The Dark Horse
Title: The Dark Horse, part 1/?
Pairing: George/Ringo (mainly), Paul/Ringo (slightly), Paul/George (slightly), John/Paul/George (later), Brian/George (later)
Warnings: Sexual scenes, bad language
Summary: Richard, an ambitious seventeen-year-old, experiences his first encounter with the wickedly devious, yet deeply endearing, street urchins- George Harrison and Paul McCartney. (AU)
Authors notes 1: There will probably be another chapter of this, but I've not given up on Pandemic I swear.
Authors notes 2: Happy birthday to my lovely Paul for tomorrow. And thanks for giving me the best night of my entire life on Sunday.
Richards eyes wander the dark and steamy streets of Liverpool, tracing over every smoking chimney and cracked cobble. He looks distinguished; a bowler hat balanced uncomfortably above a mop of hair, a bow-tie choking his neck. The only thing that lets him down is the cigarette that hangs between his lips and the scuffs on the newly bought shoes. He doesn’t wear shoe shine. He doesn’t know HOW he manages to mess things up so quickly. Next to him, legs swinging from the wall, is John Lennon. Lennon, a great friend of his, is a scruff, an outcast, a piss-taker of anyone with aspirations. And that is exactly what he is doing right now.
“Well what the fuckin’ hell you after a job for anyway?!”
Richard roles his eyes, repeating for the millionth time, “So me mam doesn’t ‘ave to work three jobs!”
“You’re only seventeen years young! You got plenty of time to be pissin’ about with a paper round.”
“No, no” Richard smiles. “Not a paper round. A proper job. With a boss n’ a suit and everythin’.”
“You’ll only screw it up. I like you better when you’re drunk. Or shaggin’.”
“Gotta stop that now.”
“What, shaggin’?”
“No, gettin’ drunk.”
John snorts. “Yeah! For how long though?”
Richard only looks impassive, and taps John’s hooked nose with the knuckle of his thumb. “For a week at least, I spect.”
“So I’m on the pull alone tonight?”
“Looks that way, mate.”
John sighs dramatically and throws his body back to land with a thud on the terrace. “And what’s the quickest way one can get you fired from this job?”
“Not tellin’!” Richard grins, because he knows John means everything he says. He always does.
Still, the newly-employed teenager pulls a wallet from his jacket pocket, and opens up the contents, which boasts a rather sizable amount of cash.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell!” John exclaims, his fingers already roaming the insides.
“Take five pounds. “ Richard sighs. “But that’s yer lot.”
Johns’ eyes widen, and Richard can see he is impressed, which is no mean feat. John composes himself quickly however, and returns to nonchalance. Still, he snatches the five pounds away a little too quickly to maintain a façade of pure impassiveness.
“Cheers.” He grunts. “That’ll pay for a couple of prostitutes.”
Richard shrugs. “If yer that desperate.”
“I am, believe me.”
Once again, Richard eyes glaze around the smoky streets, glistened in raindrops and coated in steam. At the far end of the road there is some kind of gathering. A group of people have crowded around a busker, but Richard can’t hear the music from here. He does recognise two members of the crowd though. The same two boys, always together, always there, always listening to music. And they always catch Richard’s attention, they always haunt his memory, they always torture him with their unashamed presence.
And now they’re here. Again.
He can never take his eyes off them. Never.
The boys are no different to the other urchins who roam about. Nothing differentiates them from other “scum”. They both have long shaggy hair, dirty ripped clothes and more cheek than is good for them. They both have long legs, emphasized by identical drainpipes. One of the boys doesn’t even have shoes on. He never does.
And right now, the shoeless-one smiles and winks at a passerby, for seemingly no reason. He has large eyes, long eyelashes. He radiates some kind of special charm, one that makes him appear cute, and yet self-assured and street-wise.
Watching them, Richard can now see why the boy winked. He has gained this strangers trust. And now, the shoeless-boy pushes his hand into the strangers coat pocket. And seconds later, his hand reappears, and he clutches a purple leather wallet. The stranger is none the wiser. The shoeless-boy turns casually, drops the wallet into his jumper. He doesn’t even look nervous or guilty by such an unconcealed crime. He doesn’t care that anybody could have been watching. This is a regular occurrence, a normal hobby for him.
Richards fists clench in annoyance. And excitement that he doesn’t want to stew on. Because although he can’t take his eyes off these boys, he knows he should hate them. Perhaps he does hate them. Perhaps he can’t stand their cocky smiles and mischievous laughter and alluring charm, and perhaps THAT’S why he gets such strange feelings in his stomach when he looks at them.
He wishes he never had to endure the contact with them that he did.
Now, the other boy smiles, and he too is casual, unaffected. He’s slightly smaller than the shoeless boy, and his hair longer, and his face dirtier. His face is enlightened by tight, sharp cheekbones and deep dark eyes. His body is skinnier than the other boys. He looks like he hasn’t been fed anything for years. Still, he seems comfortable enough alongside the thief, and he seems happily engrossed inside the music. His face is unsmiling, and yet not in an unhappy way. On the contrary, he seems calm and untroubled. He too bares an air of confidence and street-wise that Richard wouldn’t want to challenge.
Richard has been unable to take his eyes off these boys, ever since the incident.
Not a day goes by where he doesn’t remember the incident.
Richard stands at the entrance to the school. Everybody has gone now, but Richard has loitered for some reason; he doesn’t want to go home yet. John’s not around; he skived off again. Rory is nowhere in sight. The whole place is quiet and peaceful, and silhouetted by a murky purple sky. How long has he been standing here?
He pulls another packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He lights up, and watches ash trickle in a neat little line through thin air onto the cobbles. He is entranced by this for a long time. So long, in fact, that he doesn’t notice he suddenly has company.
There is a boy at the end of the street. He’s skinny, underfed, with piercing eyes. His stare is as intense as the brown eyes that fashion it. He is watching Richard for signs of weakness, or recognition… or Richard doesn’t know what.
“You alright mate?” he asks casually.
The boy moves out of the shadows, and now Richard can see that this is one of those urchins. Creatures of the street, that sleep on doorsteps and hitch rides on the roves of cars. These are the kids Richard has been taught to stay clear of, though he’s always felt an element of sympathy for them. He’s sure they don’t WANT to be homeless.
Now, the boy leans on the wall next to Richard, and he asks for a cigarette.
They always ask for stuff, and you’re not supposed to give them anything, because the next time it will be food, then money, then a place to stay, and then car keys.
Still, Richard isn’t in the mood for awkwardness, and hands a cigarette into the eagerly outstretched hands. The boys hands are covered in ash, and there is a nasty scar that covers the palm. Richard doesn’t ask about it.
The boy smokes in silence. His body is very close to Richard… closer than most strangers stand, almost an invasion of personal space. He probably hasn’t acquired the proper social boundaries most educated lads do.
Richard decides he doesn’t mind.
“Wha’ you waiting down ‘ere for then?” the boy asks, and he speaks with a thick Scouser accent
Richard shrugs. “Just hangin’. Nice evenin’.”
The boy smiles. He has a crooked smile, and it stretches right across his face. It lights up his eyes in a gleam that Richard finds almost endearing, fashioning a generous set of long, charmingly uneven teeth.
“Whas’ yer name?” The boy asks.
“Richard.”
“I’m George.”
Richard just nods, casually, trying not to build any real intimacy of conversation. “Oh, right.” He breathes.
But while Richard is set on keeping his distance, this ‘George’ seems rather intent on the latter. He moves closer, and his chest is practically pressed to Richards shoulder. Richard shuffles uncomfortably the other way, but George follows. His cigarette hangs by his side, so close to Richards’ waist that he can feel the heat of the smoke on his flesh. And then, bizarrely, before Richard can really find his bearings, George’s other hand is on the other side of his waist, touching - tentatively… expertly… softly and sensually. And Richard doesn’t know what the hell is going on here, and shuffles away again. But this time, George scooches in front of him. And now they’re standing face to face. So close, George isn’t even giving him room to breathe privately. Richard can feel gentle fingers sliding across the skin of his hips.
“Hey now…” he breathes, frowning in confusion.
Georges’ lips are parted slightly, and his eyes are focussed in hunger, dedication. Temporarily, Richard finds himself transfixed inside a strong-held gaze of this young, unabashed stranger. And when he feels fingers rising underneath his shirt, he shivers from the soft, skilled contact of slight fingernails.
“What are you doing?” He gasps, almost inaudibly
The young boy presses himself against Richard, and Richard takes a deep breath at the feel of hardness against his thigh. Just what the hell is going on here? The urchin drops his cigarette to the ground, and then his fingers are raking through the back of Richards hair. And this is so new, so bizarre, so uncalled for and ridiculous, and yet Richard melts into the touch that surrounds him, and feels himself growing stiff at the contact, mesmerised by the erection now rubbing against his leg.
“You’ve got nice eyes.” The urchin whispers. And then his tongue darts out, and licks across the skin of Richards neck, his fingers trailing down the back.
Richard can’t help but audibly moan at that, albeit quietly, but George hears and his eyes glaze over in lust and yearning. He sucks and licks and nibbles upon the neck of the stranger, and the craziness of this just makes Richard more turned on, as his hands travel onto the urchins back. This is surreal, and yet Georges lips feel warm and.. electrifying. Richards body surges from the hot and fast contact.
Richard feels himself being pushed backwards, and lands on the bench. He doesn’t have long to comprehend this new position or how he got there, for the next second George moves, straddling his lap. The boys lips are back on Richards neck while he rocks torturously on the older boys thighs.
Richard, through half-lidded eyes, looks up at this mysterious boy. His matted fringe falls jaggedly over a pair of dark eyebrows which meet slightly in the middle by a few dark hairs. His bottom lip is large; chapped and cut, but glistening red and swollen from kisses. His tongue swipes erotically across it.
“Come ‘ere” Richard hears himself breath, and his hands fasten on Georges’ lower back, bringing the small body closer up his lap.
George moans softly, erotically. The sound is so sensual, and Richard lets it hum through his ears momentarily. This… the daringness and surrealness is all so exciting. And when Richard looks down, the urchins hands are pulling at his trouser zipper. He’s quick and capable with his fingers, and the button falls open.
“Lets see what you’ve got here.” George murmurs in a low, calming voice.
Richard gasps in pleasure as expert hands wrap around his erect penis, and pull it out of his trousers. George smiles in satisfaction.
“Kept that quiet, didn’t you?” He grins
Before Richard replies, George is scooching off his lap, and he falls to his knees between Richards legs. Richard knows what comes next, and he has no further doubts or inhibitions, and the next second, the pair of wet lips close around the tip of his cock.
“Oh shit,” he groans, his head falling backwards against the bench.
His hands reach out and rake through the urchins thick dark locks of hair, pulling him closer in. He needn’t bother, because this young lad knows exactly what he’s doing, and soon Richard can hear himself gasping and groaning and grunting in whines of ecstasy.
Too soon, George is rising to his feet.
He takes Richards hands, and Richard obliges, following George’s lead. He allows George to guide his hands to the rim of Georges trousers.
“Fuck me.” George exhales. Richard takes a sharp breath, allowing himself to be guided. George is waking backwards, pulling Richard with him by the hands, into a side alleyway, off the public street. “Fuck me” he whispers again
Richard swallows, and sweat pours from his forehead, and he doesn’t think, he just leans forward and locks his lips onto the urchins, who is irresistible to him now. And it doesn’t matter how this happened, it only matters that he needs to have this boy. This boy is beautiful and sensual and exciting, exhilarating, with an air of danger as well as sweetness and calamity.
They reach the entrance of the alleyway, and George stops, he breaks the kiss.
He pants, and he looks up, speaking close to Richards face.
“Do you have the money?”
Richard swallows, licking his lips hungrily, and his fingers rake through the urchins hair.
“Huh?” he pants
George tenses inside his arms. “You’ve got the money?” he asks again
And this time Richard does hear. He stops his movement, his hands freezing in the younger boys hair. His blood seems to run cold inside his chest as the words consume him.
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
And now George doesn’t just tense, but releases himself completely from the inside of Richards’ arms. His eyes are wide… shocked and angry.
“You’ve gotta pay me!”
Richard blinks, dazed, and his breathing growing uncomfortably hard. “I… what… you…” He struggles to tie together comprehendible thoughts, suddenly stuck between lust and confusion, and this sudden coldness.
But eventually, it occurs to him.
“You… you’re a fucking prostitute???”
“Well what the fuck did you THINK we were doing?!”
“I just… I … I thought…” Richard falters, his face growing red; humiliation and shame curling up inside his stomach… and disgust. “Fuck, I dunno!! I didn’t know you were a fucking whore!”
“You’ve gotta pay me!” George orders
“For what???”
“I fucking sucked you off! You gotta pay me for that!”
“No way!!” Richard laughs disbelievingly. “I didn’t…. you never TOLD me!”
“Fuck that! You owe me fuckin’ money! Give me!”
“No! Get lost!”
“FUCK YOU!” George spits, “You owe me!”
The whole ordeal, Richard still remembers it every day. The disgust in himself at having let things get that far, and the self-hate for the utter stupidity that he never realised. How could he believe that someone as charming and good-looking as that boy would randomly want to be taken by someone like Richard? Of course he was a prostitute. It was so obvious. And more than anything, Richard is consumed with disgust on behalf of the stranger. George. George, who does such things to any stranger, young or old, every day. And he really does get fucked down alleyways, without care or feeling, though Richard was tricked into believing there was some.
George is too good for that.
Richard doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know anything about him apart from that he smokes and likes music. But from his eyes, he can see that George is special, and a boy far too good for such treatment. To put himself in those situations. And Georges’ sheer anger when he realised he wasn’t going to be paid… it still stuns and frightens Richard when he remembers it.
Later, Richard would learn why the desperation for that money was so fierce. It was nothing to do with food or drugs like the schools would have him believe. George owed money - lodgings - to a man named Brian who offered him shelter. Brian cared for a lot of boys, but at a price. George was sent onto the streets to earn his keep. And he needed that money that night. He needed it badly. Richard never found out what would happen if George hadn’t paid his part, but he shuddered to think. And though he is filled with shame and resentment when he remembers the saga, he is glad that he eventually handed the money over. He hates George, but can’t bear the idea that that sweet, charming young boy could be hurt.
This is all said in hindsight of course.
Because the money wasn’t handed over willingly.
Unfortunately for Richard, wherever young George went, his fellow bare-footed pick-pocket wasn’t far behind.
And Paul McCartney certainly had a few things to say when he arrived on the scene.
“What the fuck is goin’ on?!”
The voice echoes up the street, as if from nowhere. Richard is startled, and looks from Georges’ fierce eyes into the other boys even fiercer ones, approaching from the shadows.
“What’s goin’ on George?!” Paul orders
George clenches his teeth together, and he points at Richard intensely.
“He won’t pay me.”
“Hey!” Richard gasps, “I… we… fuck this, we didn’t DO anything!!”
“He was gonna fuck me without payin’.” George declares.
Paul’s eyes flash with anger, which doesn’t suit his youthful face and yet somehow that makes the gesture all the more intimidating. He moves towards Richard furiously.
“Are you mad?” He breathes, “He’s only a fuckin’ kid, you perv!!”
Richard gapes, mouth hanging open pathetically, momentarily speechless. “He… I … I don’t know how old he is!!”
“Well does he LOOK seventeen to you?!”
“HE came on to ME!”
Paul doesn’t care. He folds his arms, nods in Georges’ direction and commands, “Pay ‘im.”
“Look, no way. I didn’t know he was a whore!”
“Oh, you thought he was after your irresistible looks, did ye!?” Paul laughs unkindly. “Fuckin’ pay him, now. Before I make you.”
Richard has already lost enough dignity. And he’s not going to loose anymore by faltering to these tramps ridiculous demands.
“No. No way. Nothing ‘appened and there’s no way I’m payin’ for it.”
George stands behind Paul, his challenging eyes are peering over Pauls’ shoulder. It’s then that Richard realises this is a rehearsed routine. This isn’t the first time they have performed this, and they know EXACTLY what they are doing. They are professionals. Professional prostitutes, professional thief’s, professional masters at trickery. He knows this now, and they know he knows. And nobody cares, because they’re going to get their way in the end. They always do.
Paul smiles sweetly, relaxed and calm and confident of his own power. “You pay ‘im,” he states, “and I’ll try and forget that you abused a fourteen-year-old.”
“I didn’t ABUSE ‘im!”
“Pay him. And I’ll forget.” Paul repeats
There is a long silence. Richard stares incredulously into Pauls’ large, expecting eyes. His face glowers with boyish charm and youthfulness and yet beneath that is a devious power and mastermind. Paul is certainly a good ally for this young, endearing, fresh-faced prostitute. Richard can see they make quite a team, and he loathes himself for falling onto the receiving end of it.
Now, George walks innocently from behind Pauls’ figure, and he suddenly looks young and naive, and even afraid, though he doesn’t do it in a way that’s strikingly noticeable. Fuck, Richard really has really been taken for a ride here. How long has this routine taken them to perfect?
His heart hammers.
And he can’t believe he’s doing it, and he hates himself for doing it, but he sees no other way out.
He reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out his wallet.
He doesn’t even get to take any money out, because Paul has fiendishly quick hands, and within milliseconds it has been snatched from Richards clutches.
Paul hands it behind him to George, who quickly shoves it down his jumper.
As final warning, Paul produces a flick knife. It makes a clash sound as the blade appears, and Richard flinches as the moonlight shines off the silver razor edge.
“Fuck man, I paid you!!” He gasps
Paul doesn’t appear to hear him. He leans in, presses his lips to the side of Richards ear. And Richard is thoroughly ashamed to notice that Paul has electrifyingly soft lips, that contradict every piece of venom that spills from his mouth.
“You touch him again, and I’ll kill you.” He warns
Richard swallows hard, flinching away from the butterfly breath that is so close to him. “Don’t worry.” He croaks. “I won’t.”
Richard barely has a moment to blink, and the two boys are gone.
It’s been months and months since then. And Richard knows all about them now.
And how? Well it’s ridiculous really, but John has told him.
Because trust John Lennon to join forces with the wickedly cunning young shits who are responsible for all the crime, deceit and fear that litters the streets on a daily basis. Yes, trust John Lennon to choose THOSE as his closes alliances.
Richard knows now.
There is fifteen-year-old Paul McCartney, who has made his living out of swearing his virginity to each customer who takes him into the back alley. With this method he works less, but earns more. And even the wisest and most savvy of men can’t help but fall under the trustful trance of his magnificent doe eyes, as he swears by his purity. George Harrison, fourteen, would use this technique. But he’s been beaten too many times, and he doesn’t look for trouble. He knows the power of these strong men with heavy wallets and little morals. Men who happily take fourteen-year-old boys down back alleys, are also happy to beat the living shit out of them for it, should the need arise. George doesn’t have the stomach or backbone to tell such blatant lies to men who dish so much cash for innocence. He doesn’t lie well, and he respects Pauls nerve to continue doing so. One day Paul will get found out. They both know this, and they both dread the day coming. George can’t risk it. Instead, he works day and night, earning less but working more. He could never swear by God like Paul, and partly because he’s well-known round these parts for what he is: A filthy whore. And not a day goes by where somebody doesn’t remind him of it.
Luckily, willing to free George of torment and back Pauls claims, is their trustworthy companion. Because Lennon is seventeen, middle-class, living with his Auntie in the centre of Liverpool. He’s expected to attend school, make a go of his life, and stay clean and sanitized, proper and kempt. He was bought up in a Catholic school. He was taught that he should loathe street urchins, pick-pockets and prostitutes. He was taught to harass them, to beat them, to report them or to stay well clear.
Which is exactly why he was attracted to these two young scruffs to begin with. It’s exactly why he took McCartney and Harrison under his wing, bought them food, and now gives them money from his Auntie’s purse.
And John loves to rub noses with them in public, to broadcast his “escapades” to the town locals. He likes to walk around with one of them slumped over his shoulders, and take them into local pubs they can’t afford. If anybody gives them any hassle, John shuts that person up with a fist in the face, because as well as using these boys to be nonconformist, he also holds a great deal of affection for the buggers. John is told time and time again that he is a disgrace to his family, and his mother would be turning in her grave. Frankly, he thinks the very opposite. He’s even taken Paul to see his mothers grave, and afterwards a bird shit on the head of one of Pauls’ tormenters. They agreed that day, Johns mother would love Paul. She too was looking after the young urchin.
John likes to make them dress up as everyday citizens and wrestle on pub tables, or kiss in public. They don’t like to kiss each other, but they do it for John. They hate all other civilians it seems. They think the middle-class are good for alleyway fucks and little more. But for John, they’d bend over backwards, and John makes sure they are well cared for, in praise, which is all anybody ever wants from him.
Richard can see how adding John Lennon to the mix, would make that scheming team an unstoppable force. And he fucking hates them for it. But why then can he not stop shivering from that butterfly breath and erotic wicked charm?
Pairing: George/Ringo (mainly), Paul/Ringo (slightly), Paul/George (slightly), John/Paul/George (later), Brian/George (later)
Warnings: Sexual scenes, bad language
Summary: Richard, an ambitious seventeen-year-old, experiences his first encounter with the wickedly devious, yet deeply endearing, street urchins- George Harrison and Paul McCartney. (AU)
Authors notes 1: There will probably be another chapter of this, but I've not given up on Pandemic I swear.
Authors notes 2: Happy birthday to my lovely Paul for tomorrow. And thanks for giving me the best night of my entire life on Sunday.
Richards eyes wander the dark and steamy streets of Liverpool, tracing over every smoking chimney and cracked cobble. He looks distinguished; a bowler hat balanced uncomfortably above a mop of hair, a bow-tie choking his neck. The only thing that lets him down is the cigarette that hangs between his lips and the scuffs on the newly bought shoes. He doesn’t wear shoe shine. He doesn’t know HOW he manages to mess things up so quickly. Next to him, legs swinging from the wall, is John Lennon. Lennon, a great friend of his, is a scruff, an outcast, a piss-taker of anyone with aspirations. And that is exactly what he is doing right now.
“Well what the fuckin’ hell you after a job for anyway?!”
Richard roles his eyes, repeating for the millionth time, “So me mam doesn’t ‘ave to work three jobs!”
“You’re only seventeen years young! You got plenty of time to be pissin’ about with a paper round.”
“No, no” Richard smiles. “Not a paper round. A proper job. With a boss n’ a suit and everythin’.”
“You’ll only screw it up. I like you better when you’re drunk. Or shaggin’.”
“Gotta stop that now.”
“What, shaggin’?”
“No, gettin’ drunk.”
John snorts. “Yeah! For how long though?”
Richard only looks impassive, and taps John’s hooked nose with the knuckle of his thumb. “For a week at least, I spect.”
“So I’m on the pull alone tonight?”
“Looks that way, mate.”
John sighs dramatically and throws his body back to land with a thud on the terrace. “And what’s the quickest way one can get you fired from this job?”
“Not tellin’!” Richard grins, because he knows John means everything he says. He always does.
Still, the newly-employed teenager pulls a wallet from his jacket pocket, and opens up the contents, which boasts a rather sizable amount of cash.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell!” John exclaims, his fingers already roaming the insides.
“Take five pounds. “ Richard sighs. “But that’s yer lot.”
Johns’ eyes widen, and Richard can see he is impressed, which is no mean feat. John composes himself quickly however, and returns to nonchalance. Still, he snatches the five pounds away a little too quickly to maintain a façade of pure impassiveness.
“Cheers.” He grunts. “That’ll pay for a couple of prostitutes.”
Richard shrugs. “If yer that desperate.”
“I am, believe me.”
Once again, Richard eyes glaze around the smoky streets, glistened in raindrops and coated in steam. At the far end of the road there is some kind of gathering. A group of people have crowded around a busker, but Richard can’t hear the music from here. He does recognise two members of the crowd though. The same two boys, always together, always there, always listening to music. And they always catch Richard’s attention, they always haunt his memory, they always torture him with their unashamed presence.
And now they’re here. Again.
He can never take his eyes off them. Never.
The boys are no different to the other urchins who roam about. Nothing differentiates them from other “scum”. They both have long shaggy hair, dirty ripped clothes and more cheek than is good for them. They both have long legs, emphasized by identical drainpipes. One of the boys doesn’t even have shoes on. He never does.
And right now, the shoeless-one smiles and winks at a passerby, for seemingly no reason. He has large eyes, long eyelashes. He radiates some kind of special charm, one that makes him appear cute, and yet self-assured and street-wise.
Watching them, Richard can now see why the boy winked. He has gained this strangers trust. And now, the shoeless-boy pushes his hand into the strangers coat pocket. And seconds later, his hand reappears, and he clutches a purple leather wallet. The stranger is none the wiser. The shoeless-boy turns casually, drops the wallet into his jumper. He doesn’t even look nervous or guilty by such an unconcealed crime. He doesn’t care that anybody could have been watching. This is a regular occurrence, a normal hobby for him.
Richards fists clench in annoyance. And excitement that he doesn’t want to stew on. Because although he can’t take his eyes off these boys, he knows he should hate them. Perhaps he does hate them. Perhaps he can’t stand their cocky smiles and mischievous laughter and alluring charm, and perhaps THAT’S why he gets such strange feelings in his stomach when he looks at them.
He wishes he never had to endure the contact with them that he did.
Now, the other boy smiles, and he too is casual, unaffected. He’s slightly smaller than the shoeless boy, and his hair longer, and his face dirtier. His face is enlightened by tight, sharp cheekbones and deep dark eyes. His body is skinnier than the other boys. He looks like he hasn’t been fed anything for years. Still, he seems comfortable enough alongside the thief, and he seems happily engrossed inside the music. His face is unsmiling, and yet not in an unhappy way. On the contrary, he seems calm and untroubled. He too bares an air of confidence and street-wise that Richard wouldn’t want to challenge.
Richard has been unable to take his eyes off these boys, ever since the incident.
Not a day goes by where he doesn’t remember the incident.
Richard stands at the entrance to the school. Everybody has gone now, but Richard has loitered for some reason; he doesn’t want to go home yet. John’s not around; he skived off again. Rory is nowhere in sight. The whole place is quiet and peaceful, and silhouetted by a murky purple sky. How long has he been standing here?
He pulls another packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He lights up, and watches ash trickle in a neat little line through thin air onto the cobbles. He is entranced by this for a long time. So long, in fact, that he doesn’t notice he suddenly has company.
There is a boy at the end of the street. He’s skinny, underfed, with piercing eyes. His stare is as intense as the brown eyes that fashion it. He is watching Richard for signs of weakness, or recognition… or Richard doesn’t know what.
“You alright mate?” he asks casually.
The boy moves out of the shadows, and now Richard can see that this is one of those urchins. Creatures of the street, that sleep on doorsteps and hitch rides on the roves of cars. These are the kids Richard has been taught to stay clear of, though he’s always felt an element of sympathy for them. He’s sure they don’t WANT to be homeless.
Now, the boy leans on the wall next to Richard, and he asks for a cigarette.
They always ask for stuff, and you’re not supposed to give them anything, because the next time it will be food, then money, then a place to stay, and then car keys.
Still, Richard isn’t in the mood for awkwardness, and hands a cigarette into the eagerly outstretched hands. The boys hands are covered in ash, and there is a nasty scar that covers the palm. Richard doesn’t ask about it.
The boy smokes in silence. His body is very close to Richard… closer than most strangers stand, almost an invasion of personal space. He probably hasn’t acquired the proper social boundaries most educated lads do.
Richard decides he doesn’t mind.
“Wha’ you waiting down ‘ere for then?” the boy asks, and he speaks with a thick Scouser accent
Richard shrugs. “Just hangin’. Nice evenin’.”
The boy smiles. He has a crooked smile, and it stretches right across his face. It lights up his eyes in a gleam that Richard finds almost endearing, fashioning a generous set of long, charmingly uneven teeth.
“Whas’ yer name?” The boy asks.
“Richard.”
“I’m George.”
Richard just nods, casually, trying not to build any real intimacy of conversation. “Oh, right.” He breathes.
But while Richard is set on keeping his distance, this ‘George’ seems rather intent on the latter. He moves closer, and his chest is practically pressed to Richards shoulder. Richard shuffles uncomfortably the other way, but George follows. His cigarette hangs by his side, so close to Richards’ waist that he can feel the heat of the smoke on his flesh. And then, bizarrely, before Richard can really find his bearings, George’s other hand is on the other side of his waist, touching - tentatively… expertly… softly and sensually. And Richard doesn’t know what the hell is going on here, and shuffles away again. But this time, George scooches in front of him. And now they’re standing face to face. So close, George isn’t even giving him room to breathe privately. Richard can feel gentle fingers sliding across the skin of his hips.
“Hey now…” he breathes, frowning in confusion.
Georges’ lips are parted slightly, and his eyes are focussed in hunger, dedication. Temporarily, Richard finds himself transfixed inside a strong-held gaze of this young, unabashed stranger. And when he feels fingers rising underneath his shirt, he shivers from the soft, skilled contact of slight fingernails.
“What are you doing?” He gasps, almost inaudibly
The young boy presses himself against Richard, and Richard takes a deep breath at the feel of hardness against his thigh. Just what the hell is going on here? The urchin drops his cigarette to the ground, and then his fingers are raking through the back of Richards hair. And this is so new, so bizarre, so uncalled for and ridiculous, and yet Richard melts into the touch that surrounds him, and feels himself growing stiff at the contact, mesmerised by the erection now rubbing against his leg.
“You’ve got nice eyes.” The urchin whispers. And then his tongue darts out, and licks across the skin of Richards neck, his fingers trailing down the back.
Richard can’t help but audibly moan at that, albeit quietly, but George hears and his eyes glaze over in lust and yearning. He sucks and licks and nibbles upon the neck of the stranger, and the craziness of this just makes Richard more turned on, as his hands travel onto the urchins back. This is surreal, and yet Georges lips feel warm and.. electrifying. Richards body surges from the hot and fast contact.
Richard feels himself being pushed backwards, and lands on the bench. He doesn’t have long to comprehend this new position or how he got there, for the next second George moves, straddling his lap. The boys lips are back on Richards neck while he rocks torturously on the older boys thighs.
Richard, through half-lidded eyes, looks up at this mysterious boy. His matted fringe falls jaggedly over a pair of dark eyebrows which meet slightly in the middle by a few dark hairs. His bottom lip is large; chapped and cut, but glistening red and swollen from kisses. His tongue swipes erotically across it.
“Come ‘ere” Richard hears himself breath, and his hands fasten on Georges’ lower back, bringing the small body closer up his lap.
George moans softly, erotically. The sound is so sensual, and Richard lets it hum through his ears momentarily. This… the daringness and surrealness is all so exciting. And when Richard looks down, the urchins hands are pulling at his trouser zipper. He’s quick and capable with his fingers, and the button falls open.
“Lets see what you’ve got here.” George murmurs in a low, calming voice.
Richard gasps in pleasure as expert hands wrap around his erect penis, and pull it out of his trousers. George smiles in satisfaction.
“Kept that quiet, didn’t you?” He grins
Before Richard replies, George is scooching off his lap, and he falls to his knees between Richards legs. Richard knows what comes next, and he has no further doubts or inhibitions, and the next second, the pair of wet lips close around the tip of his cock.
“Oh shit,” he groans, his head falling backwards against the bench.
His hands reach out and rake through the urchins thick dark locks of hair, pulling him closer in. He needn’t bother, because this young lad knows exactly what he’s doing, and soon Richard can hear himself gasping and groaning and grunting in whines of ecstasy.
Too soon, George is rising to his feet.
He takes Richards hands, and Richard obliges, following George’s lead. He allows George to guide his hands to the rim of Georges trousers.
“Fuck me.” George exhales. Richard takes a sharp breath, allowing himself to be guided. George is waking backwards, pulling Richard with him by the hands, into a side alleyway, off the public street. “Fuck me” he whispers again
Richard swallows, and sweat pours from his forehead, and he doesn’t think, he just leans forward and locks his lips onto the urchins, who is irresistible to him now. And it doesn’t matter how this happened, it only matters that he needs to have this boy. This boy is beautiful and sensual and exciting, exhilarating, with an air of danger as well as sweetness and calamity.
They reach the entrance of the alleyway, and George stops, he breaks the kiss.
He pants, and he looks up, speaking close to Richards face.
“Do you have the money?”
Richard swallows, licking his lips hungrily, and his fingers rake through the urchins hair.
“Huh?” he pants
George tenses inside his arms. “You’ve got the money?” he asks again
And this time Richard does hear. He stops his movement, his hands freezing in the younger boys hair. His blood seems to run cold inside his chest as the words consume him.
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
And now George doesn’t just tense, but releases himself completely from the inside of Richards’ arms. His eyes are wide… shocked and angry.
“You’ve gotta pay me!”
Richard blinks, dazed, and his breathing growing uncomfortably hard. “I… what… you…” He struggles to tie together comprehendible thoughts, suddenly stuck between lust and confusion, and this sudden coldness.
But eventually, it occurs to him.
“You… you’re a fucking prostitute???”
“Well what the fuck did you THINK we were doing?!”
“I just… I … I thought…” Richard falters, his face growing red; humiliation and shame curling up inside his stomach… and disgust. “Fuck, I dunno!! I didn’t know you were a fucking whore!”
“You’ve gotta pay me!” George orders
“For what???”
“I fucking sucked you off! You gotta pay me for that!”
“No way!!” Richard laughs disbelievingly. “I didn’t…. you never TOLD me!”
“Fuck that! You owe me fuckin’ money! Give me!”
“No! Get lost!”
“FUCK YOU!” George spits, “You owe me!”
The whole ordeal, Richard still remembers it every day. The disgust in himself at having let things get that far, and the self-hate for the utter stupidity that he never realised. How could he believe that someone as charming and good-looking as that boy would randomly want to be taken by someone like Richard? Of course he was a prostitute. It was so obvious. And more than anything, Richard is consumed with disgust on behalf of the stranger. George. George, who does such things to any stranger, young or old, every day. And he really does get fucked down alleyways, without care or feeling, though Richard was tricked into believing there was some.
George is too good for that.
Richard doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know anything about him apart from that he smokes and likes music. But from his eyes, he can see that George is special, and a boy far too good for such treatment. To put himself in those situations. And Georges’ sheer anger when he realised he wasn’t going to be paid… it still stuns and frightens Richard when he remembers it.
Later, Richard would learn why the desperation for that money was so fierce. It was nothing to do with food or drugs like the schools would have him believe. George owed money - lodgings - to a man named Brian who offered him shelter. Brian cared for a lot of boys, but at a price. George was sent onto the streets to earn his keep. And he needed that money that night. He needed it badly. Richard never found out what would happen if George hadn’t paid his part, but he shuddered to think. And though he is filled with shame and resentment when he remembers the saga, he is glad that he eventually handed the money over. He hates George, but can’t bear the idea that that sweet, charming young boy could be hurt.
This is all said in hindsight of course.
Because the money wasn’t handed over willingly.
Unfortunately for Richard, wherever young George went, his fellow bare-footed pick-pocket wasn’t far behind.
And Paul McCartney certainly had a few things to say when he arrived on the scene.
“What the fuck is goin’ on?!”
The voice echoes up the street, as if from nowhere. Richard is startled, and looks from Georges’ fierce eyes into the other boys even fiercer ones, approaching from the shadows.
“What’s goin’ on George?!” Paul orders
George clenches his teeth together, and he points at Richard intensely.
“He won’t pay me.”
“Hey!” Richard gasps, “I… we… fuck this, we didn’t DO anything!!”
“He was gonna fuck me without payin’.” George declares.
Paul’s eyes flash with anger, which doesn’t suit his youthful face and yet somehow that makes the gesture all the more intimidating. He moves towards Richard furiously.
“Are you mad?” He breathes, “He’s only a fuckin’ kid, you perv!!”
Richard gapes, mouth hanging open pathetically, momentarily speechless. “He… I … I don’t know how old he is!!”
“Well does he LOOK seventeen to you?!”
“HE came on to ME!”
Paul doesn’t care. He folds his arms, nods in Georges’ direction and commands, “Pay ‘im.”
“Look, no way. I didn’t know he was a whore!”
“Oh, you thought he was after your irresistible looks, did ye!?” Paul laughs unkindly. “Fuckin’ pay him, now. Before I make you.”
Richard has already lost enough dignity. And he’s not going to loose anymore by faltering to these tramps ridiculous demands.
“No. No way. Nothing ‘appened and there’s no way I’m payin’ for it.”
George stands behind Paul, his challenging eyes are peering over Pauls’ shoulder. It’s then that Richard realises this is a rehearsed routine. This isn’t the first time they have performed this, and they know EXACTLY what they are doing. They are professionals. Professional prostitutes, professional thief’s, professional masters at trickery. He knows this now, and they know he knows. And nobody cares, because they’re going to get their way in the end. They always do.
Paul smiles sweetly, relaxed and calm and confident of his own power. “You pay ‘im,” he states, “and I’ll try and forget that you abused a fourteen-year-old.”
“I didn’t ABUSE ‘im!”
“Pay him. And I’ll forget.” Paul repeats
There is a long silence. Richard stares incredulously into Pauls’ large, expecting eyes. His face glowers with boyish charm and youthfulness and yet beneath that is a devious power and mastermind. Paul is certainly a good ally for this young, endearing, fresh-faced prostitute. Richard can see they make quite a team, and he loathes himself for falling onto the receiving end of it.
Now, George walks innocently from behind Pauls’ figure, and he suddenly looks young and naive, and even afraid, though he doesn’t do it in a way that’s strikingly noticeable. Fuck, Richard really has really been taken for a ride here. How long has this routine taken them to perfect?
His heart hammers.
And he can’t believe he’s doing it, and he hates himself for doing it, but he sees no other way out.
He reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out his wallet.
He doesn’t even get to take any money out, because Paul has fiendishly quick hands, and within milliseconds it has been snatched from Richards clutches.
Paul hands it behind him to George, who quickly shoves it down his jumper.
As final warning, Paul produces a flick knife. It makes a clash sound as the blade appears, and Richard flinches as the moonlight shines off the silver razor edge.
“Fuck man, I paid you!!” He gasps
Paul doesn’t appear to hear him. He leans in, presses his lips to the side of Richards ear. And Richard is thoroughly ashamed to notice that Paul has electrifyingly soft lips, that contradict every piece of venom that spills from his mouth.
“You touch him again, and I’ll kill you.” He warns
Richard swallows hard, flinching away from the butterfly breath that is so close to him. “Don’t worry.” He croaks. “I won’t.”
Richard barely has a moment to blink, and the two boys are gone.
It’s been months and months since then. And Richard knows all about them now.
And how? Well it’s ridiculous really, but John has told him.
Because trust John Lennon to join forces with the wickedly cunning young shits who are responsible for all the crime, deceit and fear that litters the streets on a daily basis. Yes, trust John Lennon to choose THOSE as his closes alliances.
Richard knows now.
There is fifteen-year-old Paul McCartney, who has made his living out of swearing his virginity to each customer who takes him into the back alley. With this method he works less, but earns more. And even the wisest and most savvy of men can’t help but fall under the trustful trance of his magnificent doe eyes, as he swears by his purity. George Harrison, fourteen, would use this technique. But he’s been beaten too many times, and he doesn’t look for trouble. He knows the power of these strong men with heavy wallets and little morals. Men who happily take fourteen-year-old boys down back alleys, are also happy to beat the living shit out of them for it, should the need arise. George doesn’t have the stomach or backbone to tell such blatant lies to men who dish so much cash for innocence. He doesn’t lie well, and he respects Pauls nerve to continue doing so. One day Paul will get found out. They both know this, and they both dread the day coming. George can’t risk it. Instead, he works day and night, earning less but working more. He could never swear by God like Paul, and partly because he’s well-known round these parts for what he is: A filthy whore. And not a day goes by where somebody doesn’t remind him of it.
Luckily, willing to free George of torment and back Pauls claims, is their trustworthy companion. Because Lennon is seventeen, middle-class, living with his Auntie in the centre of Liverpool. He’s expected to attend school, make a go of his life, and stay clean and sanitized, proper and kempt. He was bought up in a Catholic school. He was taught that he should loathe street urchins, pick-pockets and prostitutes. He was taught to harass them, to beat them, to report them or to stay well clear.
Which is exactly why he was attracted to these two young scruffs to begin with. It’s exactly why he took McCartney and Harrison under his wing, bought them food, and now gives them money from his Auntie’s purse.
And John loves to rub noses with them in public, to broadcast his “escapades” to the town locals. He likes to walk around with one of them slumped over his shoulders, and take them into local pubs they can’t afford. If anybody gives them any hassle, John shuts that person up with a fist in the face, because as well as using these boys to be nonconformist, he also holds a great deal of affection for the buggers. John is told time and time again that he is a disgrace to his family, and his mother would be turning in her grave. Frankly, he thinks the very opposite. He’s even taken Paul to see his mothers grave, and afterwards a bird shit on the head of one of Pauls’ tormenters. They agreed that day, Johns mother would love Paul. She too was looking after the young urchin.
John likes to make them dress up as everyday citizens and wrestle on pub tables, or kiss in public. They don’t like to kiss each other, but they do it for John. They hate all other civilians it seems. They think the middle-class are good for alleyway fucks and little more. But for John, they’d bend over backwards, and John makes sure they are well cared for, in praise, which is all anybody ever wants from him.
Richard can see how adding John Lennon to the mix, would make that scheming team an unstoppable force. And he fucking hates them for it. But why then can he not stop shivering from that butterfly breath and erotic wicked charm?