nail until it was down to the stub and decided to head there quarter till 2. The letter in itself was vague, but anyone with sense would go around that time. Hope that she’s not an adamant punctual woman! That would save him a lot of stress. Although, he seemed to attract that kind of person anyway.
At the bar, people came in and out with no qualms about who was there. He stared at the door waiting for….someone.
The dive bar was raucous with sound, the pool table clicked with laughter and the plinking sound of the cue balls striking the others. The same dim lights flickered onto John's table, freshly wiped with a damp towel moist with an astringent smelling chemical cleaner. This should have put John off entirely from not turning foot and leaving, but surprisingly, it did wonders to almost take his mind off of seeing someone that could either make or break his night.
He can’t say he knew who he was looking for exactly. But that didn’t scare him. He’d waited far too long for someone to pop along and offer a handy for him to chicken out. Nervous energy thrummed in John's belly. He could feel needles pricking the tips of his fingers underneath the table of the bar.
Music whined from the jukebox, an already drunken man spilled out coins from his hands, as he fumbled for a new song. John just hoped it wasn't one of anyone he knew. Or at least some of those new and upcoming artists.
A man walked in, black inky hair and same doe eyes he had recognized all those years ago. Same long eyelashes and thin eyebrows. Same heart-shaped lips that he used to long for. It was Paul.
The breath in John's throat caught.
Paul looked around the bar until his eyes met with John’s.
John couldn’t stop the words from spilling from his lips. “Oh, it’s you.” He didn’t know if he said it only in his mind or aloud.
Paul looked just as aged as John, he scanned the bar. The crows' feet on his eyes were more accentuated than in the last decade. His hair was grown out to reach his back with his same short bangs in the front and he had slight stubble growing. Somehow he managed to pull off that mullet that looked so tacky on everyone else. Instead, it actually rather suited him.
John somehow felt frustrated, yet particularly tickled about the situation at hand. He began to laugh, his shoulders shook. Paul started to laugh too, he closed his eyes and covered his face with his hand. Still calloused.
John’s smile immediately dropped into a look of astoundment. “You have got to be taking the piss.” John stared, he couldn't laugh anymore. He marched his hand to his forehead. “What are you doing here?”
Paul looked around and started to roll his ring with his finger. “Just seeing to a letter I got.”
John gave him a flat look. His lips pursed and he inhaled quickly through his nose. “So is this some kind of bloody joke or something?” He crossed his arms over his chest. Paul's eyebrows knitted together and his smile dropped. The noise in the bar was still buzzing.
“Of course not. It's a very serious affair to attend to.” Paul answered simply and the innuendo was not lost on John. Paul seemed not cognizant of that until he suddenly bit his lip and cursed under his breath. “I mean.. I didn't know it would be you either.”
John couldn't help but feel like he was lying about that. Paul sat down next to him finally, and John sat back down in his own seat. John searched Paul for any sign that he might be in on a joke that wasn't very funny. Noise was trickling into John’s ears. His head felt full of TV static.
Paul was never one to miss an opportunity to make a swift joke out of whatever happened near them, the same as John had. An interviewer could have asked him if he had been recently diagnosed with rickets and he would respond “only on weekdays.” But this was bollocks. It was just too cruel. All of them had their mean streaks. But if Paul was going to travel all the way to New York just to taunt him for how dry his outings had been as of late, then he could go right ahead and piss off.
“I don’t want to see you. At least go to a different bar if you’re gonna tour here.” John spat.
Paul frowned and twiddled his thumbs. He sat silently, looking like a kid that has been told off for drawing on the walls. “I’m…” he stuttered.
John laughed with an edge. “I think you’ve caused me enough torment to last a lifetime.” More than ever, John was glad that he was in a bar. If he was to see Paul again after his ongoing success without any of them, with his little blonde wife, then he could leave. To tease John like this…It was cruel. A drink was in order. “I’m going to get a drink. I expect that seat to be empty by the time I get back.”
He had promptly lifted himself out of the seat, bumping into the table on his way to the bartender. Paul was left behind in a stupor. Before John got far, Paul handed him a card. “Well… In case you change your mind. I’m staying here. Ask for David Goodman.” Paul’s lips thinned into a flat line, impassive. John gave him a hard glare, then turned back to the bar, refusing to look at Paul any longer.
His chest felt tight when he walked away, from the corner of his eye he could see Paul’s gaze darting to him and the door before he went back and slumped in his chair, chin dipping to his chest.
**
Sure enough, he was gone.
Of course it would be Paul.
Somehow John knew that it would wind up being him. And what were the chances that if he went to meet someone for a quick shag it would wind up being the bloke he'd been trying to avoid thinking of. Doing a bloody terrible job of that, but still. God! It was so stupid to assume whoever wrote it was a woman. Then again, it was ironic how the universe seemed to want to connect them together again over and over. No matter how many times John cut the telephone line. He knew Paul wanted to reconnect, what with his phone calls and his numerous songs that begged John to call him. He did want to, but that would be giving it all to him too easily. If he knew Paul, he knew that lad liked a challenge.
When he wrote I Found Out , he knew Paul would respond with something equally as snarky, in his own cloudy and easily misconstrued way. How Do You Sleep had a proper response with his too many people, sheeple, whatever. John knew he would, and John would always respond in kind. Then, he kept on writing. His other songs didn't scare him like he thought it would, instead, Paul wrote him Dear Friend. He copied his riffs. Always prompting….something. What something did he want from him? His soul?
John rubbed his eyes and gulped down a glass of beer before peering at the door. Would Paul have fled already? John knew he was being harsh, but there was no way Paul was that weak to just leave. He'd never done that no matter how much he told him off to his face at Apple studios before. The door was tall and didn't budge. He looked to find Paul in the grains of wood on the door. Paul was a downright git.
Some plot to draw him in with what, some promise of a shag? Did one of his cronies inform him that John was having marital issues and he wanted to rub it in his face? Surprise John! We all know you're a poofter who wanted to shag yer best mate in yer twenties, ‘n now here's yer chance! It could have been Linda conspiring against him. He knew she didn't like him or Yoko. Not that Yoko had anything to do with him now with her own affair going on with whoever she gallivanted with at her galleries..
Yoko would want the gritty details later if she decided she wanted him to live with her again. Her mind games rivaled Paul's, God only knows.
John stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and fished out his cigarettes. He placed one in his mouth and lit it before heading outside. It wasn't connivingly hot anymore like it was in the morning and afternoon. Now it was freezing. John took a drag from his ciggie, the smoke curled in his lungs and he held it. He took the card out of his other pocket and looked at it. Huh. It was a fairly expensive location. Figures. John shook his head. Paul had to have put that advert in his local broadsheet for a reason. There was no cause for him not to write one for his own local tabloid. He let a breath out, a plume of ashy smoke followed. Paul had to be here for him. Why else would he be at that specific bar after he replied to someone? Nevermind that this “someone” turned out to be him. He had to talk to Paul face to face. Damn his self-preservation. Damn it all.
John looked at the buildings surrounding the bar. He knew there were at least three hotels within a ten-mile radius. So that fancy schmancy hotel would be nearby. It needed to be. He squinted, dissecting the card, then hailed a cab. Maybe telling Paul to piss off was too hasty. He hated that his mouth spoke ahead of his brain sometimes. Now he really did want to speak to him.
John sucked in another deep inhale of his cigarette. This was going to be a pain in the arse.
Eventually a bright yellow taxi cab blew into the street and screeched to a halt. John got in. “Any idea how far this place is?” John asked, handing the mustachioed cab driver the card Paul gave him.
The older gentleman took it and lifted his eyebrows, peering at it. He sniffed and coughed. “About 5 minutes, just around the block.” His accent was thickly Brooklyn-esque. John planted his hands on his lap and gazed out the window. His stomach started to feel queasy. Why did Paul always have to make things in his life fold around him? He knows he shouldn’t place the blame on him, that’s just placing all the responsibility on Paul. But he just can’t think of a better solution that’s any more reasonable than that. Taking in the darkening sky and the city streetlights starting to flicker on, John brought his thumb nail to his mouth to chew on. He had decided on two things. First, he had to ask Paul why he wrote to his paper of all places? Then second, what escape did he think he could provide? More and more, John thought about the first excerpt that made him want to go see the person who wrote it. Obviously, he didn’t know it would be Paul. But that escape was starting to feel more like a trap.
The sound of the whirring tires distracted him for a second before he realized the cab had stopped. Opening and closing the car door behind him, John looked up at the spectacularly huge building. Way to choose ‘em, Paul. Real subtle there, son!
Paul’s hotel leered over John when he walked in. What was the name he got his room under…? The bellboys rolled carts of luggage in, lights overhead gleamed in a bright yellow beam.
“Good evening sir, how may I help you?” A check-in attendant greeted John, a woman dressed in posh fashion. Her teeth looked unearthly white, and her brunette hair was tied in what looked like a painfully tight bun. John responded to her in a grumble.
“ ‘Lo there, do you happen to have a bloke here under the name of..er.. David Goodman ? Tell him his very good friend is here.” He rubbed the sleeve of his jacket, feeling slightly out of place. He placed his cigarette between his teeth to shut himself up and make sure he didn’t cock it up before he even was allowed to talk to Paul again.
“Certainly, sir.” She pulled a phone off the handle and punched in the numbers quickly. John let out an exhale, the ringing felt unnecessarily loud. Like it was taunting him. He smoked and watched her talk to him in a cheery voice. God, what he wouldn’t give for some earmuffs, to drown out the annoying tittering voices of everyone in the city. Especially hers. Something so bubblegum-fake. He could already feel the pressure of a migraine building in his skull. She told him the room number he was in, 337, and he trudged moodily to the elevator.
In front of the elevator a bellhop simply asked what floor, the bellhop was barely able to get that out before John glared at him. “Just bloody get to room 337 already.” He snapped. The lad looked at him with widened eyes and the elevator began to move. Patience was paper-thin. The night had flattened it out completely under the pressure.
It’s like pulling teeth to stop all the ceaseless chatter around him. Noise pounds in John’s head in waves, roiling in his stomach. When he finally got to the third floor, John stomped with the fury of a woman scorned. The carpeting on the hotel floor barely muffled the thumps of his boots. John heard music playing from room 337. Some Lou Rawls. Loud enough to hear it through the door, but soft enough so that it wasn’t causing a ruckus. He braced himself and knocked. John needed an ineptitude to feel sorry for him. Well, he was still pissed. Furious even, but also there was always a part of him that wanted to protect Paul. He didn’t like the way his own mind betrayed him.
The record, he heard, was lowered to barely a whisper of noise. Thumps from inside the room and some light cursing. John brushed off the fronts of his jeans and shirt. Paul opened the door and flinched upon seeing him, he stared incredulously.
The air in John’s lungs expelled in one fell swoop once he saw Paul.
He looked…awful. No, he really did. And saying that Paul of all people looked bad was saying something, because the bloke never looked awful. The skin under Paul's eyes was muddled with dark circles and his hair, the closer John looked at it, was mussed and greasy like he hadn't washed it in quite some time, as opposed to its usual fluffy shine as he remembered. Why hadn't he noticed that at the bar? A small inkling of himself wanted to smooth his hair like his mother used to do, but he pushed that thought deep into his brain…Somehow the showing of Paul's plight fulfilled a sense of smug pride in John, he was able to impact him like that. Paul didn’t say anything, as if expecting John to say something first. Paul looked like he was still in shock that he would come back to see him after he told him off. Stiffened shoulders and clenched jawline told John all he needed to know. “I need to know something.” John folded his arms.
“...Um.. Right.” Paul paused, passing a hand over his nape. “I thought you didn't want to see me?”
“I…..” John squeezed his eyes shut and then sighed, managing to compose himself. “It was the weather. Too hot to see anyone. The sun has only now decided to give us a break. You know it is, with the heat messing with overworking minds.” John felt a lump in his throat begin to form. He shut up before he choked or even worse, admitted anything to him. He hadn't wanted to see him the moment he realized he had been tricked. Paul knew him too well and John had been drawn in with a carrot on a stick. But he wouldn't let Paul know that, even if it was true.
A beat passed and neither of them uttered a word. Just an awkward silence flitted between them, before Paul spoke again, John couldn't tell if the smell of alcohol was coming from him or the man in front of him. Paul bit his lip. “Ok then, come in, I suppose.”
John passed him to the room. The mini-fridge had already been opened and the contents of the mini liquor bottles had been drained. The empty capsules of the glasses were scattered on a table by the bedside, glowing under the desk lamp. Guess that answered his question. John ran a finger across a desk and cleared his throat. “Ok. First things first..Why did you write that ad? For my paper no less.” He didn’t bother sitting down, John wanted to make this as quick as possible. Paul tensed and looked at him with astoundment. He passed a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs back. John had to stand strong. He wouldn’t accept being made a fool of. However cunning his trap to reel him in was. Paul sucked in his cheeks and made an empty sound.
“I had to see you.” Paul sat down in the desk chair and soothed his thumb over his fingers. He was avoiding eye contact. “...and you know, that's awfully rich coming from you.” Paul shook his head and bitterly grinned. His eyes shined wetly.
“What do you mean?” John’s eyebrows quirked. The smell of the alcohol in the room was more stale than he first thought. He watched Paul’s movements grow more frustrated. Paul had a tendency to hide what he was feeling, until he ended up pushing down his emotions so far that they’d been forgotten completely. As if to comply with John’s thought; Paul’s finger started to dig into the calloused side of his thumb methodically. Paul was in no position to be judging him, he shouldn’t be insulting him if he wanted John to feel bad for him.
Paul flattened his lips and gave John a pointed stare. “You never called me back. You wouldn’t answer my letters, how else was I going to get your attention?” His voice turned pleading. There was something Proustian about Paul right now, he looked at him with a mixture of tension, slow anger drawn in taut on his face and hands, while his voice was pleading . Begging John to sit down and give in to his pleas. He was like a siren.
No matter how much he distanced himself from Paul, he would always feel a line of sympathy and….Longing….to have him. Not that Paul himself would ever allow that, the prideful bastard. John bit his lip, he really couldn’t be talking. He knew he was guilty of that. But at least he didn’t pretend to be in the right all the time without a shred of guilt present on him. He was like that. Since he was young, John couldn’t help but to wear his heart on his sleeve. It was his achilles heel. He didn’t hide his emotions, not since doing nothing but getting into fights over petty feelings lead to a whole lot of blithering shite. Not worth it. No, he didn’t call him back, but Paul had made it very clear over the past couple of years that he didn’t want to see or hear from him. His lawyers did the talking for him, before the big clean break from the Beatles . Paul’s songs telling him not to be mad. For what? Was John not allowed to have feelings anymore? Now, he wasn't hiding insecurity behind anger anymore, he was angry. If Paul thought he wasn’t allowed to be livid at him for his sentiments to cool it and not let him think and express himself then he was dead wrong.
“So you resorted to pretending to be some randy bird?” John spat. Paul crumpled in on himself, face colouring in delightfully with a crimson red flush. Got ‘im there. More and more, John just felt humiliated and let down.
“Ok. Well, I never said I was a bird anywhere in the ad.” Paul countered. His knee started bobbing up and down rapidly in his chair, then he brought that picked and abused thumb to his mouth and chewed on it. Same bunny rabbit incisors. John was starting to get hypnotized by it. Resisting the urge to hold down that fidgeting limb, he rolled his eyes. He guessed that was fair enough to give him a point on that. He huffed a sigh and sat down on the bed. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be a quick thing.
“But you wanted something.” John scratched the material on the thighs of his jeans. Paul wasn’t going to make a fool out of him. He wasn’t. John had to win whatever it was Paul was playing at for his own wounded pride’s sake.
“...Right.” Paul drew in a breath. “I wanted…” His teeth clicked together, closing his mouth immediately. John’s eyebrows raised curiously.
“Erm..Let’s get a drink first.” Paul cleared his throat. John started to feel beads of sweat form on his back. He sniffed and saw Paul looking at him expecting a response.
John licked his lips and muttered. “Sure. Why not.”
Paul was nervous. That much was evident. It was a shit thing to trick him into seeing him face to face again, but now that John saw how much this was affecting Paul to talk about whatever it was on his mind, the more he just started to feel. Well. Scared.
Paul snapped upright and got to the room service phone. John’s cigarette had grown small enough that it only had the now orange filter left. Eyeballing the room for an ashtray, he flicked it in the small ceramic tray whilst pulling out a new one. Chainsmoking it was. Paul had called in for some cocktails, one of the drinks mentioned sounding awfully familiar to the ones in their short refrains. Cheeky bugger couldn’t resist saving face without pulling a joke that he thinks is sooo charming. Only begotten son wannabe. He wanted to allow it. Secretly.
Paul flickered between the record player and foregoing it all together, finally, just grabbing a different record and placing it on the platter. John lit his cigarette and his gaze flitted back to Paul, or rather, his posterior. Damn it all, he couldn’t help but admire what was merely an aesthetic.. Arse thetic…? He always did have the rumpus of a grecian statue. The back of his mind burned him for falling for old habits. But John thought about when he would ever get this opportunity again. Shamelessly ogling, music began playing and John couldn’t help but marvel at Paul’s decision-making when it came to music. Rock music. More specifically, Chuck Berry. Smart move on his behalf. If Paul continued to play the blues, John might’ve gotten the gist that Paul was trying to seduce him. Or at least try to keep on the tone that his facetious advertisement in the news had.
Eventually, the hotel service had come to deliver the alcohol. Paul dove into it first, gulping it greedily down his gullet before spotting John, still watching him, took a long drink of his own. Freezing and then composing himself again, Paul took slower sips. He was right. Piña coladas really were perfect.
…
John himself paused before he got to bring the glass up to his lips a second time. This is exactly what Paul wanted. A distraction, just so that John wouldn’t continue the conversation. Just like that, John’s dimming whirlwind anger had sparked again, only this time a cool rage.
John firmly planted his own drink onto the nightstand. “You know, this distraction won’t work. I need to know why you would do this.” He folded his hands together. The air was thick with the fruity scent of the drinks.
Paul scrubbed a hand over his face. His hand dragging down caught a small portion of his lower lip and John could see the wet shine of the interior of his mouth. “Jesus. Ok.” He stared hard at the floor, breathing in a deep inhale. “I wanted…I want… You.” After confessing that, his voice low and quiet as a mouse, he toyed with a ring on his pinky. John mentally took note of that. John was stunned. He blinked slowly and he felt frozen. He couldn’t move from his spot. He was so ready to dash at the next close inconvenience. But this…
“What are you talking about?”His mind was blank, no thoughts guided him, not even a shout of impulsivity. He took this in for a minute. Paul, the man who he had longed for, who he had since tried to get over with a loving wife, only for that relationship to falter and his key guidance to maintaining some form of a relationship was arguing with his former bandmate-slash-ex-best friend, wanted him. Him! Of all people. Over Paul’s own wife…His wife. Wait a minute, Jesus, Paul had a wife! What would she think of this, did she really have nothing to do with this? “What about Linda?” He hesitantly faltered. His sense of vertigo was getting dizzying now.
“We’re not together anymore.” Paul admitted. He shifted in his seat uneasily.
John gaped “Are you serious? Why?” He was mentally jumping through hoops to try and make sense of it.
“She has the same situation as me. It was sort of a marriage of convenience.” Paul said, gliding through the words like hot butter. He bit his lip and squinted his eyes for the last part. Like he was trying to be as gentle as possible about it. “I did love her, but... We both knew. I think she knew it before I did, actually.”
To say John was flabbergasted was an understatement. He floundered. So this was a direct line to him. Paul was not only saying that he was queer . Which is something that he had directly thought Paul would never approach the subject of in a thousand years. They had occasionally gazed at each other longer, having quite the fervent eye sex at times, especially during their younger concerts. This was a whole ‘nother can of worms. He was in love with him. Possibly the sole reason why he was even in New York. He didn’t know if he should slap him for being too late on his timing or run away with him. Regardless he still felt sexually frustrated from the complete loop the afternoon took. Paul was in love . With him. John could feel the blood rushing through his brain, like he was going to have an aneurysm. Paul coughed a little, clearing his throat and then retreated to his drink. He was stirring what was left with his straw and downing the rest of his without the flimsy piece of plastic.
“You like me.” John clarified. It was a schoolyard claim. And Linda was apparently a lesbian, but he didn’t voice that. How long had he known he was queer? Had he been experimenting before reaching his final consensus of John? “You didn’t just come up with this now, to… what, humiliate me?” His limbs were tingling.
Paul’s eyebrows scrunched up and the new drink he was dipping into was lowered. “What? Of course not, I wasn’t even sure if you would show up.” John smothered his feelings of inferiority. He guessed that technically was true. That any stranger could have responded to the news of course, but they didn’t, and if they did, it was only John that Paul beelined towards. He didn’t feel he had to say anything to reiterate that he did still harbor feelings for Paul. Anyone with half a mind would, really. The incessant burning in John’s mind was back full-force, scalding him for indulging this. This still had to be an elaborate ruse.
“Well, I did.” He glossed over the confession, Paul was still fidgeting like he was waiting for John to flip over a table and snog him to death or beat him to a bloody pulp. Instead, the next question that he had lined up in the forefront of his mind. Just to annoy Paul. For his own gratification.
“What escape were you planning to give me, exactly?” John crossed his leg over the other and settled his chin into his hand. The other hand drummed on his shin. He made sure to wipe his expression into a poker face.
“To be honest? It would be more of an escape for me.” Paul confessed. John hadn't considered that. “I didn't think you'd come back and give me a chance.” He glanced away again.
John didn't say anything immediately. Surely he knows that the reason he did avoid those phone calls was to avoid ruining himself over Paul again. He wasn't strong enough to do it for nothing in return. To continuously torture himself. He wasn't a teenager anymore. “So how did you come up with this.. elaborate plan of yours, then?”
Paul sipped his piña colada mirthlessly. “It had been one of those nights..I was alone, and I missed you. Not like before. It was too strong.” Helplessly, he shrugged his shoulders.
“How did you know you miss me, is it my attention that you miss? Do you want to shag? Is that what this all is?” John took the straw out of his own drink and drained half of its contents. He couldn't even taste the drink, he just felt the headrush of downing an icy beverage way too quickly.
Paul looked guilty, he scratched his cheek. “No. Not just your attention. And not..yeah." He paused for a moment, looking at John. Truly looking at John proper. “I miss you, your talks, our talks! For Christ’s sake...Your hands and– ugh..I’ve always wanted…” Paul cut himself off, pursing his lips together, then continuing. “I hadn’t really realized it…That I was in love with you..until a couple of years ago.” His adam’s apple bobbed. John wanted to bite it.
John hated how that made his cheeks burn. “Yeah?” A corner of John’s lip started to quirk up, not enough to give Paul too much credit. “Try decades of it.” He was laying out all his cards on the table. No use mucking about it anymore.
He had been obsessed since they were still quarrymen, unknowing of the world except for in their dreams of something bigger. Since they rocked on stage in their leather. John knew and it scared him how much he liked him. When they shared mics, so close he could feel the condensation from his breath. It's why he got trollied and beat up John Wooler. He was terrified. He turned that feeling into molten red anger. He lashed out. It's just what he did.
His schoolmates knew it. Stu knew it, hell, probably even Julia knew it. That anger, a manifesto of all his emotions he couldn't be arsed to show. John couldn’t show that vulnerability. Yoko..therapy..writing music. That changed him. Helped him channel it into something more.
“I never knew.” Paul sucked in a sharp breath and looked up at him through his lashes. His eyes wide and shining.
“How can I trust you, Paul?” John’s voice went quiet. How could he trust him with his heart? He felt disturbingly sober. Paul started to stand from his seat, like he was the one holding down the instinct to hold him . John let himself enjoy that thought. Even if he, supposedly, DID love him. Maybe he didn’t understand the extent of what he was saying. “How would you prove it?”
Paul didn’t say anything, all he did was flicker his gaze to John’s lips and up once more. He stood firm from across John and then came close. Small, inaudible footsteps on the carpet. He almost wished Paul got a room in a grotty little hostel, just to make what they’re doing feel a little more gentle on his heart. Or rather, more deserving. It’s a travesty to be in a clean, big room. It’s too much like his own white, empty space. Paul brought a hand up to cup the side of John’s face. He could feel the roughness of his callous catching on the stubble that could never quite be gone anymore. It was grounding. He needed that. John could feel his blood pumping loudly in his heart. Paul looked at him in the eye and then back again to his lips. His pupils were so large, they looked like little universes in his sockets.
“What would you let me do?” Paul asked. John’s hands started to feel clammy, he wiped his hands on his jeans. Here he was, with Paul practically being in his lap, close enough to smell his breath, still laden with alcohol. His own mind felt like it was slipping loose from its cavern. John swallowed hard. He raised his own damp hand to Paul’s. Paul’s thumb was caressing his jaw now. He held it firm and looked down at Paul’s lips. They were what he dreamt of. Heart-shaped, soft and pink.
John hadn't realized that the cigarette he had on hand had burnt to his fingers, stinging it before he abandoned it in the ash tray. John removed his hand from Paul's and reached for the box of cigarettes before Paul, with his agile moves, got hold of it first, he protested John getting it for himself. Paul selected a cig from the box and placed it in his mouth, before lighting it with his own lighter. He drew in a breath to get it lit up properly.
John saw the warm orange glow of the fire on Paul's cheeks. His eyes, which were so dark, were lit up by it, too.
Paul took the cig from his lips and put it in John's, which was gaping slightly. John took a puff.
“What would lovers do, Paul?” Neither of them made a move for a spell, before John promptly abandoned the newly lit cigarette, his lips crashed onto Paul’s, who eagerly reciprocated the action. The cigarette laid still burning on the tray. Almost unsmoked.
They were as soft as John had fantasized, Paul's mouth tasted of strong alcohol and John felt himself melt away more from them than the actual drinks. Paul had drug his hands in John's hair and tugged him closer than possibly. It felt like he was trying to meld their bodies into one, but it wasn't uncomfortable. John more or less wanted that exact thing to happen. Scooting back onto the bed, Paul placed his hand next to John's head, he broke apart from him. “I'm sorry Johnny, I know it's selfish to steal you away from your life like this.” His eyes were watery and his face was painted with flush.
John sat up, Paul was still standing in between his legs. “You should know I cared about you before I made that life. Anyways, it's already halfway gone from me. Now just shut up and kiss me.” Paul was more than happy to comply. He met his lips again, he was like a man starved. John drew one hand up his back, clutching onto Paul's shirt, afraid that he would leave again. Every inch of his being was being filled with want. This is what he craved.
Now he could actually feel Paul's bristly jaw brushing up against his own and it sent a trickling warmth to his lower belly. John fully didn't care anymore about the deception. This was worth it. Worth trekking to the bar, worth the embarrassment.
He felt Paul shiver when he trailed his hands to Paul's nape. “I'm sorry you had to lie to talk to me.” His voice quivered. “I was a right prick.” Paul's lips drifted to his neck, goosebumps attacked his skin.
Paul leant back, “I hate fighting with you.” He sounded sincere, the bed creaked with the movement.
John's throat was dry and he gulped to wet it again. “Me too.” His voice was raw.
***
The next hour found them in bed together. John was grateful for the night weather. It wasn't shockingly hot anymore, the sweat cooled on both of their skins. “Was it what you expected?” He muttered into Paul's shoulder. His skin was tacky, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
John can certainly say that he did not expect to go from fighting to having sex with Paul McCartney within the span of 24 hours. Still, he wasn't upset about that. It was good to not spend another night alone without someone he genuinely cared for. That was something he was sick of. He could see that Paul felt the same.
“More than..” Paul fell into silence. “Can I confess something?”
John leaned back onto his elbow to see him properly. Paul had a cheeky glint in his eyes. His heart fluttered. “More than you already have?” He grinned. Paul blurted out a short laugh, the puff of air that came out with it blew onto John's skin. He playfully slapped John's chest. It didn't hurt.
“Yes” he giggled. Paul turned to face the ceiling, laying flat on the bed and John watched the side of his face. “I don't regret sending that ad in the paper.” He continued, “I would have done so much more if it meant I could talk to you again, let alone…this.” he chewed on his bottom lip, then turned to face John. The record by now had been spinning at the end of the last song for a while now. He just now realized.
After a couple of hours, both of them had showered using the hotel's brand name soap and dressed. It was early morning now. John was calm. He put on another record, the last one put away in its respective sleeve. John was just as sober as Paul by now and they decided to ease it in with one last round.
John puffed out air through his nose. He took a small sip, to soothe the hotness he felt rising in his cheeks. “I never knew that you liked pina coladas!” John said, smirking as he looked at Paul. Hopefully, making a joke out of it would make John feel less like he was about to go barmy. Paul went small under the attention. His heart was full.
“I bet you didn’t know I liked making love at midnight either.” Paul joked, raising his eyebrows at John.
“No, I did know that. One can only expect so after having heard it as many times as I have post-Hamburg.” John grinned. “Although, I’m not sure you’d call it ‘making love’ so much as buggery.” John laughed again into his cocktail. This was drifting into dangerous territory. It almost felt like a game.
The evening felt warm, no longer exceedingly hot nor freezing cold. The pleasant atmosphere wormed its way into the room. Paul was bursting with giggles the more small talk they made. John always liked that, how he seemed to light up any room he was in. Depending on his mood, truly. John remembered the man he first fell so hard for in 1962. Someone so radiant that his words would get tongue-tied. A talent that he couldn’t undo if he tried. He tasted the salt of taffy, stuck to his teeth, gumming up his throat and tanging like salt in his wounds. He drank more to wash it clean off his mind.
“So.” John cleared his throat. “What does this mean..for us?”
“It means we can cut through all this red tape.”