Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1961

PRELUDE & ALLEMANDE

THEN

Paul smiled to himself as he walked, spinning once to look around while he did so. If he didn’t know better, he would have put a significant amount of money on a bet that while he had been sleeping, he had in fact had been transported to different city, because Hamburg during the day was not the same place as it was at night. Granted, he was no longer on the Reeperbahn, but the difference was still like night and day.

Now, businessmen hurried with their umbrellas, briefcases, and hats, shields against the changes taking over their city. Women in nice clothing who held their purses over their arms hurried to lunch; friends walking in pairs strolled past him, pointing things out in shop windows. There were young people, but they were what his father would have called sensibly dressed.

It was a far cry from last night when he might as well have walked the streets of Sodom and Gomorrah…loud music, the smell of booze, people outside in the alleys doing drugs, couples up against doors not only making out, but some even fucking. He had had to sidestep more puddles of puke and piss than he had in the whole of his life and considering he came from Liverpool, where if drinking were an Olympic sport, the majority of Liverpuddlians would have gold medals, that was saying something.

He sometimes missed being up this early. It reminded him of taking care of Mike and the house when his dad was at work. Only he and George were generally up this hour. He had left Pete, who had grown used to the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle of sleeping most of the day and playing all night, and John, for whom the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle seemed to have been made, asleep. He had asked George if he wanted to go for the walk, but he wanted to relax with his tea.

He came to an intersection, when he stopped in his tracks, broadly grinning at the sign on the front of the building…

Steinway Musikhaus.

He crossed the street, dashing up onto the curb. Steinway. They made pianos. He wasn’t sure if they’d have what he needed, but Paul McCartney never let a music store go unentered if he could help it.

He pushed the door open; it was unlike any music store that he had been in back home. In Liverpool, and even in London, there was an informal feel. There were mothers buying their children their first musical instrument or arranging lessons for them. Sometimes, there was an argument taking place beside a drumkit about who was the better drummer, Rich or Krupa (while Paul admired Buddy Rich for his skill, he had never heard or seen anyone play the drums like Gene Krupa), and kids with their parents being forced to look at clarinets while they longingly gazed across the store at electric guitars with dreams of being the next Buddy Holly or Chuck Berry.

Here, it was mostly older people talking in hushed tones, the store was quiet, and they were looking at him like he had walked into a cathedral during the middle of a mass wearing his pants and nothing else.

He asked about the electric basses and was told to go up to the second floor; he took the elevator. There, he located the counter and was greeted by the dourest looking young man he had ever seen. He was twenty-five at most but gave off the feeling of the mean old geezer down the street who keeps your ball when you accidently kick it into his garden.

“Guten Morgen, mein Herr.”

Paul almost laughed. It must be killing him to have to address someone younger than himself with such formality.

“Guten Morgen, mein Herr. Könnten Sie mir helfen? Ich suche ein Bassgitarre.”

The look of disapproval on the man’s face was palpable, and he really would have preferred not to deal with him, when the man suddenly brightened up, and he waved. Paul turned to follow what the man had seen that had suddenly made him so happy.

An older man, if Paul had to guess, in his sixties, had returned the wave. He looked back at the man behind the counter, and the message was clear: he’ll help you.

Paul gave him a curt nod of his head and made his way toward the other, older man.

Obnoxious twat.

The man wore a smiled as Paul joined him.

“Guten Morgen, mein Herr.”

Paul continued. “Guten Morgen, mein Herr. Ich suche ein Bassgitarre.”

The man seemed to want to say something, but seemed hesitant, so he turned on the ol’ Paul McCartney charm giving him a broad smile. That seemed to do the trick.

“We can continue in English?”

“My German’s that bad, is it.”

He laughed. It was a good laugh, Paul felt warmed by it.

“Your German is gut…I mean good, but my granddaughter tells me I need more English. We can practice?”

“Of course. I’m looking for an electric bass, only I’m skint.”

“Skint?”

Broke. No money."

“Ich habe kein Kohle.”

Not as snappy as skint, but one couldn’t have everything. “That one I knew already, but then, yes, Ich habe kein Kohle.”

“Follow, please.”

“Pardon, but Steinway makes pianos, don’t they?”

“Yes, downstairs are the pianos, but we would be, pardon, skint, if we only sold pianos.”

Paul laughed; he was funny, too.

Around a corner, and then, a sight Paul never got tired of seeing, guitars, both electric and acoustic. Granted, the selection was much smaller than would be back home. Still, John’s eyes would have rolled into the back of his head, the wheels in his devious mind thinking of a way to nick one of them without getting caught.

“The basses. You like the bass?”

“I’m learning to. I play guitar, but our band has two guitarists, and our bass player quit, so since the pair of them refused, that left me.”

“Is good instrument.”

Paul spotted what he assumed was a bass because it was in the bass section. It sat on a stand, and he went over and picked it up. It was light. Really light. As had picked it up, it threw him off balance because he had been expecting something heavier.

It looked like a violin, but it was far too big to put under your chin, but it was also too small to sit and place it between your legs and play it with a bow. Four strings.

“It’s a bass?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a hollow body.”

“Yes, very light. One moment.”

He took a guitar, removed the strap, and brought it back over to Paul.

“Danke.” He attached the strap to the buttons and then slipped his arm through, getting into a position that felt comfortable.

“Ah, Linkshänder.”

“Left-handed. That’s me.”

“Left-handed. Did your parents make you learn Rechtshänder, sorry, right hand?

“No, thankfully.” His father had let the school know, every year a new term started, in no uncertain terms, that if James McCartney’s son ever came home telling him that he had been beaten in order to force him to use his right hand, there would be Hell to pay.

“The feel?”

“Very nice.”

He could sometimes be up on stage for ten hours at a time. Not carrying what could be almost eight pounds around his neck would be helpful. And it wasn’t just lighter, it was shorter. Right now, it hardly felt he was wearing anything at all.

Ask me ten hours later…

“The shape…is…not…”

The man, whose name Paul didn’t know, was struggling to say something.

“Here we are, me possibly buying something from your shop, and I don’t know your name.”

“Ah, Johannes. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Paul, Johannes. One of me bandmates is called John, I understand what you’re saying, the cutout on most guitars is meant for right-handed player. This…”

Never mind a cutout, there wasn’t even a pick guard, perhaps assuming that it would be played the same as stand-up: plucked, not picked. He could play it upside down and no one would be the wiser. The knobs would be different, but that was okay.

He smiled. He liked the feel of it, and the more it hung on his neck, the more right it felt. Besides, now he’d stand out and they’d be able to tell him apart from George and John.

“I like it.”

“It suits on you.”

“Suits you.”

“Ah, danke, suits you.”

“What do you play, Johannes?”

“Violin, piano, harpsichord, guitar…”

“You play guitar? Sorry, I don’t mean to imply because you’re old, you can’t play a guitar.”

“It’s okay. I am teaching my granddaughter what to play.”

“What’s she learning?”

“Right now, Blue Suede…”

“Blue Suede Shoes? Which version?”

“The superior one, of course. Carl Perkins.”

“Alright, let’s put her down for a minute.” Paul returned the bass back to its stand. He then went over, grabbed two acoustic guitars, one of which was left-handed, and handed one to Johannes.

“We’re gonna jam, Johnny, baby.”

Paul fed his arm through the strap hole and settled it against him. It must have been common for people to ask to play because there was a cup with picks. He took two, handed one to Johannes and kept the other; He gave the guitar and strum and smiled; it was in tune.

“You play lead; I’ll do the chords.”

He waited until Johannes had got himself right.

“You start off, and we’ll switch at each verse, if that’s okay. If it’s more comfortable for you to sing in Germany, you go for it. We’ll get as far as we can until someone stops us.” Paul was thinking precisely of the obnoxious twat who had first served him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The room was suddenly filled with the sound a man who had to pushing seventy, starting off Carl Perkin’s version of “Blue Suede Shoes” in German, and really swinging it, not to mention he was really good; Paul was struggling to keep with the chord changes.

The switched off vocals at each verse, and yes, at one point, Mr. Wet Blanket had come around the corner to check up on them because like every wet blanket, they weren’t bloody happy unless they were putting out some else’s fire.

“Bring it home, Johnny.”

The pair of them closed the song, with Johannes giving one Hell of a flourish to the song, and Paul put down the guitar and gave him a generous round of applause.

“Carl Perkins would be proud. We’re you in a band?”

“After the war.”

“I’m confused.”

He laughed. “The First World War.”

Paul quickly returned the guitars and came back.

“What sort of music did you play?”

“Blues. It was nineteen twenty-one, and many of the Black American soldiers came back unhappy with how they were being treated at home and brought the music with them. Most people liked jazz, but for me it’s the Blues.”

“Did you make a living out of it?”

He put the bass back on; it was coming with him.

“Not so much in the beginning. People still preferred jazz. When I got married.”

Paul gave him a soft smile as he crossed himself.

“I got a job during the day, and we did performances at night, and on the weekends, it was okay. Not until later…in the late twenties, if you think this place is…

“Jumping? Happening?”

“Ah, yes, ja, jumping, Hamburg was good, but Berlin…all kinds of music clubs and that’s when the Blues was most popular. I was able to quit the job I had during the day and do what I loved. All kinds of people from everywhere around the world. Also, how you say…men who like to be with men, women who like to be with women…”

“Queer.”

“Ah, okay, yes, queer. Dance halls where they could dance and not be bothered. We played there. At first, it was strange, but after, it didn’t matter. Everyone is the same. Life was very good.

“Then…”

“I understand.”

“Everything good and fun was gone, along with so much more. I had to fight, for the second time, and luckily, I survived. Berlin…such destruction, we didn’t want to stay, so we decided Hamburg, and I begin to work here, and here I have been since.”

“If I may ask how old you are.”

“Sixty and eight. I will be sixty and nine in Juni on the twenty.”

“Hey, two days after mine! I’ll be nineteen.”

“To be so young again…”

“If it’s any consolation, you neither look nor feel like you’re sixty-eight. Unlike…” he jerked his thumb out toward the front shop and who Paul was beginning to think of as Obnoxious Twat.

“Danke, and yes. He is old in his heart.”

They were here for a few months. He’d drag John out of bed and throw him in the shower if necessary to get him here. He’d love this place.

“Okay, Johnny, break my heart and tell me how much.”

“In English money, it is about thirty pounds.”

“Can you do payments?”

“Yes, but I need your passport, however.”

“Today is my lucky bloody day.” He had thankfully thought to grab it along with his wallet. He grinned ear to ear. He wouldn’t have to part with all of his money, and that left funds for him and John to get a room tonight if they had time.

“You sold me. I’ll take it.”

They did the paperwork first, and once he had crossed the ‘is’ and dotted the ‘ts,’” he was now the proud owner of a Höfner bass.

“If you want to look around, I’ll restring for you and turn over the nut.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. I can play upside…”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Paul followed him to what turned out to be a small workshop and he got to work clipping the strings and removing them; Johannes’ hands moved like he had been doing it his whole life.

“Your granddaughter likes Carl Perkins?”

“She likes the music. She very much loves Elvis.”

“Of course, that’s only common sense.”

“Eddie Cochran, and the young man with the glasses, and white jacket who also died, Buddy Holly. You play rock ‘n’ roll, yes?”

“I do. My band is at the Top Ten Club. We’re called The Beatles.”

“Beetles?”

Paul laughed. “Sounds like Käfer, but it’s spelled with an ‘e’ and an ‘a’ instead of two ‘ees.’ John, our guitarist, had a dream, and well, now we’re The Beatles.”

“Like The Crickets.”

“Exactly.”

Paul couldn’t help but look out through the doors at Obnoxious Twat. What the fuck kind of life do you have, mate, where you are more of a drag than a man half a century older than you…

“He is…what is the shape that means not cool?”

Paul snorted with a laugh. “Square. Yes, he is. That cat is about as square as you can get.”

“Do they teach about things like Mozart or Beethoven in your school?”

“Not really. I like classical music…some of it.”

“Beethoven was completely deaf when he composed his Ninth Symphany.”

“Pull the other one; it plays ‘Heartbreak Hotel.’”

“Es ist wahr.”

He knew the Ninth Symphany, that contained “Ode to Joy.” When he had heard it for the first time, it had sounded so big, he didn’t understand how all that music fit on the record.

“How?”

“Memory of how the notes sound, but also, he cut the legs off his piano and had it placed on the floor.”

“The vibration against the wooden floors.”

“Ja, and would lay there, his ear to the floor and write.”

“Jesus…” All he could do was picture one of the most important musical composers who had ever lived, lying on the floor and his ear pressed against the wood, ink in a jar, a piece of paper, plonking a piano key. Paul would twice before he complained when he had to change a string on his bass.

“When he finished conducting, he couldn’t hear the orchestra had finish and couldn’t hear the audience. A contralto named Caroline Unger came forward to turn him around. The audience went wild, as they would say now adays. Also, Mozart wrote rude letters to his lady cousin Maria Anna about shit.”

“What kind of…” his jaw dropped. “You mean shit, shit. I don’t really anything about Mozart, except that was very, very young when he composed his first music.”

“He was five. Later, he wrote a piece, when translated mean, “Lick me in the arse.”

Paul was laughing so hard, he was shaking.

“See? Classical music is not just music for squares.”

He eventually recovered himself.

“It’s like Shakespeare. People think he’s posh, but he isn’t. The greatest English writer and poet ever, and he’s probably the reason we kept going in English and didn’t give up and switch back to French. But he had to keep ‘bums in seats’ as they say and sex and violence worked then, like it does now, he just did it better than anyone before or since. He did rude and bawdy humour; he’s now the National Poet of England and English is considered ‘the Language of Shakespeare.’”

They passed the time with Paul asking him about the kinds of music he listened to, and the musical acts he had seen here; acts that Paul would have given a year of life to have seen in person.

“And as they say, Sieh da.”

There she was, restrung for him to wear as a leftie. He’d make the final adjustments in the hotel.

“Ja. It looks good.”

“How old is your granddaughter?”

“Nineteen, she turned so in February.”

“Okay, good. I was hoping she wouldn’t be much younger than that. May I have a piece of paper, please?”

Johannes did as he asked, and Paul quickly wrote out some things.

“My name is Paul McCartney. I put the address down and the phone number. If she wants to call first, she can. Ask to speak to me and someone will come get me. I’ll make sure if she comes, she’s okay and blokes leave her alone. Most nights we get on stage at about seven, and that’s when it’s not quite as rowdy. What’s her name?”

“You don’t have to, and it is Gertrude.”

“She got named after Ma Rainey, and I very much want to.” Paul handed the note to Johannes for him to give to her. Back at the club, he’d give a heads up to the parties in question so that they would know for sure come and get him if and when she called.

Johannes laughed.

“When she was very young, she didn’t like it, but now, she is very much happy with her name.”

“You can come if you’d like.”

“I’d very much like, but…how is to say…make her look not square…”

Paul thought for a bit. “Oh, cramp her style. Johannes, you’ve never cramped anyone’s style in the whole of your life.”

“Besides, it’s her fun. I’m a night bird…”

“Night owl.”

“Yes. I could drop her off and pick her up.”

“I’d very much like for you to come at another time. And, if it’s okay, to bring my bandmates, friends, here. George is quiet, John, is, well, John, but can behave if he as to. He’s gonna talk to you for all about thirty seconds and you’ll have a friend for life.”

Johannes extended his hand.

“Es war mir ein Vergnügen.”

“The pleasure is all mine, believe me. I hope your granddaughter knows how lucky she is.”

“She does. Many of her friends have parents who are squares, or worse. They don’t understand the culture of the young people. They forget that they themselves were young not all that long ago.”

“Well, her grandfather definitely isn’t a square.” He looked over at the other guy. “Or a wanker.”

“Wanker?”

Paul looked around, and very quickly made the jerk-off motion with his hand, and the other man burst out laughing.

“Wicher! Ja! That is him! Are you a single man?”

“I am currently in between ladies right now, yes.”

“There is nothing quite like a German girl to show you a good time.”

“Oh, I’ve already partaken. If anyone I know needs anything musical, I send them here, to you.”

“May I make a music suggestion?”

“I’m all ears, Johnny.”

“For the bass, you have heard Bach?”

Paul thought about it. “I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps maybe you have seen the scary movies and the organ music…”

He hummed a piece and recognized it immediately.

“Yes! Okay, then I’ve heard one small part of a Bach piece.”

“That is ‘Toccata and Fugue in D minor.’ For the bass, I suggest Suite No. 1 in G major, BWV 1007. It’s composed for the cello, but you can sometimes find a recording where someone has performed the lead a on double bass. With headphones…you can feel it in your Seele and your bones.”

“When I get the chance. Danke, for everything.”

“Habt einen schönen Tag und eine schöne Nacht.”

“I might very well have a beautiful night, and you try to have a good day with him.” He leaned in. “I strongly suspect that if he had been old enough during the Second World War...” Paul made a very tiny Sieg Heil salute.

“Ja. Also…”

He made the wank off motion and Paul laughed. So long Johannes wouldn’t get in trouble, Paul planned to spend as many afternoons as he could here, and as he passed Obnoxious Twat, he snapped his heels together and stopped himself from giving him the full-on Nazi salute as he walked on.

Downstairs, he held the bass to him. “Hopefully, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” And he left the shop, crossed the street, and hurried back to the hotel…

…BBBB…

George was sitting playing when he came in.

“Did you get one?”

“Aye, and a good price, too.”

“Let’s see it, then.”

He held it out and turned her around.

“No wonder you got it for cheap. Where’s the rest of it?”

If Georgie was giving him a hard time, he had only heard the first of it, and sure enough, as he sat practicing, the comments arrived and didn’t stop coming…

Pete picked it up and then handed it back. “Christ, Macca, you’re supposed to take candy from babies, not their musical instruments.”

“Was it like some kind of science fiction movie where an alien came with a shrink ray and you had to stop it, but the only thing you had to protect you was tha,' then?”

“Does it come with a microscope?”

“Alright, everyone, leave Paul alone.”

John ushered him away, while Pete handed him a mug, that John handed to Paul, which had tea.

“Ta.” The tea here was okay, but he already couldn’t wait to get back and have a real cuppa.

“Happy?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now then, we get back to Old Blighty, son, does the shop you got that from have your address so they know where to send the rest of your instrument?”

“Et tu, Bruté?”

Looking around, John reached out with his foot and nudged his and Paul nudged him in return, and leaned in. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

John went off, and Paul kept at it until it was time to get ready to leave for the show…

…BBBB…

COURANTE

Backstage, he was a bundle of nerves, as usual. He and John casually made their way toward each other, touching feet to keep each other grounded.

“Someone get a magnifying glass for Pauly.”

“Maybe he can use John’s glasses. John never uses them.”

Paul smirked, putting his arm through the hole and settling the bass against him. “Lots of lights out there and those are pretty thick specs, like. I wouldn’t want the light to come from behind and through them and end up setting the bass on fire as I’m playing it. I still have payments to make on it.”

“That’s some mouth you got there, Macca.”

“Some people seem to think so.”

Paul suddenly felt John’s foot on his, remaining calm as Pete and George paired themselves off to the side, leaving him and John alone. They hadn’t been able to be with each other for the past three days and Paul truly thought that if the pair of them didn’t get to it soon, he might actually die from lack of John’s cock.

“Know what I’ve been thinking about all day?”

John’s voice was low and deliberate; unbridled want was a viper uncoiling itself inside of Paul.

“Tasting you. Me, on my knees, stroking you, cupping your balls, my mouth sliding up and down your cock until I make you come. I can’t wait to drain you dry, McCartney.”

John simply released his foot, and the pair of the joined the others.

Even with breaks, eight hours was a long time, so as they huddled together waiting to go on, Pete put his right hand on his head; John the first two fingers of his left hand on his chin; George his right hand on his left earlobe; and he joined them by touching left hand to his right elbow. If any one of them gave their signal, one of the other three came over to see what was wrong.

The emcee ran through his spiel quickly, and then next thing they heard was applause.

“Let’s get’em, boys!”

They stoked themselves up, whistling and whooping, then they headed out…Pete, George, John, and then him.

Paul looked down at his bass, picked up the body by its sides and kissed it. “Alright, gorgeous, let’s go make some music.”

And out he went to face the crowd…

....BBBB....

SARABANDE  

2025

NOW

It wasn’t a bad day for a London June afternoon, as far as the weather went. The streets weren’t crowded, and Paul wasn’t jostled too much, and, after all this time, he had learned to put together a look that didn’t draw too much attention to himself.

Two thousand and twenty-five. Weren’t they supposed to have flying cars by now instead of more of the same old bullshit going on in the world?

He glanced into a men’s shop window; it was all clothing for old men. He smiled. It made him happy knowing that neither he nor Ringo, nor Hazza nor John were they here, would have stepped a foot inside that place for either love or money.

He remained standing in front of the window.

Next year would make a quarter of a century since Hazza had passed. It felt like only yesterday when he and Rings had gone to see him to say goodbye, though it was only fitting that Richie was the absolute last to see him. The pair, the youngest and the oldest, that had been made because they hadn’t been the default couple of…

John and Paul.

This December would make it forty-five years. He closed his eyes and opened them again. He never lied when he spoke publicly about John since that day, but he didn’t tell people everything…

How when he’s heard “This Boy” for the past forty-five years, and the bridge starts, he can’t breathe because John’s voice is so plaintive and beautiful.

How when something good happened, like when his original Höfner had been found, John was still the very first person he thought about telling.

How sometimes, he could look through the contacts in his phone and for a second, forget why John’s number wasn’t in it, having saved it himself under some absolutely ridiculously fake name that he would have made up.

How John smelt after a gig, like sweat, tobacco, magic, and good God, he could suck a cock, and no one had ever made Paul McCartney come harder or faster, and he was without question, the most beautiful and gorgeous man Paul had ever seen; nearly sixty-eight years from the very first time he had laid eyes on him, John Lennon could still make his heart skip a beat and make his prick twitch.

Because I want more than anything to be going home to John, and for us to be sharing a bed and for the pair of us to wake up in each other’s arms.

He smiled and moved on.

Mobile phones? He would have moaned about the lack of privacy. Also, Paul knew he’d be getting texts at one or two in the morning if John was busy someplace else in the house while Paul was trying to sleep or actually sleeping. Hey, Macca, you up 😉? Two aubergine emojis because, John.

Internet? Pro: Ease of information. Con: Not respectful of that same information. Also, creating fake profiles for The Beatles Reddit and stirring up shit because, John.

State of World? Being somewhat apathetic to the fact that it was the same old, same old. Also, writing an anti-war song that very few people in 2025 would have cared about because, John.

Heather Mills? Paul grinned from ear to ear. If for some insane reason they hadn’t been together by then, John would have despised her with a seething hatred reserved for very few people and those people were people who came after Paul. John could say and do, and had said and had done, nearly whatever he wanted where Paul was concerned, but anyone else? He would have burned her goddamned fucking house to the ground because, John.

Defo some insane reason because after Linda had passed, he and John would have been married. He took another look in the window at the clothes, made a face, and moved on.

…BBBB…

Back at home, cuppa in hand, Paul sat in the recording studio, though for right now, he had just come to simply play, though there were pens, pencils, and paper all about the place in case something struck him. 

He smiled. His original Höfner now sat on a special stand that he had had especially made for it. He ran his left index finger across the headstock.

Shagging had been the one thing he and John had not done. Back then, they had talked about it many times, but in the end, both had agreed that if they fucked, there was no going back. It would have created a bond neither would have been able to turn their back on, and there were rumours even then that he and John were more than just good friends, actually.

Then the break-up and the horrible things he had said to, and about, John that he could never truly take back.

It had only been after Sean had been born, and John became a homebody, that they had truly been able to make progress in mending their non-sexual relationship.

The first few conversations had been about making sure that they were on solid ground. John had been the first one to say something flirtatious; Paul had responded in kind, and had immediately felt that familiar warmth inside, domestic comfort mixed with sharp arousal, fuck it, horniness. And he had also felt an overwhelming sense of relief. If they were flirting with each other, things between them, while they needed to be improved, were basically fine.

They phone calls were regular, but even when the managed to see each other, they still hadn’t been able to spend any time alone.

Then, the phone conversation on November 8^th, 1980.

Paul chewed on his lower lip.

“Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

And death. Death also happens when you’re busy making other plans.

He had brought bass out here with him. There were no instruments out here anyway, but this was never leaving his sight again.

Chapter Text

1961

MINUTE I/II

THEN

ALWAYS

After the gig, which had, thankfully, only lasted five hours, he and John had hurriedly packed their things, hailed a cab, and fucked off to the other side of the city to a hotel where they wouldn’t be recognized or bothered. In the taxi, Paul was barely able to stop himself from jumping on John and sucking his cock right there and then.

At the desk, Paul had asked for the room on the first floor farthest away from any of the others and then paid. He joined John and they found a room that turned out to be the only one at the end of a very short hallway. They removed their jackets and Paul calmly unlocked the door as John stepped inside. Paul shut and locked the door behind them.

Then…

They threw themselves in each other’s arms, panting, grasping, guttural moaning because the power of speech had left them both. Mouths on necks, teeth grinding against teeth as one tried to consume the other. Each pushing the other toward the bed, turning, attempting to be the one on the bottom who would feel the weight of the other on top of him, and John won; Paul mounted him as John had pulled him on top holding him tight.

It took only a few thrusts and Paul came, with John right behind him. Paul dismounted and got out of the bed, fingers quickly undoing his buttons, removing his shirt and tossing it onto the floor. He was undoing his trousers when John sat up, attempting to remove his clothing.

Paul slapped his hand away, and went back to removing his own trousers along with his pants. He was pulling off his socks when John tried to remove his shirt again.

Paul straddled him, pining John’s arms to his side, his mouth on John’s neck, licking and kissing up all the sweat from the gig and the activity from them thrusting against each other. He let go of John’s arms and pulled the shirt over John’s head. Next, Paul maneuvered himself between John’s legs, reaching down to unbutton and pull down the zipper on John’s trousers, grabbing a hold of the top, and pulling of the trousers and the pants at the same time, all of it joining all the articles of clothing on the floor. One foot, and then the other to remove his socks and John was as naked as he was.

Paul climbed back on top of him, pining John’s arms above his head, licking and biting at his neck, moving to John’s eager mouth.

There were still no words.

He let go, and Paul placed his hands on either side John, moving himself down, kissing…neck, clavicle, throat, taking one nipple in his mouth and then the other, licking down, tracing with his tongue down, kissing John’s belly button, down until Paul’s face was buried in the soft patch of hair above John’s cock, kissing, swirling his tongue in the curls.

He gave John two kisses on the points of his hips and rolled him over. Paul knelt in between John’s legs and ran his hands up and down the back of John’s thighs, reaching back as far as he could to stroke his calves.

Paul put his left index finger just under John’s left arse cheek and slowly drew it up and forward, over the rise of his buttock, enjoying the change of the feeling of his skin, now much softer. He continued on, reaching the John’s lower back, but now Paul took both index fingers and repeated what he had first done. He then gently traced figure eights over John’s backside, barely applying any pressure to his fingers. He smiled, listening to the noises from John, clearly enjoying what Paul was doing to him.

With both hands, he began kneading. Paul had no idea when they first started with each other that the simple act of taking a very firm grip on both of John’s arse cheeks and massaging would be the absolute turn-on that it was.

He now ran his hand up and down John’s back…from just above his backside to the top of his shoulders. He leaned forward, kissing the back of John’s head.

He got John to roll over again, who grabbed a hold of Paul’s waist and pulled down. He was now on his side facing away from John; Paul could feel how hard John was.

“Paul…”

“Mmm…”

“Do you know how pretty you are?”

John’s voice was low and whispery and John kissed the top of Paul’s shoulders.

“I’m your princess; of course I know how pretty I am,” he had murmured it.

“You need a crown…or…”

“I believe the word you are looking for, darling, is tiara.”

“I’d make love to you while you wore it.”

“I like that. When we get rich, I insist you buy me a tiara.”

He snuggled in closer to John, who now had his arms around him and was holding tight.

“You know you’re my princess, yeah?”

“Maybe.”

“Please fuck me…”

John slipped his cock between Paul’s thighs and began very slowly thrusting. He picked up John’s hands and kissed them. “I love taking care of you…making sure you feel safe and loved.”

“You do.”

“I think that you resist being called a princess because you don’t think you’re pretty enough,” the pair of them were still both speaking softly.

“I’m not pretty like you.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not pretty. You just also happen to be handsome.”

John had slipped his hands out of Paul’s and held the right out in front of Paul who, shifted so he could spit. John’s hand was now on Paul’s cock.

“That feels so good…” He kissed John’s forearm. “You have pretty eyes. Audrey Hepburn has almond-shaped eyes and she played a princess and she wore a tiara. Your eyes are deep brown, like velvet, or chocolate, and when you really smile, you light up a room with them.

“Your mouth is sweet. Mostly, the upturned corners make you look delicious and wicked, but when you smile soft, you look like a boy. It’s why animals and children adore you; you’re a boy at heart. You’re also kind, though you don’t want people to know it.

“You’re cute. Your nose crinkles when you laugh…and you giggle. You bite your lower lip when you’re stuck, or nervous and furrow your brow. You look adorable.

“Lots of girls think you’re pretty…and cute…and adorable. I know because they tell me. You can be both…pretty and handsome.

“So, one day, when we’re rich, I’m going to buy you a tiara. I’ll fuck you while you’re wearing it.”

John picked up his thrusting pace.

“That’s it. You’re so good. You make me feel so fucking good, yeah? But, if John likes, he can be my knight in shining leather armour. Or my prince because every princess needs his prince, and I have feeling mine is going to be coming very shortly.” Paul smirked.

“Paul…”

He could feel the heat as John spilled himself between Paul’s thighs, but he kept up the stroking, until Paul found himself thrusting harder into John’s hand.

“Yes. John. Yes.”

His pleasure subsided and Paul smiled, picking up John’s hand and put his tongue through the sticky mess once before John grabbed to lick off what was there. He then pushed Paul over, kneeling between Paul’s thighs to taste. John’s mouth shortly joined his and they kissed.

“That was no fair.”

“I’ve told you many times that life isn’t fair. Paul.”

“John.”

“It’s like I can think.”

“Well, our cocks wanted other things, like.”

“My cock always wants the other things.”

Paul giggled as John’s mouth was on his throat, and John sank into Paul's arms.

“How are you feeling?”

“Thankfully, it was only five hours.”

“You and the bass sounded unbelievable tonight. As usual.”

“Danke, and you’re coming to the shop with me. There’s this older bloke who works there. You’ll love him. I’ll drag you to the shower meself if I have to make sure you’re up, and you’ll be on our best behaviour while you’re there.”

John sat up and got out of the bed. He grabbed the cigarettes, lighter, a disposable cup filled with water to use as an ashtray, and had removed the bass from its case, which was a guitar case for now, and brought it all back with him, turning the instrument over in his hands.

“Light.”

“I found a way to stand out and not have eight pounds hang around my neck for eight hours. I think I did very well.”

“Clever. You can’t really tell it’s upside down.”

“That was the point.”

Paul lit their cigarettes, kept one and handed the other to John.

“Ta. How much did it cost you?”

“I’ll have it paid off in ten payments, maybe less, but I had money left over. Hence the room.”

“We’ll go out later and get some food. Man cannot live on spunk alone.”

“You promised to drain me dry.”

John turned the bass over again.

“I love it; it’s unexpected. Like you.”

John returned it to its case. When he came back to the bed, Paul lay back down as John straddled him, sitting on Paul’s stomach. He smiled as John spat into his own hand, reached behind himself, his hand settling on Paul’s cock and he began to stroke.

“It’s got a nice body, Macca. Not as nice as yours, but nice.”

He stretched, arching his back, relaxing his mouth so that he looked extra pouty.

“Such a cocktease.”

Paul ran his hands up John’s thighs. “I’m your cocktease.”

“Now, do you mean you’re the cocktease who belongs to me, or you tease my cock, like?”

“Both.”

John took a drag of his cigarette, lowered his head, and put his mouth against Paul’s and Paul inhaled some of John’s smoke, and together, they exhaled, and then John’s mouth found his and  Paul would never get tired of this, John against, and in, his mouth, their tongues finding purchase against the other’s. They finished smoking and with two hisses, the butts ended up in the cup of water.

John sat upright. There was no need to prime the pump as it were; he was at full mast. Paul ran his hands up John’s sides, his fingers gliding over to his chest, and gave his right nipple a pinch and John groaned.

He put on a German accent, “Does Herr Lennon like a little pain?”

“Is this going to be one of them movies that they show in the theatres where all the men have their macs over their laps, like?”

“Ja.”

“The plot? The handsome English naval officer, yours truly, gets caught behind enemy lines and is captured by the Germans only to find himself in the clutches of a cruel, yet fucking gorgeous, German interrogator who will use whatever methods he deems fit in order to get any information he can out of the dashing and well-endowed officer.”

“Are zere any of your companions that ve should know about, Herr Lennon, who might be in zhe vicinity? If you tell me, both they and yourself vill be treated vith mercy. If not…”

“Lieutenant John Winston Lennon, zero, nine, one, zero, one, nine, five, nine.”

“Zat is the nineteenth anniversary of the year of your birth, English dog.”

“That is also the date my boyfriend and I kissed for the first time…then sucked each other’s cock, German swine. Speaking of my boyfriend’s dick in my mouth…”

John dismounted him and Paul sat up and he swung his legs over the side of the bed where John was kneeling.

“Macca, can we please not wait for three days? It nearly killed me.”

“Me, too. Things get crazy. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. It’s on me, too. I promise to do a better job.”

John crossed his heart.

“Lay back and hands behind your head like a good lad, or I don’t share.”

“But I like watching you…your heading moving up and down…” He pouted, both in frustration and hoping that it would earn him getting his own way, which it often did; this time it didn’t.

John shot up his right eyebrow and Paul lay back on the bed, and he felt John’s hands on his calves, and then up on his thighs, his thumb brushing against his cock. The sound of John spitting and then his hips shot up as he could feel John’s deft hand stroking, moving up and down, driving Paul absolutely mad with want of him, and then he started laughing and couldn’t stop.

“Paul McCartney, have you been smoking pot? And if you have, why are you not sharing?”

“Wichs mich hart englischer, Mann.” Paul snorted with laughter.

“Did that music store bloke slip my boyfriend a little something in his tea?”

“No tea, only Bassgitarre.” He giggled.

“You should get a new bass everyday.”

“Hast du mich nicht gehört? Wichs mich hart englischer, Mann!”

John laughed. “Mein Ehemann…”

Paul sat up, put his left hand under John’s chin, and held him in place.

“Say it again.”

“Well, I was going to say my husband has lost his mind, but I love his prick; however, someone stopped me.”

Paul slowly slid his arms around John and held him, resting against each other’s head.

“Please tell me what I have to do to be able to live in a world where I can marry you, because I’ll do it, yeah?”

“Darling, if I knew, I’d be doing it right along with you. Now, where was I?”

John had whispered it into his ear. Paul felt a kiss on his cheek, then he pulled away and John put a finger on his chest, pushing him, and Paul sat back on his elbows.

“The very clever and brave English naval officer is about to suck the cock of the evil yet devastatingly handsome German interrogator hoping he’ll come so hard, he passes out and Lieutenant John Winston Lennon can execute a daring escape back to Jolly Old England in order to save the day.”

Paul again assumed the position. He couldn’t put his hands behind his head; he’d start coming and he needed to brace himself.

“And Jesus Christ, I’m wanking and such as fast as I can. I spent five hours playing, so cut me some slack, daddy-o.”

Paul laughed. He had not lost his hard-on, and once again, he heard John spit and the feeling of his hand going up and down, and then John’s mouth on his cock.

He and John living in marital bliss. He sighed. Of course, that was marital bliss in a rock ‘n’ roll band. The Beatles would make it big, and they’d travel the world. They’d wear rings. Proof, at least to each other, that he was John’s and John was his, forever and always.

His left hand found the top of John’s head and he swirled his fingers in those cinnamon brown locks, feeling John’s head move and up and down.

“Fuck…”

They had been doing this for nearly two years, and he didn’t understand how John could make him feel this good, and just John, no one else. Girls were passable, generally better at hand jobs than blow jobs, but this…it was always a struggle not to shoot up his hips and end up with The Beatles rhythm guitarist having a cock nearly shoved down the back of his throat. Sometimes, he would make himself come as soon as he could; other times, he smirked, he made John wait until the inevitable irritated ‘Macca’ would come from below his waist.

Never mind any of that, making out with John was better than every time he had fucked a girl.

He and John married…they’d shag, then. Oh God. They’d fuck all the time. All of the time. His life would consist of writing, performing, and having John inside of him, and he inside of John. It would time consuming, but he’d manage…

But that had done it. He couldn’t hold back any longer.

“John…”

He picked up speed and his mouth tightened its hold around Paul’s cock, and he grasped the sheets.

“Fuck! John! Don’t stop! John!”

The pair of them in bed, in pajamas, Sunday morning, tray of tea, toast, jam, bacon, Corn Flakes, cream, cigs, Paul reading the paper, John’s hand not so subtly reaching under the paper, inching his way towards Paul’s cock while Paul giggled…fuck me, yes, please.

His lay there, basking in the glow, and then sat up. There was John.

Paul pouted. “I was a good boy and didn’t look, yeah?”

John’s mouth was against his, and the next thing Paul knew, he could taste himself and he swallowed. When they had pretty sucked down what was in their mouths, he gave John a kiss and pulled away.

“What do you mean by my best behaviour? Are you implying that you can’t dress me up and take anywhere?”

“No, I’m outright stating it, love. No trying to nick any musical instruments.”

“I have a problem.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well, dear chap, I’m hungry, but I don’t want to leave here.”

Paul laughed. “Wish I could help, old bean, but I appear to be in the exact same predicament.”

“Hang on…”

John jumped up, took off into the bathroom, and turned on the light. Paul heard him pissing, and then the sound of running water. He came out and began to get dressed.

“I’m going to try something. Did you say you were alone?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You might be my brother. Hopefully, mother forgives us for incestuous relationship we now find ourselves in. I’ll be right back.”

The bathroom didn’t sound like a bad idea, so he went, checking out his reflection. He didn’t look tired, but he felt it. John had had no trouble with the change of schedule; Paul had already told him that he must have been a vampire in another life since John was up most nights anyway.

He, on the other hand, would do it, but he doubted he’d ever get used to it.

He pissed, washed his hands, and then...

“Hey, open up, it’s Father Christmas.”

Paul quickly threw on his trousers and opened the door; there was John with an armful of sandwiches that he promptly dumped into his arms.

“Not done.”

He left door ajar, and put the sandwiches on the table, and moments later, John was back with bottles of soda.

“Happy Crimbo.”

He kicked the door closed behind him and Paul helped him carefully put the bottles on the table.

“The place is basically empty, and all the sandwiches were going to be thrown out. He even gave me the sodas. Told him my brother and I got lost trying to get back to our hotel on other side of town.”

They sat, chose what they wanted, Paul picked salami and cheese on rye, and took a bite. 

“Christ, Macca.”

“Yeah.”

The food was hit or miss, but when it was a hit, it was a bloody bullseye. He couldn’t ever imagine getting a sandwich this good from a relatively inexpensive hotel back home. Even some of the food in the cheap places to eat here was good enough to put some of the more expensive restaurants at home to shame.

Paul was halfway through his sandwich and was going to ask how they were supposed to drink, when John took the opener out of his pocket and put it on the table, and they both cracked open their, what turned out to be Pepsi.

“Cheers.”

“Here’s mud in your eye.”

Paul took a pull; it was cold, and he nearly drank the whole thing in one go. He belched, finished the one sandwich and got to work on another, this time some kind of a schnitzel, which turned out to be veal. It was as delicious as the first, and there was another of the salami and cheese ones he had just eaten, and he watched as John tore into it.

“I may have been hungrier than I thought.”

“I need to start eating more. If I go back home skinnier than this, my father will go spare. I’ll be lucky if he lets me leave the country again.”

They split the last sandwich between them, and once they were done, they stripped off again. They got comfortable in the bed, each lighting up a cigarette.

“I think I could probably fit some toiletries into my guitar case so we can at least brush our teeth.”

“I think we can get with each of us having our own. Girls would want us to brush our teeth. Can’t have a Beatle with morning breath.”

As they sat smoking, Paul could feel it. The tendrils of want and desire that began to reach out, one to the other. Neither rushed. Taking their time was part of it, allowing the tension between them to build. It was only ever a bad thing when they couldn’t be with each other; when the tension was a not-so-subtle reminder that if one of the them were a girl, everything would be different.

When they were finished smoking, Paul dropped the butts in the water. There was no music, but it didn’t stop him from standing and reaching out for John’s hand, which he took. He pulled and the next thing he knew, John was in his arms, his head on Paul’s shoulder. They slid their arms around each other and danced, and this was perfection, the feeling of their bodies pressed so tightly together there was no light between them.

Paul could feel John’s hands move into his hair, gently holding, not yet grasping in sexual frenzy.

“Are we sleeping tonight?”

“Check out is at eleven, and it is now two in the morning. I already told the front desk to give the room a wake-up, at ten, just in case.”

“The eternal struggle, Macca. Do all manner of unseemly things to each other all night long or get to wake up in each other’s arms.”

“Mmm. We’ll probably pass out. It was a long day, five hours might not be ten, but it’s still a long time, and the fact that we haven’t been with each other for three days…that’s a lot of pent-up sexual frustration.”

John’s hands had moved from Paul’s shoulders to his back, his waist, now his hips.

“I love you.”

John had whispered it against Paul’s neck, making him shiver with want.

“I love you right back, Lieutenant John Winston Lennon, zero, nine, one, zero, one, nine, five, nine.”

“The handsome naval officer successfully escaped from the Germans and now finds himself in the company of the devilishly handsome and unbelievably adorable Lieutenant-Commander James Paul McCartney and is looking forward to being totally and completely defiled, I mean,  debriefed, by said Lieutenant Commander.”

“Well done on the spying front, Lieutenant. You provided our boys with valuable information that can be used to snuff the blighters out once and for all. And as we say in the Royal Navy, a job well done is its own reward. What the deuce? That can’t possibly be right, now, can it? Ah, yes. As we say in the Royal Navy, I’m so very looking forward to sucking your cock.”

Paul slowly lowered himself to his knees and then looked up. “You will let me know, Lieutenant, if I’m doing a good job, won’t you?”

“You can count on it, sir. I’m so glad I know you.”

“I’m guessing apart from the obvious reason of me about to have ‘ur cock in me mouth.”

“Who else would I be absolutely mad with?”

He laughed. “Who else would I be absolutely mad with? Alright, I have to concentrate. I don’t want to bite your cock off, love.”

Paul spat and began stroking. John was already hard, but he enjoyed the sensation of John’s bare skin against his. Not stopping what he was doing, he smirked and looked up again.

“Well-endowed. I’m right here, like, yeah? Unlike some of us, I can actually see what I’m looking at.”

“Paul McCartney. If I wasn’t so horny, warm for your form, and quite frankly didn’t want to wank off, I’d get dressed and leave.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“No, you’re right, I wouldn’t, and exactly what other men’s cocks have you been comparing me to?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

He slowly took John into his mouth; Paul could feel his hips want to buck, but John held back, for now anyway, his hands tracing circles in Paul’s hair. He ran his hands up John’s calves, to his thighs, his hips, and  around the back, fingers lightly grazing his buttocks.

“Fuck. You are a wicked boy, Macca. However, the good Lord above saw fit to make me a wicked boy, too, and what else can two wicked boys do, but be wicked together.”

Paul had bunked off from school the Monday of John’s nineteenth birthday. They had spent the morning still foolishly denying that he had feelings for one another, and after some emotional exchanges between the pair of them, had then spent the rest of the day, until Mike came home from school, sucking each other’s cock, figuring out what each liked; how to control themselves from coming too fast; how not to choke, either by taking too much into his own mouth, or by thrusting into the other’s mouth.

Now, the pair of them could enter a cock sucking contest, and end up as the only two competitors, and either could win by making one come the fastest, or the other by holding out the longest.

“Paul…”

His voice was barely audible, and by long practice, Paul knew. He stood and walked John back until his legs hit the bed.

John sat, and Paul’s mouth grazed John’s as Paul knelt again. He spread John’s legs as far as they could do and ran his fingers up and down the inside of John’s thighs, watching the delicate inner flesh shudder at the touch.

“Lay back.”

Starting at the inner knees, Paul kissed one side and then the other, working his way up until he once again had John in his mouth.

There were still girls, mostly for appearances, and they fawned over John in a way that Paul didn’t, and John absolutely loved the attention. Once they had decided that penetration between the pair of them meant that they couldn’t be with anyone else, Paul had worried that the girls and women would be able to do something to him or for him that he couldn’t.

Until Paul realized not one of them had ever been able to do for John what Paul could do for him and what he was doing for right now: John Lennon, lying on the bed, legs open wide, groaning, moaning, sighing, inaudible whispering, absolutely lost in the experience of receiving head from one Paul McCartney. He would keep going until his jaw couldn’t take it, then simply pinch John’s inner thigh and then John would give himself over to his orgasm. 

He and John were intertwined with each other and the only one who could separate them was the other and Paul hoped that that never happened.

Paul let his fingertips lightly graze along John’s inner thighs; Paul could feel his own hardness, and he knew was hard because John was enjoying what Paul was doing to him. Paul’s hands moved up, cupping John, taking one of his balls, gently sucking. He licked John’s left thigh, gently biting.

“You taste like when we play; you taste like when we write. Let all the women who screw you think they’ve gotten something from John Lennon when in fact they’ve gotten nothing. I have you. I will always have you. You’re mine.”

John simply grasped a handful of Paul’s hair, and even though his mouth wasn’t on John, Paul could feel him trying not to drive up his hips, mindful of when the cocksucking would resume. The pair of them had done fairly well in keeping a schedule so that they weren’t starved for sexual attention, but three days…apparently John needed more, and Paul was very happy to oblige him.

He smirked. “Give me every bloody inch, Lieutenant.”

It turned out that tapping out wasn’t necessary. He placed his mouth over John’s cock, and very simple relaxed his throat, when suddenly John shot his hips up.

“Paul!”

John thrusted hard a good six times, with John basically smothering him, and then gradually let up. Eventually, John stopped thrusting and Paul pulled his mouth off of John’s cock, and John lay there, silent, overwhelmed from his pleasure, trying to recover himself.

Let those fucking girls see if they make him to come like that.

Paul stayed kneeling until John sat up.

“My princess is such a talented cocksucker.”

John’s mouth was on his and what he had been able to keep in his mouth, he now shared with John.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Macca. I’ve asked this more times than I can count, but how are you real? How are you mine? What the fuck did I do to deserve you?”

“Well, it turns out we were both born very wicked boys; the rest sort of worked itself from that, like.”

“You’ll be the death of me McCartney.”

“I’ll be the death of you?” He flicked John’s knee. “If I wasn’t as talented as I was, I could have choked to death on your dick.”

“Now tell me again how I’m not well-endowed.”

Paul sighed. “You’re cock is so big. I can barely fit it all in my mouth.”

“Was that so hard to say?”

“That was sarcasm, like.”

“It’s only sarcasm if I accept it as such, so I’m choosing to see it as a genuine compliment, so thank you, love.”

Paul went to get into bed and John stopped him.

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s okay, we didn’t go long enough for my jaw to…”

John put his hand under his chin, making sure Paul couldn’t look away.

“Not how it works, Macca. You took care of me, now I take care of you.”

John grabbed one of the pillows and threw it behind him as he sat against the headboard, spread his legs, and then patted the space between.

Paul took a seat in the empty space and made himself comfortable.

John’s hands sat at the top of Paul’s jaw below his ears, massaging, rubbing.

“Is that better?”

“Yes…”

“Good. Me seeing to you is not negotiable, McCartney.”

He could feel John kiss the back of his head.

“And besides, if I don’t keep the bass player happy, he won’t take every inch of me right down his throat.”

“You’re not such a bad cocksucker yourself. Ow.”

John pinched his thigh.

“No talking unless I ask you or tell you.”

“Bossy cunt.”

“Where was I? Ah, yes, making sure Paul is happy so he keeps sucking my cock.”

John’s fingertips were slowly making circles in his hair, just enough pressure for Paul to feel it. Goosebumps rose across his skin. John once again kissed the back of his head.

“And besides, someone was hard.”

John’s mouth was at his neck and Paul let out an involuntary groan.

“No trace of me anywhere on you. I think I need to change that.”

John kissed across from his neck to the top of Paul’s shoulder, and Paul felt the tugging, sucking, and pulling of his skin as John worked on giving him a hickey. He wanted to reach up and put his hand in John’s hair, but knew he’d get his hand slapped, so instead he just enjoyed the sensation.

“Much better.”

John’s voice is low and steady. Hands down Paul’s arms, out to his thighs. Fingers gently moving over his skin. He giggles and sighs…

“Now’s he gets it. Good boy.”

He sinks back against John, letting his head fall to his left. He feels hands move to his inner thighs…he moans as fingers brush his cock.  

“Not quite yet.”

John’s hands move up his chest, thumbs running over his nipples, hands going up until they are back under his ears, massaging, relieving any tension that might be there…

“So beautiful…”

John whispers the words against his skin and he can feel himself get harder…fingertips move along the bottom of his jaw, at the side of his mouth, stroking along the sides of his neck…

 “Right down your gorgeous throat. I’m so grateful for you, always, for everything, but never more so than when you take me good and deep and hard. I love you.”

His breathing is slow and even.

“I’m going to stroke you until you come. I don’t want you to get tense; relax and just let me do the work. Hold back as long as you want, but don’t struggle. Try to stay as calm as you are now. If you want to come now, that’s okay, too.”

The sound of John spitting, and then one of the best feelings in the world, the hand of the man he loves moving up and down the shaft of his prick. He fights the instinct to tense up, clench, and thrust. He moans.

 “I love that sound.”

John’s voice is a whisper at his ear and even as John’s hand strokes him, he is trying to be as gentle as possible.

“Do you like this?”

He barely moves his head in acknowledgment.

“Good. I’m glad.”

John is switching up…slow and fast, changing his grip, normally doing what he would do, but without trying to work Paul up into a frenzy.

“And whenever you start climaxing, I don’t want you to tell me. Just let it happen.”

John’s voice is quiet, soft, and reassuring and it’s only the feeling of arousal and John’s hand on his cock, stroking, that prevents him from falling asleep. He is surprisingly able to prevent himself from coming, though it’s getting more difficult.

“I’m the luckiest man in the world because I belong to you; because I’m yours. You love me like no one else ever has. I love you and I’ll never love anyone else like I love you.”

The words envelop him like warm honey. He wants to tell John he loves him, too, more than anything, but he’s too relaxed. This is perfect. Everything right here in the room with John is perfect; there’s silence, John’s relaxed efforts to bring him to orgasm, and the sound of his quiet, laboured breathing, evidence of John’s expert stroking of his cock. Part of him wants to stay forever like this, but he suddenly finds himself wanting to be in bed, John’s arms around him, the pair of them seeking sleep. 

“That’s it. Don’t struggle or force it, just let it happen. Fuck, you look so good. You look so fucking beautiful when you come.”

Paul gives himself over and only at the last moment does he put effort into chasing his pleasure as his orgasm overtakes him.

“John…”

“That’s my name, honey, feel free to wear it out. Is my princess happy?”

“Almost.”

John traced a finger covered in ejaculate along Paul’s bottom lip, and he licked his lips. He then put two fingers in Paul’s mouth and Paul sucked, doing so until it was off. John finished the rest.

“Waste not want not as Mimi says. Is my princess happy now?”

“Mmm, most defo yes.”

Paul sat up, turned, and stroked John’s face. “I love you too. I’ll never love anyone like I love you.” He put his arms around him, holding John tightly.

“Can we please sleep?”

He had asked in a voice John rarely used…when he was vulnerable and kind of shy.

“Yes. First…”

They used the bathroom, and Paul got warm water in his mouth and swished it around as best he could to get rid of what food was stuck in his teeth, then spit it out. “Toothbrush and toothpaste are definitely going the bass case.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll fix it in the morning with ciggies and warm Pepsi.”

In bed, they lay facing each other, pulling the covers up to their chins.

“Snugs as bugs in rugs.”

“Beatle bugs.” Paul spider crawled his hand up John’s arm, tugging his ear when he got to the top.

John giggled and then brushed the hair off his Paul’s forehead.

“Is it truly okay we don’t shag?”

“Of course I want to. I want to feel you inside me, but if we fuck, I can’t share you with anyone. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare be sorry. I’m the same. I please you just doing what we do?”

“John, we make love. Making love isn’t necessarily shagging. We shag girls, we don’t love them. We love each other, and when we jerk each other off, or suck each other’s cock, we do it with love and caring about the other person, so yes, you please me. You more than please me. I love you and I’ll take what we have rather than not having you at all.”

“Your body isn’t just nice, love, it’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.”

“John…”

“When we wake up, maybe they’ll be time for me to choke on your prick.”

“I don’t know; I might end up killing you.”

“Well, if I have to go…”

Paul pouted. “Then what am I supposed do?”

“No lethal choking, then.”

“One non-fatal blow job as my wake-up call. I’ll take it. The older bloke at the music store wished me beautiful night and I do believe I’m having one.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I love you.” With his index finger, Paul stroked John’s face.

“I love you, Macca, and it’s okay if to tell me where the rest of your bass is. It’ll be our secret.”

Paul smiled; John had whispered the last part. He reached over and pinched John’s backside. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know I am.”

They wrapped their arms around each other, and then John settled in, tucking his head under Paul’s chin.

It had been a long three days and a hard five hours; Paul was more relaxed than he had been since their sexual drought had started, and the tiredness that he had been able to hold at bay had now seeped into his every limb.

But Paul McCartney wouldn’t succumb until he knew for certain that the man sleeping in his arms had drifted off into a peaceful sleep, one he very rarely had. He kissed the top of John’s head, held him tighter, and, in the dark, simply waited.

Chapter Text

GIGUE

2025/1980/2025

NOW

ALWAYS

FOREVER

Paul had bought Imagine and had listened to it alone, like he always did when first listening to anything John did. “How do You Sleep,” not that it hadn’t hurt, but he had mostly ignored it because he had heard “Jealous Guy” first. When they had talked, Paul had told John that he accepted his apology and had apologized to John in return.

Then, in late October nineteen eighty when, as a single, “(Just Like) Starting Over,” had been released, Paul had nearly fallen over because those lyrics…he had had to listen to it twice to make sure he wasn’t hearing things he wanted to hear. “I Don’t Know (Johnny, Johnny),” Elvis, Buddy Holly, Paris. The Beatles, Wings, Paul’s songs. Not only that, but there was John basically asking for them to begin again. Not with George and Ringo, just them, and the very first conversation after that, Paul had let it be known that yes, he wanted for the pair of them to get together and, indeed, to start over, though the “what” of what was being started over had not been clarified.

Then, the call that had taken place on November the eighth. They had caught up, made sure everyone’s family was okay, and then one filled in for the other whoever had spoken to George and/or Ringo last…

“Forty still not hitting you yet, Lenny?”

“Not me.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m a lad of a mere of thirty-eight, like.”

“Fucker.”

“Language. Yoko will wash your mouth out with soap.”

“No Yoko. Only John.”

“No Linda. Only Paul.”

“On your own? A lad of a mere thirty-eight could get into all kinds of trouble.”

“Can’t get into that much trouble by meself, now, can I? I’d need help.”

“Can always wait for Linda to get home.”

“I need the kind of trouble that only two lads could get into.”

“I was just thinking I’d very much enjoy getting into the kind of trouble that only two lads could get into. And look at us, two lads. We used to get up to all kinds of trouble when we was younger.”

“At home in my bedroom.”

“That’ll be me being forty, pet. You’ll have to help me along and provide the details about what kind of trouble that was…and be as graphic as possible.”

“We’ll, for starters, when were hard, we’d stand across from each other, like when we were playing, get our cocks out, and wank.”  

“Exactly like, and it wasn’t always while we were hard, was it? Sometimes, we’d just get our cocks out and start stroking looking at each other. Then we’d get hard.”

“I think I like those times better. Jerking off together was great. Playing together was sublime. Jesus, John, after a gig, we were insatiable.”

“I couldn’t get enough of you.”

“Then there was shagging girls in the same bed.”

“Interesting how when that was happening, Macca, one of us would end up touching the other…a foot or even a leg would end up mysteriously straying over to the other.”

“Also, interesting? Sometimes we’d end things with them as soon as we could, kick them out, and just stay in bed together, yeah?”

“More room and the blow jobs were much better.”

“Everything was much better. Well, fuck. Now I guess I really am in trouble.”

“Anything I can lend a hand with? And I mean that any way you want me to mean it.”

“Funny you should say that. I need advice. I happened to look down and noticed that I’m in desperate need of being gotten off. Not sure what I should do about it.”

“My, my. A five-minute phone conversation about our youthful antics and Paul is hot and bothered.”

“Maybe it’s a case of present company…John? John?? Did we get cut…”

“Fuck it. Hang on, love. I’m switching to the phone in the bedroom. Wait a tick.”

“Christ, cut down on the smoking, you’re going to…”

“Get undressed, McCartney, and I mean naked.”

“Give me a second.”

“Are you naked?”

“Hang on, hang on, patience is a virtue, Lennon, Jesus. Okay, now.”

“Mmm, Paul, that was quick. Enthusiasm, I like it. You may well ask, am I naked? You bet I am. I am reclining in bed, and I could hammer a nail into concrete I’m so fucking hard. I guess you recounting our youthful antics got me all hot and bothered, too. Are you comfortable?”

“I’m reclining, too and very. Also, I called you from the bedroom to begin with.”

“Do tell.”

“Thinking of calling you already had me half ready, which, if I’m being truthful happens nearly every time I call you; listening to your voice and everything we used to get up to got me all the way ready. John? You okay, like? You can say anything. It’s only us.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Do you know how often I think of sucking your cock, Paul?”

“Johnny…my Johnny Boy. God. Is it every day? Because I think about it every single bloody day.”

“Though, I should add, I also spend an awful lot of time thinking about you sucking my cock, yeah? I mean, just so we’re clear. And yes, every single bloody day. Nothing I’ve ever tasted was as good as you in my mouth. Macca, we just talk about us, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. I bet you still taste like we used to play; taste like we used to write.”

“Like in Liverpool?”

“Exactly like in Liverpool, Johnny, so be a good lad and spit.”

“Fuck! I bet you feel good right now. I feel good right now. I’m so hard…”

“You’re forty. You can still get it up?”

“I can hear that smirk, McCartney, and best watch yourself, like.”

“I am watching myself and I look good. I think I need to stroke faster.”

“I think you need to stroke slower. Nice and slow. John doesn’t want Paul getting to places too soon. And if I was there, you’d see exactly how I can get it up, yeah? Get it up and right in your mouth. Would you like that? You on your knees, my prick inside that fucking gorgeous mouth of yours? Your pouty lips around my cock; God, I’ve missed that. Your mouth was made for me.”

“There is so very little else that I want to do. Well, the universe has a plan for everyone, they say.”

“Do you want me to have mercy on you, Macca?”

“I want it until my jaw aches.”

“It’s been a while…I fucking hope, like.”

“What does John want to hear?”

“You know what John wants to hear.”

“Mmm, just your cock, baby, only ever yours. Does that make my Johnny happy?”

“Very and exceedingly.”

“However, shame on me for not practicing, though I now plan on seeing how far I can get a courgette down before I gag, yeah? Not that I ever had that problem, mind you. Maybe sucking a cock is like riding a bike. Or maybe, riding a bike is like sucking a cock. Or, and here’s a thought, love, maybe sucking a cock is like sucking a cock, though I can’t be completely sure, and yes, it has been far too long.

“I’ve forgotten…specifics. Perhaps Mr. Lennon would enjoy showing Mr. McCartney how to take his prick like he once did. Bear in mind, of course, that since some time has passed, it might take more than one lesson. Perhaps two or three.”

“All those girls who never knew what a filthy fucking mouth you had, love. Too bad, their loss, and oh, I’d like to be very, very specific with you; I am nothing if not thorough. Two or three lessons might not even be enough. Practicing might come in handy, though for right now, we’re at no mercy until your jaw aches. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you after like I used to. Promise.

“Me sitting at the edge of the bed because the thought of you taking me in your mouth always made my fucking knees buckle. Can’t promise I wouldn’t end up painting the back of your throat with my dick, though.”

“I hope so.”

“Paul.”

“Yes?”

“‘I hope so.’ ‘yes?’ Oh, it has been far too fucking long since I’ve heard that fucking tone; I almost came just now. ‘The I’m Paul McCartney, conceited cunt and cocktease tone.’ You’re biting your lower lip. You are asking for it.”

“I’m not asking for it, Johnny; I’m begging for you to make me choke.”

“Fuck…”

“Don’t you dare fucking come without telling me.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Slip myself nice and slow into that mouth of yours. Me, up on my hands on the bed, thrusting up. Is that what you want?”

“God, yes.”

“Taking every inch of me. No one, and I am sincere in that, could ever take me like you. They’d try, but they’d gag and back off. Not you. Never you. Those rare times when I couldn’t stop myself and fucked your mouth, hard, every inch of me down your gorgeous throat.”

“And I want every inch of you, John Winston Lennon. Every. Fucking. Inch.”

“And as always, What James Paul McCartney asks for, he gets. I’m going to come, and I do mean right now, and when I do, all I will be thinking about is fucking your beautiful mouth. I’ve missed it. There aren’t words to tell you how much I’ve missed it. Paul! Fuck! Yes!!”

“Jesus, John.”

“And don’t you dare…God, Paul.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

 “I’m here. Fuck. Give me second, gorgeous.”

“You take all the time you need. That was beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“Bloody Hell, that was amazing, though technically, we aren’t done, though such a shame I have to clean all of this up all on my lonesome. I would absolutely appreciate the assistance. Not to mention, I came in your mouth.”

“About that...”

“Macca, sharing was always the best part.”

“I’ve swallowed every sticky drop. For the first time in all this time? All of it. All of you. All mine. Right down my fucking throat and considering you just cleaned you off of your fingers, it’s only fitting.”

“I forgot what a possessive bitch you are. I think it’s your turn. My hand is sliding up and down your cock. Slowly. I’m looking at you while I do it, right in your gorgeous eyes. I’ve missed staring into those eyes. They swallowed me whole sometimes and I enjoyed every single second I was drowning.”

“John…”

“God, I love the sound of my name in your mouth.”

“I’d love your prick in there more.”

“Still the whore, but that’s okay because I’ve always been your slut. That sound. I loved it when you would groan into my mouth.”

“You take my breath away, Lenny. Always have. Always will.”

“Your voice still makes my prick twitch. So fucking sexy…no one ever did it for me but you. No one has ever looked at me with absolute want in their eyes the way that you did. You in my arms. No one has ever felt better.”

“You looked at me like you wanted to devour me. From the first moment I saw you, no one ever did it for me but you; and it’s the way I’d be looking at you right now if you were here.”

“Paul, I can hear you. I miss everything about you stroking off.”

“All that time in my bedroom wanking meself when we were together when you could have been doing it for me.”

“All I can think of now is all that spunk could have been in my mouth.”

“Well, we were young and didn’t know better, and very true, but for you, darling, plenty more where that came from. If you were here, I’d run my hands over every inch of your body. Kiss you from your toes to the top of your head and everywhere in between. I…”

“Paul? Alright?”

“Fuck it. I want it. Oh, God, John, I want it right now. I want you here, next to me, right now.”

“Better yet, you sitting between my legs, slowly stroking you, licking up your neck, my teeth tugging your ear. My face buried in your hair. Inhaling you. I want to be there, Paul, with you. Right now. I want that more than anything. I never stopped wanting it.”

“John…”

“I want to hear my fucking name, McCartney. I haven’t heard you say my name while you’ve come in eleven years. I thought about it. God, how I’ve thought about it.”

“When I’ve been alone. I’ve said it. Even when we were fighting.”

“I’ve said your name when I’ve been alone, and yes, even when we were fighting. Poor Paul. Maybe he should come, so let’s hear it, darling.”

“John…My Johnny boy…I want…please…”

“That’s it. You never sounded better than when you came for me. Take your time. Enjoy it. I’m getting turned on all over again…”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. God, that was unbelievable…shit! Shit!”

“You sound far away. Did someone drop the handset? That’s a sure sign someone isn’t getting seen to properly on a regular basis, love!”

“Hang on! Wait! Found it! I’m here.”

“How’s my cocktease doing?”

“Mmm, your cocktease hasn’t felt this good in a very long fucking time. Too bad you aren’t here. I taste good, and no, I haven’t been seen to properly since you.”

“That makes me sad. Happy Paul’s cock, happy Paul. You have the giggles. Oh God, I missed that. I bet your eyes are glazed over. You getting high was nothing like your eyes glazing over when you came hard.”

“Holy shit. Fuck. I mean. Just, fuck. Hey! I need to piss. I need a drink, food, and a cigarette. I’ll be right back. Don’t hang up. Promise?

“I’m crossing my heart as we speak, love. I’m going to do the same. Let’s see who gets back first!”

“You already left! Arsehole!”

He had yelled it loud enough, hopefully, for John to hear him. He had run around like a chicken with its head cut off, first using the bathroom. Giggling, and nearly tripping down the stairs as he had made his way to the kitchen. He had loaded up a plate of Indian food, put it in the microwave, grabbed a can of beer, serviettes, and had dashed back up the stairs, put the plate on the bed, lit a cigarette, and picked up the handset. 

“John!?”

“Motherfucker!! Bloody toy! Ow! Are you there!?”

“Those Legos hurt, don’t they?”

“Wanker. Fuck. My bloody foot.”

“Aww, poor Johnny. If I were there, I’d kiss it better.”

“Really? Well, love, I also happened to have fallen on me cock while I was at it. You can kiss that better, too.”

“Dr. McCartney is defo accepting patients in his bed and considering you’re the only patient I have…”

 “What are you eating?”

“Indian…rice, curry chickpeas, a veg samosa, and naan. I didn’t eat much today, and a beer. Plus, I’m smoking at the same time. You?”

“Yangzhou fried rice, that has lots of chicken and beef. Yoko’s gonna be pissed, but I don’t give a fuck. Smoking. Also, beer.”

“Take-out?”

“I’ve upped my meal preparation, Macca. I made this. It’s fucking good, too. Tastes even better after coming with you; everything always did.”

“So does mine, and yes it did. Do you want to wait until we finish eating to talk? Because I don’t.”

“Me, neither. That’s the best orgasm I’ve had since you. I’ve fucked someone. I’ve fucked several someones. I’ve wanked plenty, but I haven’t come like that since we were together.”

“Same. Truth?”

“What else is there at this point, Pauly?”

“I’m in love with you. I never stopped. Not ever. I was so fucking jealous of you and Yoko. Every shitty fucking thing I said and did…all I knew is that we were done. You and I, I mean. I didn’t care about the group. Okay, that’s not true and I didn’t mean to say that. What the fuck were we going to do about George, anyway, yeah? I hate all the business shit, that’s different, but once George started writing on his own, and it was, and is, good, we were done as quartet, at least as a group who recorded all the time.”

“I really don’t think he would have been happy with even four or five songs per album, maybe at first. God, yes, it never was us necessarily breaking up, The Beatles, I mean, but that was shitty too, but it was us, you and me, and the way it happened. You and Linda. Christ, I could have scratched her bloody eyes out.”

“I felt the same about Yoko. Ten years, John. Ten fucking years. What the fuck were we thinking?”

“We clearly weren’t, and just so we’re on the same page. I’m in love with you. I never stopped. Not for a fraction of a second. The question becomes what we do about it. Paul? You alright, love?”

“I’m going to ask again: do you want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Paul…”

“I want to fuck you. God, Johnny, I need to fuck you.”

“Baby, please say it again.”

“I want to throw you down on a bed, lube up the pair of us, and come inside you so hard, you’d be screaming my name loud enough to be heard in New York. That wasn’t hyperbole when I told you I wanted you right here, right now. Nor was it my horniness talking. I want you. Now.

“I want to fuck you. God, Lenny, that feels so good to say to you again. The amount of times I’ve come over the last ten years from thinking about us shagging. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve thought about you while being with Linda. Wishing it was you instead of her.”

“If I had a fucking dime for every time I’ve wanked thinking about us fucking, I’d be richer than I already am. Same with Yoko. You and I shagging until neither of us can stand. I want that so much.”

“I miss holding you. I miss you holding me. I miss this. Us just fucking talking, all the conversations after we made love, yeah? And I want you to fuck me. I’m not going to fault myself for back then when I had said no penetration, but that was then. When I didn’t know what being without you was.”

“Paul, darling, I would have been happy with just this but thank God you want more because I don’t know how I’ve managed the past ten years, well, clearly I didn’t. Jesus fuck! Eighteen bloody months! We couldn’t even do anything with each other while we were together. I was trying to fuck you out of my head; it never worked. I just gave up and realized that all I had was Yoko and I didn’t want to lose her.

“There isn’t a day that goes by Macca that I don’t want you and need you. I want us to be together; I want you in my bed, your legs up on my shoulders while I pound into you, and I most definitely have thought about you inside of me. Agreed. That was then. We were in each other’s life for almost twelve years. Day in, day out. Hours upon hours. I didn’t know what lack of you could do to me.”

“We’re talking about cheating on our wives.”

“We’re talking about cheating on our wives.”

“It’s not like we didn’t.”

“Paul, that was different. We did it twice after we were both married. We are talking about something sustained, yes?”

“Oh, you fucking bet yes. And here’s another thing. I mean, for starters, we live on opposite sides of the world, though it would be easier for me to move there.”

“Bullshit. You have four children. It’s easier for us to move there if it comes to it.”

“You hate it here.”

“Fuck, Macca, I was trying to get away from you, from us, so I didn’t have to run across you and Linda somewhere and make nice when all I wanted to do was gouge her eyes out.”

“Someone’s a jealous cunt.”

“Only ever when it comes to you. To us. I used to think I was jealous of the others; I was just angry that they weren’t you. Christ, I was so angry at Cynthia for not being you. Yoko…she’s been with others…I’m not mad and we’re married and have a child. I do so remember taking a pair of scissors and cutting some girl’s clothing to fucking shreds because you were shagging her.”

“I remember that too. It was hot. I do so remember that the next time we were together after you did that, I tried to suck your eyes through your prick. I wish I had brought booze, because…”

“Yes, I have thought about divorce. It’s not an option for me right now. I cannot do to Sean what I did to Julian. Shit. My son’s given me a chance to fix things, and I’ve taken it.”

“Same. I can’t leave Linda with four kids.”

“You thought about leaving Linda for me?”

“Many times. I’m in love with you.”

“So, where do we start?”

“We need to talk. Figure out if cheating is something we can do. It’s easy to say yes now because I still feel so good.”

“Macca, you don’t have to explain, I get it. If I were trying to fuck anyone but you? I don’t think she’d mind. Or maybe, but you? There were times when you called that she never told me about. I don’t want you to hate her.”

“I don’t; she’s jealous of me, of us, and I know you can hear me smirk, John.”

“Oh, I can hear. Just makes me want to get your cock down my throat. We can exchange schedules.”

“Okay, that’s a plan. Should we meet before? I mean we could promise not to shag, yeah? Though, shit! Next month is December. That’s Christmas, plus recording, though we could get together, I’d make time, and we could promise not to do anything, keep our hands off of each other, though…”

“Paul.”

“John?”

“If we’re in a room alone together, the likelihood of me not ripping your clothes off is precisely nil. To put it another way, if we’re in a room alone together, you will be stripped naked, and your cock will be in my mouth in all of ten seconds of us being together.”

“Thank fucking Christ you said that. If you didn’t touch me, I might actually fucking die. God, the thought of you...okay. Phone conversations first. There’s the rest of this month.”

“That works. In December, it doesn’t have to be every day, though I want it to be. I don’t think we put a time frame on when this is done by. I don’t want to rush. We come up with a schedule for us talking and try to stick to it as best we can. I don’t think I’ll tour, not for Double Fantasy.”

“Oh, it’s nowhere near the way it used to be. No one was more surprised than I was when I could actually hear myself sing.”

“James Paul McCartney, you are a twat.”

“Wha’?”

“Why the fuck would I want to tour without you? What the fuck fun would that be?”

“Really?”

“Tour on my own? The crowds were so much, but I had you. Even without the crowds, I wouldn’t want to go out on tour without you.”

“We had each other, and Jesus, John, you’re making me blush. We don’t see each other until we talk everything out. I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“John…”

“I’m not saying it’s going to be on January first, but I’ll be there. I need to straighten myself out with some people, not the least of which is Cynthia. There aren’t enough ‘I’m sorries’ to make it right with her, but I can do my best. Then there’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you, you daft git. I treated you like shite in the press.”

“I was equally a twat, if not more so.”

“I’d love to bring Sean, but not this time. I’d be coming alone.”

“I don’t know about that. If we get everything worked out by then, you most definitely won’t be coming alone. I’ll be coming with you…and before you…and after you.”

“Such a cocktease. Macca?”

“Mmm?”

“I know what you want and need, even after all this time, love. I’ve never forgotten. Paul McCartney, my princess. Only ever you.”

“Johnny, please, darling, say it again.”

“My Princess. Only ever you, Paul.”

“I miss being yours.”

“You are mine. You’ve always been mine. I’m just the daft git who dropped the ball, and I’m so sorry for every horrible thing I said and did. Please, forgive me.”

“I said and did horrible things too. I’m sorry, and yes, I forgive you, and I’m the one who needs forgiving. Then I dropped the ball, too. But, no ball dropping. Remember, ‘no, one’s to blame.’ You’re mine, always, Johnny boy.”

“Do you know how long it would take me to get to you if I left tomorrow?”

“Is that a serious question, darling? If you took the Concorde, and there’s a flight that leaves New York tomorrow morning at seven, it’s a three-and-a-half-hour flight, that would make it ten-thirty New York time or three-thirty London time when you arrived.

“I’d have a driver pick you up at Heathrow and I’d be waiting at the Savoy for you in the best room that isn’t the Penthouse suite, not that you don’t deserve it; we’d only be staying until the next day.

“It takes approximately half an hour to drive from the airport to the hotel. That makes it about four that you would be walking through the front doors of the Savoy. You’re John Lennon; it’ll take you all of about two minutes for you to check in. I’d want you to bring a couple of suitcases, but I wouldn’t want you to get someone to take the luggage into the room.”

“I forgot how forceful take-charge Paul was. Not to mention sexy as hell.”

“Tomorrow, theoretically, I would have gone to the chemist to get one thing. I wonder if John could guess what could be?”

“Lube?”

“Very good. That means by ten minutes after four tomorrow, give or take, I’d be opening the door of the hotel room and you’d be standing there.”

“Would you be naked, Paul?”

“Mmm, no, no, no, and I’ve been stroking since ten-thirty New York, three-thirty London.”

“Fuck, from you having a driver pick me up. I’m glad you wouldn’t be naked.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I want to tear your clothes off, Macca. I want to rip into a present I haven’t had the pleasure of unwrapping for ten years. God, I’d devour you whole.”

“I want you to tear my clothes off. But it’s not what I want when you walk in…John…”

“We couldn’t even wait to get undressed. We’d just grab onto to one another and start thrusting against each other’s cock, or thigh. Is that what you want?”

“Please…”

“Then that’s what my Paul gets. First things first. I promised to take care you after you were such a good boy and took my cock nice and hard and deep. It’s quiet, there’s just us. We haven’t even lit up our cigarettes yet or made a cuppa. You’re sitting between my legs, your back against my chest. I’m kissing your neck. My fingers are massaging your jaw, right below your ears. Nice and slow. I kiss the back of your head. I whisper I love you.

“I’m stroking your thighs, fingertips lightly grazing over you skin. Mmm, I miss that giggle. You’re relaxed, peaceful, I’m running my hands up your chest, up, until I’m massaging all along you jaw, again. Need to keep my Paul all nice and loose for the next time, and darling, I so want there to be a next time. You’re so beautiful. That moan. My beautiful Paul on the verge of climax. My fingers are in your hair, and I’m kissing the back of your head, again. I’m kissing your shoulders. I’m moving to your temples. Slow circles. Your jaw loosens, and you fall back against my chest.

“I wrap my arms around you. You’re mine, darling. Then, now, always, forever.”

“John!! God…fuck…”

“Much better. I’ll say it again, happy Paul’s cock, happy Paul. I love you.”

“Mmm. I love you. Did you…”

“Wouldn’t have been very fair now, would it?”

“Since when has John Lennon cared about fair?”

“Twat. Ruining my moment. I did stop wanking or I would have come, and speaking of…one night in a swanky hotel? Don’t I rate it?”

“That and better. I’d take us somewhere quiet. Some place by the sea somewhere. No one but us for miles around.”

“If John shags Paul, and there’s no one there to hear it, whose gonna know how dirty Paul’s mouth?”

“We will.”

“Paul and his dirty mouth. I’ve missed it.”

“Paul and his dirty mouth have missed John and his equally dirty mouth. Dirty and beautiful mouth. John and his right hand are busy at the moment. If you leave a message after the groan, he’ll get back to you right after he comes.

“Please hear me when I say this. I’m in love with you, and while I may love Linda very much, it’s not the same. I can’t keep being without you. I will never stop being in love with you, not ever. You and I have time to make this right, and we’re going to, yeah? I want to be holding you, whispering in your ear, telling you how beautiful you are, how hot, how sexy, how hard you make me. I don’t think I’ve truly had a good night’s sleep since we’ve been apart. I miss falling asleep on your chest so that your heart was beating against my cheek.”

“Paul…”

“I can’t wait for you to fuck me. Hard. All those girls, for all those years, wanting it to be me; wanting you to pound into me like that, well, now it’s going to be my turn. You holding onto my hips; you driving yourself into me. Mmm, John Lennon, the not so little engine who more than fucking could.”

“Fuck!! Paul!!”

“That’s my name, honey, feel free to wear it out.”

“Fuck. Twice.”

“Not bad for a lad of a mere forty and a lad of a mere thirty-eight, eh?”

“I’m gonna sleep so bloody well tonight.”

“Not right away, but care to try for three?”

“Macca, I can’t. Know that I want to.”

“Really? Our night of passion in the Savoy doesn’t sound so promising now. Wonder what George is doing…”

“Wanker. You know what I mean.”

“Do we have time for a cuppa, Mr. Lennon?”

“Is that a serious question, love?”

“I’ll be back. Try not to miss me too much, yeah?”

“Too late.”

“Johnny…”

He had taken off again, taking the plate with him, running down the stairs, putting the kettle on. He took a package of biscuits and put it on the counter. He had gone to get his usual mug but had laughed. He had instead chosen a Beatles’ mug someone had given him, all four of them, in suits, with very short hair, all with cups and saucers in their hands, pinkies up, enjoying tea. He dropped a tea bag into the cup, and once the kettle shut itself off, poured in the hot water, and made the way he wanted it. He had grabbed the packet of biscuits and went back upstairs.

“John?”

“Bloody Hell, where did you go for your tea, Ceylon?”

“Oh, stop it.”

“You know, when I was in the kitchen, I was tempted…”

“Mmm, Johnny, you were saying…”

“Perv.”

“Yes? And?”

“I was tempted to say this wasn’t, isn’t, perfect. But it was; it was and is perfect.”

“It very much was and is.”

“Us being together, in person, only makes it better.”

“Definitely, and…oh shit!!! I’m an idiot, yeah? Linda wants to go to New York to see her family for Christmas, though technically it would be after.”

“When?”

“The end of the month. Maybe celebrate the new year there.”

“Macca, I can’t wait to see you, especially after all of this. But even if we do manage to get to a place where we are okay with cheating, I don’t want to sneak off and have a quick shag and a wank, like we’re doing something wrong. Not to mention, love, I don’t want to rush it. I’ve waited ten years for this. I want you to myself for as long as I can have you, with you thinking about me, and me thinking about you not worrying about you getting back to Linda and me trying to keep Yoko from suspecting something.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go for three? Fuck, every time I think there isn’t anything more you can say or do to make me love you and want you more...”

“Paul, darling?”

“Mmm, John, darling?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m already thinking about when we can do this again.”

“I was, too. I don’t want…I didn’t want to assume. Fuck, yes and when??”

“Such a horny lad. I’ll write down days and times I’m here alone; you do the same.”

“I can do that; it takes one to know one, and I don’t know either how I’ve made it these past ten years. You should know, you’re the randiest boy I’ve ever known.”

“I know The Beatles is important, the legacy and all tha’, but, Paul, if we weren’t married, I’m not sure I care if people were to know about us. Before Yoko and Cynthia, before anyone else, there was you. I’ve only ever been in love with you.”

“Yes to all of that.”

“Let’s not put more carts in front of horses. We either have separate conversations about cheating, or we talk first…”

“And jerk off later.”

“Precisely. I want us to work it out, Macca. I don’t want either of us feeling guilty after the fact. We also need to talk about what happens if we want more than being each other’s bit of totty on the side.”

“Agreed. Well, this certainly was an enlightening conversation.”

“That it was. You know, when I was recording “How do you Sleep,” I…was an asshole, but it showed me something.”

“That was?”

“A room full of fucking people who didn’t know what to do when I lost control, though quite frankly, I would have told anyone else to get fucked. Only Richie. He pulled his three months of rank on me, and all he had to do was tell me to knock it off and that was it.

“Not just that. You know you want the guitar to sound a certain way; how something should feel, how something should flow and move; how you need something that sounds counterintuitive, but you know it’s what you need and what the song needs, so you get someone disagreeing with you…”

“Do you know often I’ve had to tell someone, ‘I’m McCartney. The other half of Lennon &. Are you sure arguing with me is the best use of your time, son?’”

“Me, George, and Richie. Fuck. Immediately, it was ‘hey, remember that practice session in nineteen-wheneverthefuck or during whateverthefuck when you did this lick? I need that here, but instead of the last two chords you played, replace them with these.’ Hazza counters with, ‘I can do that, but try putting this chord at the beginning, this one in the middle, and take the middle one and stick it on the end,’ and fuck me if it wasn’t nineteen sixty-three all over again.

“And Ringo. Jesus. Georgie left flowers all over his drum kit when he came back to us. The two of us should have blown him and given him a million pounds from each of us. I’d listen to what he played and damn it if he hadn’t just given the song exactly what it needed, even when I thought it needed something different. Every time I lose him, and he comes back, I remember exactly what the fuck I lost.

“They’ll be a time for The Beatles to get back together, and for anyone who thinks it’s going to be the twenty-year olds that were on Ed Sullivan, they’ve got several other things coming. Not to mention, the same talentless, dickless cunts who showed up when we stepped off that plane in sixty-four wanting to send us back to England crying into our tea and fucking crumpets are going to be the same ones waiting for us to fall on our arses.”

“We fucking showed them in sixty-four; we’ll fucking show them again.”

“Then there’s us, Macca.”

“You and me?”

“Starting over isn’t just us as a couple, love. It’s us writing again. It doesn’t have to be right away. I’d like us to get us sorted first. I can’t concentrate on trying to write when all I can think of is shagging you into next week.”

“I don’t think we ever got sorted that out. There were innumerable writing sessions interrupted by someone having my prick in his mouth.”

“Ringo! That bastard! I always knew that there was something go on between you two.”

“Yes, John, and now you know the truth. I hope you can accept that Richie and I love each other very much and I hope you can be happy for us both…fuck that, I’ll have you both, and…”

“Dibs on Hazza!”

“Beat me to him, like.”

“They’re both agreeable sort of chaps. I’m sure they wouldn’t trading off once in a while.”

“John?”

“I never get tired of hearing you say my name.”

“I never get tired of saying it. I’m going to do my best to think about why we shouldn’t do this because I don’t want you to be hurt, but, and I mean this that, right now, anyway, I can’t think of any. We belong together; we belong to each other. July sixth, nineteen fifty-seven. From that moment on we were meant to be, yeah?”

“We were meant to be with each from birth. We’re Romeo…fuck it…we’re Pyramus and Thisbe, but yes, we will do our best to think of reasons why we shouldn’t, but the minute we decide it’s yes, we switch tack and start working out how.

Darling, the way I hurt is if I can’t have you. I’m so bloody glad today happened, Pyramus.”

“That makes three of us, Thahisabee.”

“Three?”

“You, me and, me cock. It thanks you from the bottom of its heart.”

“Well, I guess it’s four of us. You okay, Pauly?”

“Not feeling bad or guilty, if that’s what you mean. You?”

“That is what I meant and me, neither. Paul…mmm, darling, once again, my world looks like how it’s supposed to look; with you in it. I woke up this morning alone in the bed I’m in right now, and for the three thousandth, three hundred and sixty-third day in a row, I wanted to wake up looking at your face, and for the first time, in a very long fucking time, I know I’m going to be able to.”

“Like everything was backwards, upside down, crooked, out of focus…wrong. Now it’s right again. I make sense again. For the thousandth, three hundred and sixty-third night in a row, I’m going to be falling asleep without you, but for the first time in all that time, darling, I know that’s going to change.”

“James Paul McCartney, I love you.”

“John Winston Lennon, I love you.”

“I have to go. I don’t want to. Please know that.”

“I know, Johnny, and I want very much for you to stay. But I’m satisfied. I know we aren’t done because we are starting over in every way we can.”

“Now, when I write your name out with little hearts around it, or I write Mr. John Lennon-McCartney, or John McCartney, I can just be horny instead of horny and sad.”

“I’ve never stopped writing JL+PM=FOREVER, and Mr. Paul McLennon, and same, not sad, but definitely turned on.”

“Will me princess do something for me?”

“If it’s jerk off while I think about you later, that’s a yes. Ask away, Mr. Lennon-McCartney.”

“Funny you should say that. Can Mr. McCartney-Lennon wait to take a shower for as long as possible? It’s not me drying on you, but it’s there because of me.”

“Consider it done.”

“If it’s possible, I love you more than we first started out in the dawn of civilization.”

“Oh, fuck me, I hadn’t even thought of that. I’m actually looking forward to this July sixth, and I love you more, too.”

“I’d tell you to behave, Pauly, but what fun would that be. We’ll talk soon. I love you.”

“I’d tell you to behave, Johnny, but that would be pointless, and I don’t want you to. Yes, we will. I love you.”

…BBBB…

He took a pull from his cigarette. Smoking was something that he now did on rare occasions. He smiled. These days, he associated it with him and John spending time together, especially lying in bed together after they had made love.

He could still remember hanging up the phone after that conversation and how elated he had felt. He had gotten dressed, but had done what John had asked and not showered until absolutely necessary, and that was when he knew Linda and the kids were due back. Alone in the shower, his back against the cool tile, he had, for the first time in ten years, jerked off thinking about John and hadn’t been filled with loneliness.

It had been easy, getting the kids to bed, kissing them goodnight, turning in with Linda, though they hadn’t had sex, that had only been because she had been tired, but he would have done it with a clean conscious. They had kissed goodnight, and Paul had settled in, had pulled the covers to his chin, and had fallen asleep knowing it was only a matter of time until he and John were together again.

Sure enough, the first part of November had been spent with the pair of them discussing their situation. Neither wanted to hurt their wife, but that, however, hadn’t been the deciding factor. It had been whether they would feel guilty and take it out on each other. Not only would that have destroyed them, but eventually, the fallout would have reached their homes.

He took another drag. It had taken until the sixteenth of that month for the pair of them to reach the conclusion that they had come to on the eighth: that they belonged together. They would work at keeping their relationship a secret at least until their kids were old enough to understand why they getting divorced from their respective partner.

After John had talked to Yoko, and he to Linda, they had settled on January nineteenth. John would stay at The Dorchester and Paul would be staying with him. He had called and made a reservation for ten days in the Harlequin Suite because he knew that John would get a kick out of the pair of them showering together in the bathroom whose pink marble had been installed for Elizabeth Taylor.

The rest of the time on the phone had been spent in absolute bliss. They owned up to every single piece of music that one had written for the other. They had exchanged song ideas, talked about all the places that they hadn’t yet had a chance to visit that they could visit together; all the places that they wanted to go back to.

First up, Paris. Only this time, they would take an entire floor of one of the best hotels in the city. The best food, drink, entertainment, shopping at the most expensive shops and boutiques, and they would make it their personal mission to shag the hotel to the ground.

The more and more time they had spent on the phone, the less and less Paul cared about anyone finding out about them. Secrecy was about neither Yoko nor Linda finding out. They had made plans to tell George and Ringo; they didn’t want their friends and bandmates finding out from the press anymore than they wanted their families to find out from the press.

And each and every time they had engaged in lovemaking over the phone, it had been as incredible as the time before it.

It hadn’t been long after their near daily telephone conversations that Paul had an idea for a song: he would write his side of “(Just Like) Starting Over” and play it for John when they saw each other at the end of the month when he and Linda and the kids would fly out to New York City.

Paul put out the cigarette. And during all that time, he hadn’t felt one single iota of guilt when he had been with Linda, and that had included sex.

December 6^th, 1980

The day had been both remarkable and not. A day like any other of the ones they had been spending together since November the eighth; they had planned; made love; made each other laugh; smoked; had made a cuppa; looked forward to seeing each other at the end of the month.

They had ended the conversation the same way that they had ended their conversations since they had chosen the day for them to be together…counting down to the two times that they would see each other.

Paul had told John twenty-one and I love you; John had told Paul seventy-five and I love you.

Paul had hung up and gone about his day.

Paul had hung up and gone about his day oblivious to the fact that those words would be the very last words he would ever say to John and the very last words he would ever hear John say to him.

And then the unthinkable had occurred. And after he had received the call and found out, a part of Paul died that day, too.

He hadn’t completed his side of  “(Just Like) Starting Over.” A few nights after what had happened, he had taken it and had put it in the safe. He never wanted to lose it or misplace; proof that he and John had indeed started over together.

Instead, he had written “Here Today.” It wasn’t bad, and it still carried meaning for him, but it in no way, shape, or form, adequately described how he had felt about John and what John had meant to him.

It had been, however, while he had been writing the song that he had accepted that he had made the single worse fucking mistake of his life by not choosing John. Instead of making the rule about not shagging, he and John should have fucked, hard and repeatedly until the thought of either of them being with anyone but the other had been burnt away into nothingness. Fucked him until all that was left had been the pair of them.

They were Lennon and McCartney. McCartney and Lennon. PaulandJohn. JohnandPaul. They could have found a way to manage. They could have been together and still had The Beatles. They could have done anything; they had already done the impossible.

It didn’t matter. He should have chosen John and let everything else fall apart if that’s what it had come to.

Once things had somewhat settled in regard to John’s passing, Paul had made two decisions.

Firstly, with the exception of Linda, who he had told before she had passed, his children, Julian and Sean, he wouldn’t tell the truth about him and John. He’d lie, deflect, avoid, evade, but he’d never tell. The world hadn’t let the pair of them be together. They would have been threatened or punished with prison; would have been shunned; would have lost friends and family, and either The Beatles would have never existed; or there would have been an attempt to strip him and John of everything The Beatles had ever accomplished, and that included Ringo and George, who had worked hard, too. They didn’t deserve that.

As far as James Paul McCartney was concerned, he had no obligation to tell the truth or set any record straight about anything. He owed his and John’s relationship to no one. He had given and still gave of himself. The world had made the pair of them chose between their two loves, music or each other, and while, in his case, John should have won out, the fact that they had had to make that choice to begin with meant that very few deserved to know the truth from his own mouth.

He might decide to have something published after his death, but while he was still alive? Unless the world drastically altered its position on homosexuality/bisexuality, or any other sexuality that wasn’t one man, one woman, he’d never open his mouth to tell the truth.

Second, to the best of his ability, Paul had worked and continued to work to preserve the legacy of The Beatles. All four of them had sacrificed so much, none more than George and John, and while he loved Hazza to bits, the fact was that it was his way of keeping John alive.

The collaborations with George and Ringo had been great…though with “Free as a Bird” and “Real Love,” an much later with “Now and Then,” Paul realized just how much John had wanted the pair of them back together…that he had wanted it before “(Just Like) Starting Over,” and once again Paul had been hit with how much time the pair of them had wasted.

It was easier these days to talk about John. Not easy, but easier. He had had the opportunity to perform at Glastonbury with John on screen and Paul had managed to not break down on stage. Maybe, because while he didn’t feel like he was old, he also knew his time on this planet was coming to an end, far sooner rather than later, and if there was any justice in the universe, he’d be with John, and this time, they’d never be apart ever again. They’d find each other in Paris, which is where they agreed to meet once the pair of them had both passed.

Paul smiled. “A much better place, my cheri, my Jean.”

John would have been eighty-five this year. Perhaps it was time to revisit his response to “(Just Like) Starting Over.” He still remembered it well enough to have a go at it right now; he was also curious as to what, if anything, about the song he would change.  

Paul ran his finger over the headstock again. He had been so relieved when he had got the call that it had been found and it just had to be cleaned up and fixed. When he had had it in his hands again, and he had been alone, he had cried. There had never been a moment since July sixth, nineteen fifty-seven that Paul didn’t carry John with him, but things like the bass were more tangible reminders of their relationship; tangible reminders of John.

It was still early. He’d tuck himself into a corner, pen and paper at the ready, and talk to John, inviting him to be, as he had for the past forty-five years, though really since they had first sat down and talked about writing, Paul’s inspiration. He’d work at the song for a couple of hours and then pack it in for the day.

He smiled and picked up the bass. “Come on, gorgeous. Let’s go make some music.”