[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [3/?], John/Paul (PG-13)
Title: Backwards Traveller
Rating: Eventual NC-17, this chapter PG-13
Pairing: John/Paul
Authors: tini_91 and obstinatrix
Summary/Notes: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.
Somehow, five minutes had turned into two and a half hours, and when Paul woke up, it was only because John was gently poking his cheek. Furrowing his brows in mild irritation, Paul grunted in reply and burrowed deeper into the pillow.
"Wake up, Paul," he heard John saying softly as he poked his cheek once more. It wasn't until he opened his eyes that Paul realised how close John's face was or the entangled position they were lying in - Paul's arms around John's middle, one leg tucked between John's thighs. Apparently, John was feeling equally aware of the embarrassing snugness of their position, to judge by the light blush that stained his cheeks.
"What time is it?" Paul asked, voice slightly raspy. He figured it was better not to mention their sleeping positions.
John craned his neck as he reached over Paul for his watch and glasses on their bedside table. "Half past six," he said. "Christ, it got late quick, didn't it?"
"Mh-hm," Paul agreed. He didn't know why he hadn't untangled himself from John, and surprisingly, it seemed as if John didn't want to give up on it quite yet either. Once he had put the watch back on the table, he slipped his arm underneath their shared blanket and put it around Paul.
"I'm cold," he quickly clarified, and Paul smiled back at him.
"It is a bit chilly," he agreed affably. He didn't really want to think too much about why he was so ready to agree if it meant they could stay in this warm cocoon a little longer, but he was.
"That's what comes of being born in October, I suppose," John declared, yawning. His arm felt sturdy and comfortable around Paul's body, and Paul snuggled unconsciously closer into the embrace.
"Bad timing on your part, really. Should've come out in August or something instead."
"Wasn't ready yet, was I?" The rim of John's spectacles was digging slightly into Paul's cheek as he shifted, but Paul couldn't bring himself to complain. John might pull back then, and this was so unusually comfortable. "Greatness like this takes time, son."
"Oh, aye." But Paul was smiling. "Does your greatness have any plans for the evening?"
"Late enough to go out, now, isn't it?" John pointed out. "Could see what Montmartre has to offer by way of birds? I could do with a good shag, I can tell you that."
John shifted slightly, his body slim and warm in Paul's arms, and Paul felt a mildly disturbing frisson of heat in his abdomen. "Yeah," he conceded quickly, "me as well. Definitely."
"Mmm, I know," John said, "You were the one who spotted those whores first the other day, weren't you?"
Paul could hear the teasing smile in John's voice, expecting Paul to groan or make some other sign of annoyance. But instead, Paul only grinned back, nudging John's foot with his. "Ah, come on, John, it's not as if you'd say no to them if they offered you a free shag. It's not my fault you've got the eyesight of a bleedin' mole; course I spotted them first."
"If they offer me a free shag, you can be bloody sure there's something wrong about it, son." John scrunched up his nose, causing Paul to laugh softly. "They've probably got some nasty disease and want to drag you down as well so you can face living hell together."
"Right, and then you'll live happily ever after, eh?"
"Yeah. You, your wife and your lovely pet crabs."
"Mmm, sounds like heaven." John was grinning, and Paul couldn't help but grin back. Only now Paul became aware of John's hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and how it was drawing slow, lazy circles.
Paul's eyes sought out John's face, his smile suddenly catching, holding oddly. John was looking back at him, smiling too, but the silence between them stretched on just a second too long, John's hand still moving slowly, and when Paul finally cleared his throat, he could hear the stupid bloody quiver in his voice. "Wish it wasn't so bloody cold out there, though."
"Hardly want to get up, do you?" John tossed back affably, and Paul relaxed, relieved at the unconcern in John's voice, smoothing over the brief moment of awkwardness. "Shame we can't just order a couple of girls on the telephone, so we wouldn't have to get out of bed."
"One day," Paul said firmly, "when we're famous. Then we'll never have to get out of bed just to get shagged again."
"Pity today isn't that day." John wiggled his eyebrows, his cold fingers teasing at the hem of Paul's shirt, and Paul's eyes widened, both feet shooting out on instinct to kick John wherever was convenient.
"Oy, don't you fucking -- John --"
"Ooh, he's after me precious treasures!" John bemoaned in his best camp falsetto, pouncing on Paul two-handed, tickling. Paul batted him off as best he could and slid out from under the covers into the chilly air of the bedroom, still bent half double and giggling.
"You're a fucking menace, you know that?"
"Got you out of bed, didn't it?" John smirked and tossed the covers back. "Right. Outside kit on, and let's find the nearest bar to warm up with a few beers first, what do you say?"
"Sounds good," Paul said, hopping on one leg as he hauled his skintight drainies back on. "There's got to be somewhere nice around here."
**
As it turned out, there looked to be quite a lot of nice places, for a certain value of 'nice'. John and Paul, after all their months on the Reeperbahn, were used to more flashing lights and gaudiness; this place had a sort of artistic seediness that appealed to them, smoke drifting out of the darkened doors of bar after bar along the main street.
"That one?" Paul nodded towards a dimly lit bar that looked more like a restaurant than anything else. But John only shrugged his shoulders, mumbling "Sure," and pushed Paul towards the entrance.
When they were inside, John squinted his eyes while Paul looked around, trying to find a free table. He nudged John's side once he had spotted a corner and beckoned the other to follow him.
With much reluctance, John took out his glasses when he was finally seated across from Paul next to a window. They had a good view of the street and were even able to spot the basilica in the distance.
"S'nice," John ventured after a while, shrugging out of his jacket.
"Yeah, it's marvellous, isn't it?" Paul smiled back at him before he looked out of the window again, eyes absent-mindedly tracking the various passers-by on the pavement outside.
"Hopefully the French birds are just as grand." John waggled his eyebrows, earning a slight chuckle and a headshake from Paul.
Not even five minutes passed before a waitress approached. Somehow, despite the woman's broken English and John's terrible French, they managed to order two beers, but just when John was about to make an attempt at flirting with her, something distracted the girl's attention -- a couple newly arrived at the entrance -- and she lifted her arm, ushering a colleague in their direction. And that was the moment when John's features slipped and Paul's eyes widened in surprise.
As soon as the waitress left them alone, John leaned over to Paul and hissed, "Did you fucking see that? She's got a bleedin' jungle underneath her armpits!"
"John, shut up!" But Paul was still craning his neck to follow the waitress as she walked off, the shadow beneath the pale curve of her arm drawing his eyes. "It's just -- French, I s'pose."
"It's weird," John said, wrinkling his nose, although Paul couldn't help but notice that he was still watching the girl's arse as she retreated to the kitchen, the sway of her waist in her neat little frock.
"Well...it's natural, isn't it?" Paul pointed out, playing devil's advocate, and there did seem something strangely fascinating about it here, in Paris, whereas in Liverpool it would just have seemed uncouth. Here, it made him uncomfortable, but not altogether in a bad way.
"I hope the prozzies shave," John declared, unrelenting. "Birds should have hair between their legs and on their heads and that's all."
"So nice of you to decide for them," Paul said. He wondered whether this was how most girls in France went about things, dark and untamed under their clothes. He wasn't sure whether the thought left him more excited or disgusted. It was some strange combination of the two. He himself had been embarrassed when he entered puberty and developed a veritable forest on his arms and legs, his dark hair and pale skin conspiring against him. John, meanwhile, looked almost hairless naked, slim and pale and --
God, why was Paul thinking about this? John's smooth chest, the brown-gold hair on his arms and sparse on his thighs...these were not things Paul ought to have been contemplating in a fucking Parisian nightclub. Jungle under her arms or not, a girl was a girl.
All the while, he had been staring at John as he continued to ramble on about women and armpit hair in general. It wasn't until John muttered, fag lit up and dangling from the corner of his mouth, "You might as well shag a bloke as a girl like that. I mean, what's the fuckin' point? If you want hairy armpits, you might as well fool around with someone with a dick."
"You what?" Paul blinked, not trusting his ears.
John gave him a funny look in return, exhaling the smoke slowly through his parted lips. "I said I'd rather shag a bloke than fuck a bird with a carpet underneath her arms." And then he added more hesitantly, "Wouldn't you?"
"I... I..." Lost for words, Paul looked around, anywhere but at John, feeling the blood rushing up to his face. If only he hadn't thought of John's smooth, hairless skin. "Maybe," he said quietly after a while. Thankfully, John let the topic rest, seemingly, as he only looked at Paul pensively, eventually turning his head to look out of the window with a soft sigh.
God, but Paul wished John hadn't said that. Before, his thoughts had been idle, in passing, but now John had voiced them and Paul found his own mind tripping back to the way John's mouth looked, soft and parted as he tracked the movements of people in and out of the restaurant, or the way he held his head, the line of his jaw. Things, in short, that he wouldn't have thought twice about before, but --
Fuck John, anyway. Paul cleared his throat and kicked his foot against John's ankle. "Oy."
"Mmm?" John shot a curious glance back Paul's way. "What was that for? Getting violent in your old age?"
"No, I just --" Paul shook his head and looked over in the direction of the street. "I don't know if this is the right kind of place, you know?"
"For what?" John raised an eyebrow. "Shaggable birds? Look over there, son." He nodded his head in the direction of the dance floor.
In the centre of the restaurant, there was a little hollowed-out space where a few tables had been pushed aside to make room -- not much room, but enough for a few couples to dance in. In the middle of it, two very lovely girls were dancing with each other, all long bare legs and carefully demarcated brows. Their hands were dainty on each other's waists, and Paul could feel himself grinning as he looked back to John.
"Look like they could do with some male company, don't they?" John remarked, smirking. "We should go over and be gentlemen, Paulie. Entertain them while we're waiting for our stuff to come."
Relief crossed Paul's features and he followed suit when John got up, combing his hair back and fixing his clothes as they slowly made their way over to the girls. They briefly looked over, and when they returned Paul's hesitant smile, all thoughts of John's mouth and body he might have had previously flew out of the window. He was as straight as an arrow. So was John. These girls just proved it.
"Bonjour, ladies," John grinned as he approached them, voice smooth and flirtatious. "Can I get you a drink?"
The two girls looked back at him in slight confusion. "Nous ne parlons pas Anglais," one of them said, shrugging helplessly.
John glanced at Paul as if to ask what to do now, and Paul, working on impulse, began to make wild gestures, indicating -- or so he hoped -- that he and John would very much like to buy the girls a drink and get to know them better. At first, it seemed to be working, since the two girls started to giggle -- probably because of the weird faces Paul pulled -- but when they linked hands and politely shook their heads, the two boys were dumbfounded.
"Pourquoi?" John asked, trying hard not to sound too desperate. He understood, though, when one girl lifted the other's hand up to her mouth and kissed it. "Oh."
"Oh?" The penny might have dropped for John, but Paul was still more than a little confused. "We c --"
"Paul," John said pointedly, cutting him off as he took hold of Paul's elbow and steered him away from the two girls, "I don't think they've got much interest, son."
"But why?" Paul furrowed his brow. "Is it our hair, d'you think? We have been getting some funny looks since we got here, you know."
"Not because of our hair, you nit," John said, "although you might have a point there, but --" He sighed exasperatedly and gestured back towards the girls. "Look at them."
Paul looked. The two girls had resumed dancing together, their arms around each other. For a moment, Paul remained unenlightened -- it was common enough to see girls dancing together in clubs, especially if there were more girls than lads in the population that night -- but then the taller girl's hand shifted tellingly down over the curve of the other's backside through her dress, and Paul looked away immediately, cheeks flushing. "Shit."
"Got it now?" Back at their table now, John sat down and gestured for Paul to do the same.
"They don't look like..." Paul trailed off, biting his lip. John shrugged.
"Everyone in this bleedin' city's beautiful, far as I can see. Anyway it's not like we know many to compare. I suppose you get a lot in arty districts, don't you? Seems to run in artistic circles, you know...bein' queer."
John had ducked his head and was fumbling for his cigarettes, but Paul couldn't help but think there was a little bit of discomfort in John's face now, the same way that there was in his own. They were artistic types, after all, weren't they? But they had seen a lot of it, a lot more than usual, in places where artists and musicians and whatnot hung out. Shadows of Paul's earlier thoughts crept back over him, and Paul shook them away. "Remember ol' Royston Ellis?" he ventured.
John laughed shortly. "Yeah, full of shit, he was. Come on, son, never mind, eh?" He smoothed his hair back one-handed and cleared his throat. "We'll eat a bit, and knock a few pints back, and then try somewhere else."
But somehow their beer didn't taste as good any more, and neither did their meal, which arrived shortly after they had got back to their table. The thoughts in Paul's head were simply too distracting. It didn't take him long before he lost his appetite and solely concentrated on drinking.
"You don't want that any more?" John asked with his mouth full, pointing with his fork at Paul's half-eaten plate.
"No, you can have it." With a sigh, Paul pushed his dish towards John who looked at him with a frown.
"Everything okay?" The tone of his voice was hesitant, which made Paul look up at him.
"Yeah, why?"
"Dunno. You tell me. You seem a bit off, s'all..."
"I'm fine," Paul insisted and emptied his beer. "Can I have another one?"
John glanced from the empty beer glass to Paul's face, looking slightly sceptical. "What happened to trying somewhere else for talent?"
Paul shrugged. "It's warm in here. Anyway, if we can have a couple more before we go, we'll be braver at pulling 'em, won't we?"
"Like you ever have a problem with that," John snorted, but he flagged down the waitress dutifully. "Um. Deux bieres? Encore?"
"I don't think that was right," Paul said, laughing a little. "The look on her face..."
"Oh, shut up, it's better than your lousy French, isn't it, eh?" John sat back in his chair and drained the last of his own beer. "One more. Then we'll go."
***
Three beers later found them still at the same little table, although their attitudes were rather sloppier now, legs loosely wide and John's hands gesticulating wildly as he recounted some tale of idiocy in Hamburg, while Paul giggled to himself, chin in hand. John was funny when he was impassioned. Or perhaps it was just that he was funny when Paul was drunk. Either way, John seemed very funny right now, and Paul felt warm and buzzing from the beer and he suddenly loved John very much. John was a good friend. John was his best friend, and all at once it seemed important to tell him so.
"We're best mates, aren't we, Johnny?" Paul broke in over whatever John was saying.
John didn't seem terribly upset at being interrupted. He smiled back, eyes a bit dreamy behind his glasses. "Yeah, I reckon we are."
"'nother beer?" It was getting a bit late to be trying to pick up lasses, and maybe...just maybe...they were getting a bit drunk, too, but Paul felt he wasn't all that bothered after all, now. Beer seemed a better idea.
"Grand idea, Macca. I'll go and get us some."
With a wink, John got up and disappeared in the small crowd of people in front of the bar. Paul watched him with a slightly dim-witted smile, head still propped up on his hand. Drowsiness was slowly kicking in and Paul began to wonder if he would be able to walk back to their hotel at all. Right now, he didn't feel like moving. John would probably have to drag him to bed, just like he had done so many times before.
"Jesus," he cursed under his breath as he realised his own choice of words in his thoughts.
He wouldn't drag you to bed. He'd only bring you home. Like a mate.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the two girls from earlier had just left the bar and were outside on the street, where they paused, apparently to kiss each other goodnight. Maybe it was Paul's sick fascination and curiosity, maybe it was pure horror, but he watched them attentively all the while, the background noises and other people slowly fading out from his attention. An elbow nudging his shoulder snapped him back to reality.
"Anything interesting out there?" John grinned down at him as he handed Paul his beer.
Paul tore his eyes away guiltily. He wasn't sure why he should feel guilty -- he wasn't intruding on anything private, after all; or if it was private, then they shouldn't have been at it in the bloody street. But it looked very private, the way the girls' mouths lingered on each other, everything about it strange and yet oddly complementary. They made dirty postcards of stuff like that, Paul knew well enough that plenty of men were into it. He'd just never had the opportunity to judge this for himself before, and it made him feel...strange. Somehow, he didn't want John to see it; was afraid of what might happen if he did.
Apparently, though, he was too late.
"Bloody hell," John said, sounding rather awed as he set the beers down and peered out into the street.
"I know," Paul started to say, but then John broke in: "Look, our mademoiselles have got boyfriends after all, eh?"
Paul looked over to see what he was talking about -- and immediately wished he hadn't.
Christ, it was even worse now. The girls had been joined by a couple of boys with the longish hair and wide trousers they'd seen a lot of in Paris. It would have been humiliating enough to see the boys begin kissing the girls, indicating that their disinterest in Paul and John had actually been to do with their out-of-place hair and clothes after all. But Paul would rather have seen that than this: the way the two boys leaned in easily towards each other, arms encircling each other's shoulders, mouths meeting. It wasn't a soft kiss, either, the friendly sort the French exchanged in greeting. It was a proper kiss, open-mouthed, and as Paul watched, he could see the shine of the lamplight on the wetness of their tongues, meeting between their lips. It was a lovers' kiss, two fucking lads, in the street, where anyone could see. As if they had no shame.
The pit of Paul's stomach felt suddenly full of butterflies. He couldn't look at John. He turned quickly and picked up his beer instead, heart pounding.
"Interesting nightlife around here," John commented, pulling his chair a little closer to Paul's. "Always snogging each other's faces off all over the shop, aren't they, French people?"
"I...yeah," Paul said, feeling strained. John nodded and took a sip of his beer.
"More over there, look." He pointed, and Paul was relieved to see a boy and a girl standing under a tree, engaged in a passionate tryst.
"Seen worse in Hamburg," he pointed out, and John laughed.
"Aye, but it's different, here. Romantic, if you know what I mean."
And, stupid as it sounded, Paul did.
"Christ, those two blokes are still going at it." John chuckled into his beer. Inching his chair closer, he put an arm around Paul and leaned back with a sigh. Paul only swallowed hard.
"Well, if they like it..." Paul said quietly, trailing off with a wave of his hand.
John hummed in reply, and somehow Paul could feel the vibration of it resonating through John's body to his own. He shifted a bit underneath John's arm, not quite sure whether to lean in further against his friend or to shrug him off. The decision was taken from Paul when John put his glass back on the table and leaned into Paul, getting into a more comfortable position. They stayed like this for quite a while, each of them lost in their own little world. Paul dimly registered that John's fingers were pressing gently into his bicep, then moved in small caresses -- just like when they had been in bed earlier. Without a word, he emptied his beer in a few gulps, wiped his mouth and allowed himself to lean into John completely. With a numb mind like this, practically paralysed, he tended to lose all inhibition. But John didn't mind. Neither did he drop some witty remark when Paul leaned his head onto John's shoulder and closed his eyes.
"Just give me five minutes," he mumbled, voice almost sleepy, "just need to rest my eyes for a while."
The soft chuckle in John's chest caused a warm, comforting feeling which spread throughout Paul's body. "You lightweight," John murmured in a teasing tone against the side of his head, "Always been one."
"Shut up, John."
Surprisingly, he did. The street was not quiet at this time of night, but there was something soothing about the low buzz of music and foreign chatter, and Paul found himself dozing off in the shelter of John's arm. When he blinked awake, John was half-laughing at him, giving him a quietly amused sidelong glance, but he hadn't moved. The motions of his chest as he breathed were still palpable against Paul's body, lulling, reassuring even while something about the closeness made Paul thrill even under the haze of drunkenness.
"Do you need to be put to bed, princess?" John teased, nudging Paul with his shoulder.
Paul blinked, feeling things out. He didn't feel so sleepy any more; his brief doze seemed to have taken the edge off the overwhelming pull towards unconsciousness. He turned his head, frowning slightly. "How long was I asleep?"
"Just five minutes or so," John assured him. "Don't worry, mate, I had plenty to occupy me, didn't I?" He laughed and nodded towards the street. "City of Love, eh?"
Paul turned his head and looked. There were more boys, now; two tall figures could be seen in the circle of light that spilled out beneath a nearby lamppost, the taller of the two steadying his companion's jaw as they kissed. The original couple had slipped away into the shadows of Montmartre, but when Paul forced his eyes to focus, he found he could detect more pairs, holding hands, leaning together against walls. Probably, John couldn't even see so far without his glasses. The discomfort that Paul had felt before seemed to have melted away, either because of tiredness or the beer or the hour, he couldn't say, but it looked...idyllic. Still odd, but in the way that all foreign cities are odd: strange, but in its place, right. John's breath was warm against the side of Paul's face. In the distance, the taller boy pulled his friend closer beneath the lamp post and Paul heard himself make a tiny sound, turned his face unconsciously.
"John."
It wasn't a kiss, not exactly. Just a rolling into each other, Paul's parted lips bumping against John's and John's clinging for a moment, parting again, closing. John's mouth was softer than Paul had expected -- if he'd expected anything.
"Whoa, Paul." John's hands settled on Paul's shoulders, holding him off, and Paul felt a little wave of disappointment. John wasn't disgusted, Paul could tell as much. The resistance had not been immediate, it wasn't violent, Paul was still leaning against John's chest and he couldn't see, now, why they shouldn't do what everybody else was doing. Unthinking, he moved towards John again, but John stood them both up forcibly, hooked his arm around Paul's waist, and Paul found, now asked to stand on his feet, that he was drunker than he'd thought.
"Shit," he murmured, swaying against John, "'m a bit fuckin' pissed."
"Too right, son," John said, rolling his eyes. His face was a little pink. It was probably the beer. "Come on. Let's get you home."
***
John took his glasses off and set them down on the desk, smiling wryly to himself as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Paul had always been such a fucking lightweight, bloody shameful for a lad with such thoroughly Irish roots. Was he still? Before Paris, there'd usually been somebody else around when they'd got drunk together, Stu or George or one of the Petes or all of them at once. This night was the first time John had realised quite how...affectionate Paul could get when even the slightest bit intoxicated.
What had seemed very much endearing to John at first, had proven to be a problem for both Paul and him in later years. If John wasn't careful, and Paul had drunk more than usual on tour or at parties where all of the music business's fucking royalty had been around, Paul would sometimes try to sneak kisses whilst giggling like a teenage girl.
With a shake of his head, John recalled one time, must have been during their first America tour (Cyn had already gone to bed), when Paul had crawled into John's lap and rested his head on his shoulder while the others stared at them in amusement. Only Brian had eyed them with an arched eyebrow, but John had saved the situation by putting on his granny voice and rocking Paul back and forth like a child.
Would Paul still act that way, John wondered, with enough alcohol in him? He was all grown up now, after all, with fifty million children and 500 albums -- or was it the other way round? Not that John was ever likely to get Paul into a situation like that ever again. The more time passed, the more uncomfortably aware he was that this was his own fault.
Sighing, he pushed his chair back and tried to put the thought of it out of his mind. He'd felt Paul's drunken caresses for the last time. There was no sense in dwelling on it.
**
Rating: Eventual NC-17, this chapter PG-13
Pairing: John/Paul
Authors: tini_91 and obstinatrix
Summary/Notes: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.
Somehow, five minutes had turned into two and a half hours, and when Paul woke up, it was only because John was gently poking his cheek. Furrowing his brows in mild irritation, Paul grunted in reply and burrowed deeper into the pillow.
"Wake up, Paul," he heard John saying softly as he poked his cheek once more. It wasn't until he opened his eyes that Paul realised how close John's face was or the entangled position they were lying in - Paul's arms around John's middle, one leg tucked between John's thighs. Apparently, John was feeling equally aware of the embarrassing snugness of their position, to judge by the light blush that stained his cheeks.
"What time is it?" Paul asked, voice slightly raspy. He figured it was better not to mention their sleeping positions.
John craned his neck as he reached over Paul for his watch and glasses on their bedside table. "Half past six," he said. "Christ, it got late quick, didn't it?"
"Mh-hm," Paul agreed. He didn't know why he hadn't untangled himself from John, and surprisingly, it seemed as if John didn't want to give up on it quite yet either. Once he had put the watch back on the table, he slipped his arm underneath their shared blanket and put it around Paul.
"I'm cold," he quickly clarified, and Paul smiled back at him.
"It is a bit chilly," he agreed affably. He didn't really want to think too much about why he was so ready to agree if it meant they could stay in this warm cocoon a little longer, but he was.
"That's what comes of being born in October, I suppose," John declared, yawning. His arm felt sturdy and comfortable around Paul's body, and Paul snuggled unconsciously closer into the embrace.
"Bad timing on your part, really. Should've come out in August or something instead."
"Wasn't ready yet, was I?" The rim of John's spectacles was digging slightly into Paul's cheek as he shifted, but Paul couldn't bring himself to complain. John might pull back then, and this was so unusually comfortable. "Greatness like this takes time, son."
"Oh, aye." But Paul was smiling. "Does your greatness have any plans for the evening?"
"Late enough to go out, now, isn't it?" John pointed out. "Could see what Montmartre has to offer by way of birds? I could do with a good shag, I can tell you that."
John shifted slightly, his body slim and warm in Paul's arms, and Paul felt a mildly disturbing frisson of heat in his abdomen. "Yeah," he conceded quickly, "me as well. Definitely."
"Mmm, I know," John said, "You were the one who spotted those whores first the other day, weren't you?"
Paul could hear the teasing smile in John's voice, expecting Paul to groan or make some other sign of annoyance. But instead, Paul only grinned back, nudging John's foot with his. "Ah, come on, John, it's not as if you'd say no to them if they offered you a free shag. It's not my fault you've got the eyesight of a bleedin' mole; course I spotted them first."
"If they offer me a free shag, you can be bloody sure there's something wrong about it, son." John scrunched up his nose, causing Paul to laugh softly. "They've probably got some nasty disease and want to drag you down as well so you can face living hell together."
"Right, and then you'll live happily ever after, eh?"
"Yeah. You, your wife and your lovely pet crabs."
"Mmm, sounds like heaven." John was grinning, and Paul couldn't help but grin back. Only now Paul became aware of John's hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and how it was drawing slow, lazy circles.
Paul's eyes sought out John's face, his smile suddenly catching, holding oddly. John was looking back at him, smiling too, but the silence between them stretched on just a second too long, John's hand still moving slowly, and when Paul finally cleared his throat, he could hear the stupid bloody quiver in his voice. "Wish it wasn't so bloody cold out there, though."
"Hardly want to get up, do you?" John tossed back affably, and Paul relaxed, relieved at the unconcern in John's voice, smoothing over the brief moment of awkwardness. "Shame we can't just order a couple of girls on the telephone, so we wouldn't have to get out of bed."
"One day," Paul said firmly, "when we're famous. Then we'll never have to get out of bed just to get shagged again."
"Pity today isn't that day." John wiggled his eyebrows, his cold fingers teasing at the hem of Paul's shirt, and Paul's eyes widened, both feet shooting out on instinct to kick John wherever was convenient.
"Oy, don't you fucking -- John --"
"Ooh, he's after me precious treasures!" John bemoaned in his best camp falsetto, pouncing on Paul two-handed, tickling. Paul batted him off as best he could and slid out from under the covers into the chilly air of the bedroom, still bent half double and giggling.
"You're a fucking menace, you know that?"
"Got you out of bed, didn't it?" John smirked and tossed the covers back. "Right. Outside kit on, and let's find the nearest bar to warm up with a few beers first, what do you say?"
"Sounds good," Paul said, hopping on one leg as he hauled his skintight drainies back on. "There's got to be somewhere nice around here."
**
As it turned out, there looked to be quite a lot of nice places, for a certain value of 'nice'. John and Paul, after all their months on the Reeperbahn, were used to more flashing lights and gaudiness; this place had a sort of artistic seediness that appealed to them, smoke drifting out of the darkened doors of bar after bar along the main street.
"That one?" Paul nodded towards a dimly lit bar that looked more like a restaurant than anything else. But John only shrugged his shoulders, mumbling "Sure," and pushed Paul towards the entrance.
When they were inside, John squinted his eyes while Paul looked around, trying to find a free table. He nudged John's side once he had spotted a corner and beckoned the other to follow him.
With much reluctance, John took out his glasses when he was finally seated across from Paul next to a window. They had a good view of the street and were even able to spot the basilica in the distance.
"S'nice," John ventured after a while, shrugging out of his jacket.
"Yeah, it's marvellous, isn't it?" Paul smiled back at him before he looked out of the window again, eyes absent-mindedly tracking the various passers-by on the pavement outside.
"Hopefully the French birds are just as grand." John waggled his eyebrows, earning a slight chuckle and a headshake from Paul.
Not even five minutes passed before a waitress approached. Somehow, despite the woman's broken English and John's terrible French, they managed to order two beers, but just when John was about to make an attempt at flirting with her, something distracted the girl's attention -- a couple newly arrived at the entrance -- and she lifted her arm, ushering a colleague in their direction. And that was the moment when John's features slipped and Paul's eyes widened in surprise.
As soon as the waitress left them alone, John leaned over to Paul and hissed, "Did you fucking see that? She's got a bleedin' jungle underneath her armpits!"
"John, shut up!" But Paul was still craning his neck to follow the waitress as she walked off, the shadow beneath the pale curve of her arm drawing his eyes. "It's just -- French, I s'pose."
"It's weird," John said, wrinkling his nose, although Paul couldn't help but notice that he was still watching the girl's arse as she retreated to the kitchen, the sway of her waist in her neat little frock.
"Well...it's natural, isn't it?" Paul pointed out, playing devil's advocate, and there did seem something strangely fascinating about it here, in Paris, whereas in Liverpool it would just have seemed uncouth. Here, it made him uncomfortable, but not altogether in a bad way.
"I hope the prozzies shave," John declared, unrelenting. "Birds should have hair between their legs and on their heads and that's all."
"So nice of you to decide for them," Paul said. He wondered whether this was how most girls in France went about things, dark and untamed under their clothes. He wasn't sure whether the thought left him more excited or disgusted. It was some strange combination of the two. He himself had been embarrassed when he entered puberty and developed a veritable forest on his arms and legs, his dark hair and pale skin conspiring against him. John, meanwhile, looked almost hairless naked, slim and pale and --
God, why was Paul thinking about this? John's smooth chest, the brown-gold hair on his arms and sparse on his thighs...these were not things Paul ought to have been contemplating in a fucking Parisian nightclub. Jungle under her arms or not, a girl was a girl.
All the while, he had been staring at John as he continued to ramble on about women and armpit hair in general. It wasn't until John muttered, fag lit up and dangling from the corner of his mouth, "You might as well shag a bloke as a girl like that. I mean, what's the fuckin' point? If you want hairy armpits, you might as well fool around with someone with a dick."
"You what?" Paul blinked, not trusting his ears.
John gave him a funny look in return, exhaling the smoke slowly through his parted lips. "I said I'd rather shag a bloke than fuck a bird with a carpet underneath her arms." And then he added more hesitantly, "Wouldn't you?"
"I... I..." Lost for words, Paul looked around, anywhere but at John, feeling the blood rushing up to his face. If only he hadn't thought of John's smooth, hairless skin. "Maybe," he said quietly after a while. Thankfully, John let the topic rest, seemingly, as he only looked at Paul pensively, eventually turning his head to look out of the window with a soft sigh.
God, but Paul wished John hadn't said that. Before, his thoughts had been idle, in passing, but now John had voiced them and Paul found his own mind tripping back to the way John's mouth looked, soft and parted as he tracked the movements of people in and out of the restaurant, or the way he held his head, the line of his jaw. Things, in short, that he wouldn't have thought twice about before, but --
Fuck John, anyway. Paul cleared his throat and kicked his foot against John's ankle. "Oy."
"Mmm?" John shot a curious glance back Paul's way. "What was that for? Getting violent in your old age?"
"No, I just --" Paul shook his head and looked over in the direction of the street. "I don't know if this is the right kind of place, you know?"
"For what?" John raised an eyebrow. "Shaggable birds? Look over there, son." He nodded his head in the direction of the dance floor.
In the centre of the restaurant, there was a little hollowed-out space where a few tables had been pushed aside to make room -- not much room, but enough for a few couples to dance in. In the middle of it, two very lovely girls were dancing with each other, all long bare legs and carefully demarcated brows. Their hands were dainty on each other's waists, and Paul could feel himself grinning as he looked back to John.
"Look like they could do with some male company, don't they?" John remarked, smirking. "We should go over and be gentlemen, Paulie. Entertain them while we're waiting for our stuff to come."
Relief crossed Paul's features and he followed suit when John got up, combing his hair back and fixing his clothes as they slowly made their way over to the girls. They briefly looked over, and when they returned Paul's hesitant smile, all thoughts of John's mouth and body he might have had previously flew out of the window. He was as straight as an arrow. So was John. These girls just proved it.
"Bonjour, ladies," John grinned as he approached them, voice smooth and flirtatious. "Can I get you a drink?"
The two girls looked back at him in slight confusion. "Nous ne parlons pas Anglais," one of them said, shrugging helplessly.
John glanced at Paul as if to ask what to do now, and Paul, working on impulse, began to make wild gestures, indicating -- or so he hoped -- that he and John would very much like to buy the girls a drink and get to know them better. At first, it seemed to be working, since the two girls started to giggle -- probably because of the weird faces Paul pulled -- but when they linked hands and politely shook their heads, the two boys were dumbfounded.
"Pourquoi?" John asked, trying hard not to sound too desperate. He understood, though, when one girl lifted the other's hand up to her mouth and kissed it. "Oh."
"Oh?" The penny might have dropped for John, but Paul was still more than a little confused. "We c --"
"Paul," John said pointedly, cutting him off as he took hold of Paul's elbow and steered him away from the two girls, "I don't think they've got much interest, son."
"But why?" Paul furrowed his brow. "Is it our hair, d'you think? We have been getting some funny looks since we got here, you know."
"Not because of our hair, you nit," John said, "although you might have a point there, but --" He sighed exasperatedly and gestured back towards the girls. "Look at them."
Paul looked. The two girls had resumed dancing together, their arms around each other. For a moment, Paul remained unenlightened -- it was common enough to see girls dancing together in clubs, especially if there were more girls than lads in the population that night -- but then the taller girl's hand shifted tellingly down over the curve of the other's backside through her dress, and Paul looked away immediately, cheeks flushing. "Shit."
"Got it now?" Back at their table now, John sat down and gestured for Paul to do the same.
"They don't look like..." Paul trailed off, biting his lip. John shrugged.
"Everyone in this bleedin' city's beautiful, far as I can see. Anyway it's not like we know many to compare. I suppose you get a lot in arty districts, don't you? Seems to run in artistic circles, you know...bein' queer."
John had ducked his head and was fumbling for his cigarettes, but Paul couldn't help but think there was a little bit of discomfort in John's face now, the same way that there was in his own. They were artistic types, after all, weren't they? But they had seen a lot of it, a lot more than usual, in places where artists and musicians and whatnot hung out. Shadows of Paul's earlier thoughts crept back over him, and Paul shook them away. "Remember ol' Royston Ellis?" he ventured.
John laughed shortly. "Yeah, full of shit, he was. Come on, son, never mind, eh?" He smoothed his hair back one-handed and cleared his throat. "We'll eat a bit, and knock a few pints back, and then try somewhere else."
But somehow their beer didn't taste as good any more, and neither did their meal, which arrived shortly after they had got back to their table. The thoughts in Paul's head were simply too distracting. It didn't take him long before he lost his appetite and solely concentrated on drinking.
"You don't want that any more?" John asked with his mouth full, pointing with his fork at Paul's half-eaten plate.
"No, you can have it." With a sigh, Paul pushed his dish towards John who looked at him with a frown.
"Everything okay?" The tone of his voice was hesitant, which made Paul look up at him.
"Yeah, why?"
"Dunno. You tell me. You seem a bit off, s'all..."
"I'm fine," Paul insisted and emptied his beer. "Can I have another one?"
John glanced from the empty beer glass to Paul's face, looking slightly sceptical. "What happened to trying somewhere else for talent?"
Paul shrugged. "It's warm in here. Anyway, if we can have a couple more before we go, we'll be braver at pulling 'em, won't we?"
"Like you ever have a problem with that," John snorted, but he flagged down the waitress dutifully. "Um. Deux bieres? Encore?"
"I don't think that was right," Paul said, laughing a little. "The look on her face..."
"Oh, shut up, it's better than your lousy French, isn't it, eh?" John sat back in his chair and drained the last of his own beer. "One more. Then we'll go."
***
Three beers later found them still at the same little table, although their attitudes were rather sloppier now, legs loosely wide and John's hands gesticulating wildly as he recounted some tale of idiocy in Hamburg, while Paul giggled to himself, chin in hand. John was funny when he was impassioned. Or perhaps it was just that he was funny when Paul was drunk. Either way, John seemed very funny right now, and Paul felt warm and buzzing from the beer and he suddenly loved John very much. John was a good friend. John was his best friend, and all at once it seemed important to tell him so.
"We're best mates, aren't we, Johnny?" Paul broke in over whatever John was saying.
John didn't seem terribly upset at being interrupted. He smiled back, eyes a bit dreamy behind his glasses. "Yeah, I reckon we are."
"'nother beer?" It was getting a bit late to be trying to pick up lasses, and maybe...just maybe...they were getting a bit drunk, too, but Paul felt he wasn't all that bothered after all, now. Beer seemed a better idea.
"Grand idea, Macca. I'll go and get us some."
With a wink, John got up and disappeared in the small crowd of people in front of the bar. Paul watched him with a slightly dim-witted smile, head still propped up on his hand. Drowsiness was slowly kicking in and Paul began to wonder if he would be able to walk back to their hotel at all. Right now, he didn't feel like moving. John would probably have to drag him to bed, just like he had done so many times before.
"Jesus," he cursed under his breath as he realised his own choice of words in his thoughts.
He wouldn't drag you to bed. He'd only bring you home. Like a mate.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the two girls from earlier had just left the bar and were outside on the street, where they paused, apparently to kiss each other goodnight. Maybe it was Paul's sick fascination and curiosity, maybe it was pure horror, but he watched them attentively all the while, the background noises and other people slowly fading out from his attention. An elbow nudging his shoulder snapped him back to reality.
"Anything interesting out there?" John grinned down at him as he handed Paul his beer.
Paul tore his eyes away guiltily. He wasn't sure why he should feel guilty -- he wasn't intruding on anything private, after all; or if it was private, then they shouldn't have been at it in the bloody street. But it looked very private, the way the girls' mouths lingered on each other, everything about it strange and yet oddly complementary. They made dirty postcards of stuff like that, Paul knew well enough that plenty of men were into it. He'd just never had the opportunity to judge this for himself before, and it made him feel...strange. Somehow, he didn't want John to see it; was afraid of what might happen if he did.
Apparently, though, he was too late.
"Bloody hell," John said, sounding rather awed as he set the beers down and peered out into the street.
"I know," Paul started to say, but then John broke in: "Look, our mademoiselles have got boyfriends after all, eh?"
Paul looked over to see what he was talking about -- and immediately wished he hadn't.
Christ, it was even worse now. The girls had been joined by a couple of boys with the longish hair and wide trousers they'd seen a lot of in Paris. It would have been humiliating enough to see the boys begin kissing the girls, indicating that their disinterest in Paul and John had actually been to do with their out-of-place hair and clothes after all. But Paul would rather have seen that than this: the way the two boys leaned in easily towards each other, arms encircling each other's shoulders, mouths meeting. It wasn't a soft kiss, either, the friendly sort the French exchanged in greeting. It was a proper kiss, open-mouthed, and as Paul watched, he could see the shine of the lamplight on the wetness of their tongues, meeting between their lips. It was a lovers' kiss, two fucking lads, in the street, where anyone could see. As if they had no shame.
The pit of Paul's stomach felt suddenly full of butterflies. He couldn't look at John. He turned quickly and picked up his beer instead, heart pounding.
"Interesting nightlife around here," John commented, pulling his chair a little closer to Paul's. "Always snogging each other's faces off all over the shop, aren't they, French people?"
"I...yeah," Paul said, feeling strained. John nodded and took a sip of his beer.
"More over there, look." He pointed, and Paul was relieved to see a boy and a girl standing under a tree, engaged in a passionate tryst.
"Seen worse in Hamburg," he pointed out, and John laughed.
"Aye, but it's different, here. Romantic, if you know what I mean."
And, stupid as it sounded, Paul did.
"Christ, those two blokes are still going at it." John chuckled into his beer. Inching his chair closer, he put an arm around Paul and leaned back with a sigh. Paul only swallowed hard.
"Well, if they like it..." Paul said quietly, trailing off with a wave of his hand.
John hummed in reply, and somehow Paul could feel the vibration of it resonating through John's body to his own. He shifted a bit underneath John's arm, not quite sure whether to lean in further against his friend or to shrug him off. The decision was taken from Paul when John put his glass back on the table and leaned into Paul, getting into a more comfortable position. They stayed like this for quite a while, each of them lost in their own little world. Paul dimly registered that John's fingers were pressing gently into his bicep, then moved in small caresses -- just like when they had been in bed earlier. Without a word, he emptied his beer in a few gulps, wiped his mouth and allowed himself to lean into John completely. With a numb mind like this, practically paralysed, he tended to lose all inhibition. But John didn't mind. Neither did he drop some witty remark when Paul leaned his head onto John's shoulder and closed his eyes.
"Just give me five minutes," he mumbled, voice almost sleepy, "just need to rest my eyes for a while."
The soft chuckle in John's chest caused a warm, comforting feeling which spread throughout Paul's body. "You lightweight," John murmured in a teasing tone against the side of his head, "Always been one."
"Shut up, John."
Surprisingly, he did. The street was not quiet at this time of night, but there was something soothing about the low buzz of music and foreign chatter, and Paul found himself dozing off in the shelter of John's arm. When he blinked awake, John was half-laughing at him, giving him a quietly amused sidelong glance, but he hadn't moved. The motions of his chest as he breathed were still palpable against Paul's body, lulling, reassuring even while something about the closeness made Paul thrill even under the haze of drunkenness.
"Do you need to be put to bed, princess?" John teased, nudging Paul with his shoulder.
Paul blinked, feeling things out. He didn't feel so sleepy any more; his brief doze seemed to have taken the edge off the overwhelming pull towards unconsciousness. He turned his head, frowning slightly. "How long was I asleep?"
"Just five minutes or so," John assured him. "Don't worry, mate, I had plenty to occupy me, didn't I?" He laughed and nodded towards the street. "City of Love, eh?"
Paul turned his head and looked. There were more boys, now; two tall figures could be seen in the circle of light that spilled out beneath a nearby lamppost, the taller of the two steadying his companion's jaw as they kissed. The original couple had slipped away into the shadows of Montmartre, but when Paul forced his eyes to focus, he found he could detect more pairs, holding hands, leaning together against walls. Probably, John couldn't even see so far without his glasses. The discomfort that Paul had felt before seemed to have melted away, either because of tiredness or the beer or the hour, he couldn't say, but it looked...idyllic. Still odd, but in the way that all foreign cities are odd: strange, but in its place, right. John's breath was warm against the side of Paul's face. In the distance, the taller boy pulled his friend closer beneath the lamp post and Paul heard himself make a tiny sound, turned his face unconsciously.
"John."
It wasn't a kiss, not exactly. Just a rolling into each other, Paul's parted lips bumping against John's and John's clinging for a moment, parting again, closing. John's mouth was softer than Paul had expected -- if he'd expected anything.
"Whoa, Paul." John's hands settled on Paul's shoulders, holding him off, and Paul felt a little wave of disappointment. John wasn't disgusted, Paul could tell as much. The resistance had not been immediate, it wasn't violent, Paul was still leaning against John's chest and he couldn't see, now, why they shouldn't do what everybody else was doing. Unthinking, he moved towards John again, but John stood them both up forcibly, hooked his arm around Paul's waist, and Paul found, now asked to stand on his feet, that he was drunker than he'd thought.
"Shit," he murmured, swaying against John, "'m a bit fuckin' pissed."
"Too right, son," John said, rolling his eyes. His face was a little pink. It was probably the beer. "Come on. Let's get you home."
***
John took his glasses off and set them down on the desk, smiling wryly to himself as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Paul had always been such a fucking lightweight, bloody shameful for a lad with such thoroughly Irish roots. Was he still? Before Paris, there'd usually been somebody else around when they'd got drunk together, Stu or George or one of the Petes or all of them at once. This night was the first time John had realised quite how...affectionate Paul could get when even the slightest bit intoxicated.
What had seemed very much endearing to John at first, had proven to be a problem for both Paul and him in later years. If John wasn't careful, and Paul had drunk more than usual on tour or at parties where all of the music business's fucking royalty had been around, Paul would sometimes try to sneak kisses whilst giggling like a teenage girl.
With a shake of his head, John recalled one time, must have been during their first America tour (Cyn had already gone to bed), when Paul had crawled into John's lap and rested his head on his shoulder while the others stared at them in amusement. Only Brian had eyed them with an arched eyebrow, but John had saved the situation by putting on his granny voice and rocking Paul back and forth like a child.
Would Paul still act that way, John wondered, with enough alcohol in him? He was all grown up now, after all, with fifty million children and 500 albums -- or was it the other way round? Not that John was ever likely to get Paul into a situation like that ever again. The more time passed, the more uncomfortably aware he was that this was his own fault.
Sighing, he pushed his chair back and tried to put the thought of it out of his mind. He'd felt Paul's drunken caresses for the last time. There was no sense in dwelling on it.
**