Fic: I Am As I Ever Was (Yours, Yours, My Dearest Friend)
Let us celebrate the triumphant return of JHP with songs and dances! No? Just fic? That works too. :)
Title: I Am As I Ever Was (Yours, Yours, My Dearest Friend) (Part Two of Three; Part One available here)
Author: C, aka so_egregious
Rating: M. Yikes. /Jim Halpert
Word Count: 2,833.
Pairing: John/Paul
Warnings: *deep breath* Language, mild violence, brief mention of het sex, graphic sexual content.
Disclaimer: This is a true definition of fan fiction: a work of fiction, created by a fan.
Author's Notes: Takes place immediately before, during and after John and Cyn's wedding (so late August and early September, 1962), so obviously there's an element of John/Cyn here, although not sexual. Just so you know. :)
It's not a typo above - this was supposed to only be two parts, but apparently Wordy McRambleson here can't shut up. So I bring you Part Two, now of three (aka where this beast starts earning its rating...Good Lord, I might throw up).
Title adapted from lyrics in the musical 1776.
A/N II: Still dedicated to thinkpink20, because...well, it's still the same story, and she's still awesome. Duh.
----
Paul didn’t see or speak to John over the next few days. They had no gigs, so avoiding him wasn’t as difficult as Paul thought it might be, at least physically. He stayed out of the house on mindless errands as much as possible to miss calls, collecting three more messages in his absences (and a punch from Mike, who growled, “I did too tell ya he called, y’tosser!” upon delivering the blow).
He was home the afternoon before their next performance at the Cavern when the telephone rang. His father answered, and when he heard the guarded but friendly, “Oh, ‘llo John,” Paul felt that familiar tightening in his throat. He resolutely shook his head at Jim, then escaped into the kitchen to listen.
After chuckling at something John had said (Paul tried not to wonder what), his father was quiet for a moment, then replied, “Well, he’s having a bit of a kip before the show, John, but I’ll let him know you rang.” There was another silence, then, “Right. I’ll tell him.” Paul heard Jim hang up the telephone and attempted to make himself look busy at some task. His father joined him a minute later. “He didn’t buy that for a second, you know,” he told his son.
“Course not. ‘Havin’ a kip?’” Paul scoffed as he toyed with a tea towel. “Coulda told him I was out or summat.”
Rather than defend his excuse, Jim asked, “You two have a row?”
“No,” Paul replied shortly. His father only raised an eyebrow at him as he began fixing his tea.
----
Two nights later the band was back in Chester. They had used the revamped set list at the Cavern show (“Still feeling ill?” John had sneered when Paul had suggested it, obviously wise to what Paul’s reasoning had been all along; Paul had only mumbled something about good audience reaction in response, earning him another dirty look), and were using it again tonight, so once more Paul found himself with a stage separating him from John. It was a fitting metaphor, but not near enough distance.
While it was easy to dodge him everywhere else, on stage it was almost impossible; despite the fact that Paul certainly didn’t want to look at John, their mirror positions made it unavoidable. But it was far from just physical logistics; it had always been habitual, almost instinctive, for them to lock eyes across the stage. It fueled Paul to share a smile with John as they sang, far more effective than even the prellies at keeping him going. Just one look and Paul would be feel a surge of adrenaline, the rush of being alive and in the moment, ready to conquer the world with John by his side.
Since that day last week, however, the synergy was gone. John’s look no longer felt like a gift. It repeatedly left him drained. Empty. Lost.
Apparently the same was not true for John, even though Paul knew he was angry. In his periphery he could see John peeking at him from around George’s profile, feel his intent gaze boring into the side of his face and beckoning Paul to meet his eyes. Paul ignored him as best he could, and the cold wave of guilt enveloped him again.
After “Please Please Me,” John announced, tetchily, that the next song was “yet another original number from the brilliant minds of Lennon and McCartney.” Paul gave the crowd a dispirited thumb’s up, the fact that he was about to be mocked yet again by his own lyrics, their lyrics, making him feel ill in a way that had nothing to do with a virus as they started in on the sappy chords to “Ask Me Why.”
George served as a welcome wall for the first few lines, but when he pivoted to look at Ringo, Paul, on some sadist bend, couldn’t keep his eyes from venturing across the stage. John was already staring his way, his hardened glare making no secret of his rage. It provided a strange juxtaposition to the lines he was singing.
And in time
You’ll understand the reason why
If I cry
It’s not because I’m sad,
But you’re the only love that I’ve ever had…
George then stepped back fully to give Paul access to the microphone for the next lines, and with his now unobstructed view Paul watched John’s frosty look suddenly seep away, leaving behind a mask of hurt and confusion. The raw emotion etched into John’s every feature forced bile into Paul’s throat as he sang those lines, of course in harmony. It twisted their meaning into exactly the opposite of what the pair had intended when they’d written them, holed up in John’s room.
I can’t believe it’s happened to me
I can’t conceive of any more misery…
George came forward again but didn’t completely block John from Paul’s view, so he saw the reverse transformation take place; just as quickly as it had changed the first time, John’s sad expression morphed into one of steely anger. Some element of pain lingered, though - perhaps only in Paul’s mind, but it was enough so that he had to look away as John sang the next lines alone.
Ask me why - I’ll say I love you
And I’m always thinking of you…
----
On the ride back to Liverpool the others discussed heading to The Grapes for a few pints. Paul tried to shrug them off, but by the time the car reached Mathew Street he grudgingly agreed to come along. Ringo, Neil and George were pleased. John said nothing, only stared out the window with his head in hand.
Paul should have known it would be a huge mistake.
He ended up on the opposite side of the backroom table from John, who was in rare form and wasting no time in his apparent goal of getting pissed as quickly as possible. Paul nursed his first pint, but soon learned he would need more alcohol to tolerate John and his cutting remarks, the majority of which were directed at him - not all, because it was clear that John didn’t want everyone in on whatever rift had formed between the two, but those that were fired his way landed so precisely it was as if Paul were wearing a bull’s eye. Usually he was the accomplice, laughing hysterically and egging John on as he dealt out abuse with his rapier wit. It would be an understatement to say that being on the other side of the fence was much less enjoyable; a more accurate description was being John’s target now, when all that they were already seemed to be disintegrating before his eyes, was nearly unbearable.
“Don’t you have a little missus to get home to?” Ringo teasingly asked John around two o’clock.
“Eh, ’m sure Brian’ll be fine,” John said, to great laughter.
“Yer other little missus,” George clarified through chuckles. Paul downed the rest of what he was fairly certain was his seventh - or was it eighth? - pint while John gave George a sloppy shove.
“What you implyin’, cuntface? ‘m the man. I come home whenever I like!” John pronounced in a booming tone, holding his drink aloft before chugging it down. “Jus’ ‘cause ’m married don’t mean anythin’ changes,” he muttered into his empty glass.
Paul felt as if he had been sucker-punched, and his fight or flight instinct definitively chose the latter.
He got to his feet, paused until he was steady, and made his way for the loo. “Where’s ’e goin’?” John asked the table, then yelled after Paul, “Where you goin’?”
“T’piss, if that’s all ri’ with you,” Paul called over his shoulder, weaving his way to the door.
Once inside the dimly lit room he stumbled to a sink, splashing water on his face. He stared at his reflection - the bleary-eyed, pale and dripping face staring back epitomized “pathetic.” Overcome by the need to be off his feet, Paul lunged for a stall and fell onto the toilet, swatting the door shut behind him. He folded his arms on his knees and dropped his head onto them, his head ringing with John’s utterance.
It didn’t mean anything had changed? It meant everything had changed. Was he really the only one who could see that?
A moment later he heard the door thrown open with violent force, the smack of it hitting the adjacent wall reverberating through the space. His stall door was pulled open with equal fervor and he raised his head to see John glowering over him.
“The fuck is y’r problem?” he asked, slamming the stall door back closed. Paul stared up at him.
“My problem?!”
“’s what I said, innit?”
“You been takin’ the piss all night - what’s yer fuckin’ problem?”
John let out one bark of mirthless laughter. “Tonight? You think this is about tonight? You fuckin’ twat!” Paul’s earlier choice of flight instantly reversed, but John beat him to acting on it. He grabbed Paul by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him to his feet. Paul, dizzy from the alcohol and sudden change in position, careened into the wall of the cubicle.
“What the fuck, son?” he yelled at John, trying to first gain his footing, then squeeze past him and out, but John just shoved him against the wall again. Paul reeled, steadied himself, then shoved back fiercely. “’re you mental? What you doin’?”
John’s visage loomed huge before him, his eyes mere slits. “’s not about me. ‘s about you. Can’t be arsed to talk to me anymore? Return my calls? Fuckin’ stand next to me on stage?!” he spat, his yeasty breath swirling its way around Paul like some noxious cloud. “We’re fuckin’ on the verge, goddammit. The fuckin’ precipice.” He was no longer yelling, but the words beat against Paul’s eardrums and into his brain as if John had screamed them. He wanted to tell John that they had already gone over the precipice - crossed the Rubicon and burned the bridge behind them - but he couldn’t form the words.
“Every fuckin’ thing we been f’r years, about to pay off, ’n now you can’t even bleedin’ look at me?” John pressed on in an ominous hiss. There was an almost imperceptible quiver in his voice Paul most likely wouldn’t have heard if John hadn’t been so close, but he was, and so Paul did. The only sound was the faint gurgling in the old pipes while Paul found an answer.
“No,” he finally whispered, glaring back at John. “I can’t.”
John froze for what could have been a second or an hour - there was no way to measure time in that abyss of silence - then in a flurry he slammed him against the wall again, harder than before, pinning him there tightly with his body. The shock of impact rattled down Paul’s spine as he readied himself for a blow.
The crush of a hot mouth against his own wasn’t the next physical contact he was expecting, but it seemed Paul’s body had prepared itself for exactly this because despite his drunken state he responded almost immediately.
Every movement reeked of the desperate need for possession. John’s clutch on his lapels tightened; Paul fisted John’s hair, his arms having automatically snaked around his partner’s neck. Each of their tongues, flavored by ale and tobacco, jockeyed mercilessly for dominance, claiming every nook and cranny of the other’s mouth for its own. John moved one hand to the back of Paul’s neck, gripping him roughly. Not to be outdone, Paul yanked at John’s hair before he clawed at his shoulders. Grunts and huffs echoed in the tiny space.
Paul’s sensory nerves fired on overdrive; every square centimeter of his body that made any contact with John’s burning with a white-hot intensity that flared with each heartbeat. His rational mind - the one that knew this should no longer be happening, and certainly not in a public washroom with their mates outside - had long since gone dark. Only his id remained functional and it craved- no, demanded more. John seemed to be on the same page, forcing a leg in between Paul’s and arching his pelvis mercilessly against him. Paul, his member already stirring and twitching with want, easily met the thrust with a hard one of his own, and the two found some brutal rhythm as deftly as they had in so many situations and so many times before.
Their guttural noises began melting into groans and sighs; while it would be a stretch to say their actions took on a note of sweetness, some semblance of calm washed over the pair and slowed the primal, frantic pace initially set. Their kisses - still deep - were no longer bruising but lingering, taking time to taste and savor. Their touches - no less hungry - now sought to please rather than wound. John’s hands traversed Paul’s face. Slid down to his chest. Glided over his hips before heading north again to cover long-familiar territory. Paul’s combed through John’s sweaty locks, an unspoken apology for the harsh treatment of a moment before, then made their way to the small of John’s back, stealing under his untucked shirt to stroke the damp, smooth skin there. John hummed his approval and sucked at Paul’s lower lip before moving his mouth to Paul’s jaw line. Paul’s cock grew harder with each ministration, and he ground himself against John’s own bulging arousal.
John expelled a long, shaky sigh into Paul’s ear. He nipped at the lobe before whispering, “Come over.”
Paul almost agreed, on the tail of his own sigh at John’s wet mouth against his ear, but some flicker of logic turned the acceptance to a gravelly “can’t.”
“Can,” John argued, grabbing Paul’s backside and pulling his hips more tightly against his own as they rocked together.
Paul sucked in a breath between his teeth, his pleasure centers overloaded. Despite that, the formerly shut down portion of his brain sparked again; he wondered blurrily why he had to remember a wife John saw fit to forget. “Cyn,” he managed raggedly.
Groaning, John persisted. “Anyone home at yours?”
“Yeah…”
A ghosting of lips and tongue over Paul’s neck. “Asleep by now.”
“Yeah,” Paul repeated, fighting every instinct to leave his answer at that as John’s hands kneaded his flesh. “But…John…”
“No buts,” John insisted, greedily bringing his mouth to Paul’s again. Paul matched his kiss with equal passion, but it was too late - his earlier response was ricocheting through his mind uncontrollably now. Cyn Cyn Cyn… And although it required every reserve of willpower he had ever stored, Paul slowly turned his head away from John’s fervent kiss and, as delicately as possible, he reached behind him to take John’s wrists and guide his hands away from his ass. John allowed it, but still took Paul’s hands in his own and held them loosely.
“We can’t, John,” Paul ruled, dropping his head and letting it rest against John’s shoulder. Even with such limited contact he could feel John’s erratic breathing, feel every tendon and muscle stretched tight.
“Why?” John finally asked, his voice hoarse, and when Paul lifted his head he was again met with the look of utter despair John had worn during that shared glance onstage.
Despair, and worse, a childlike fear and vulnerability he had only seen John show on one other, horrible occasion.
A lump rose in Paul’s throat; all he could do was shake his head. John only continued to stare at him, that same gutting look on his face. Paul took a much-needed deep breath and collected his muddled thoughts, tried to make some sense out of something that, by its very nature, made no sense at all.
“You know why,” he offered when he could at last trust his voice, squeezing John’s hands once.
Even to his own ears it was so soft Paul wasn’t sure he hadn’t said it, but one look in John’s eyes confirmed that he had - in fact, for just a beat John looked as Paul had shouted the words, and had followed them with a slap for good measure. He dropped Paul’s hands and took a half step back, not breaking their gaze. Paul tried to silently convey what he could not in words - how he too felt lost, broken. John understood his message, Paul knew, but did not believe it, because now he was the one to shake his head.
“It’s…it’ll be…you chose this…an’…’s for the best,” Paul explained falteringly, running a hand through his hair. He knew the moment the words left his lips it was absolutely the wrong thing to say. John’s eyes glazed over, and his whole countenance turned icy.
“Fuck. You,” he breathed, his tone just as venomous as the last look he threw Paul’s way before marching out of the washroom.
Title: I Am As I Ever Was (Yours, Yours, My Dearest Friend) (Part Two of Three; Part One available here)
Author: C, aka so_egregious
Rating: M. Yikes. /Jim Halpert
Word Count: 2,833.
Pairing: John/Paul
Warnings: *deep breath* Language, mild violence, brief mention of het sex, graphic sexual content.
Disclaimer: This is a true definition of fan fiction: a work of fiction, created by a fan.
Author's Notes: Takes place immediately before, during and after John and Cyn's wedding (so late August and early September, 1962), so obviously there's an element of John/Cyn here, although not sexual. Just so you know. :)
It's not a typo above - this was supposed to only be two parts, but apparently Wordy McRambleson here can't shut up. So I bring you Part Two, now of three (aka where this beast starts earning its rating...Good Lord, I might throw up).
Title adapted from lyrics in the musical 1776.
A/N II: Still dedicated to thinkpink20, because...well, it's still the same story, and she's still awesome. Duh.
----
Paul didn’t see or speak to John over the next few days. They had no gigs, so avoiding him wasn’t as difficult as Paul thought it might be, at least physically. He stayed out of the house on mindless errands as much as possible to miss calls, collecting three more messages in his absences (and a punch from Mike, who growled, “I did too tell ya he called, y’tosser!” upon delivering the blow).
He was home the afternoon before their next performance at the Cavern when the telephone rang. His father answered, and when he heard the guarded but friendly, “Oh, ‘llo John,” Paul felt that familiar tightening in his throat. He resolutely shook his head at Jim, then escaped into the kitchen to listen.
After chuckling at something John had said (Paul tried not to wonder what), his father was quiet for a moment, then replied, “Well, he’s having a bit of a kip before the show, John, but I’ll let him know you rang.” There was another silence, then, “Right. I’ll tell him.” Paul heard Jim hang up the telephone and attempted to make himself look busy at some task. His father joined him a minute later. “He didn’t buy that for a second, you know,” he told his son.
“Course not. ‘Havin’ a kip?’” Paul scoffed as he toyed with a tea towel. “Coulda told him I was out or summat.”
Rather than defend his excuse, Jim asked, “You two have a row?”
“No,” Paul replied shortly. His father only raised an eyebrow at him as he began fixing his tea.
----
Two nights later the band was back in Chester. They had used the revamped set list at the Cavern show (“Still feeling ill?” John had sneered when Paul had suggested it, obviously wise to what Paul’s reasoning had been all along; Paul had only mumbled something about good audience reaction in response, earning him another dirty look), and were using it again tonight, so once more Paul found himself with a stage separating him from John. It was a fitting metaphor, but not near enough distance.
While it was easy to dodge him everywhere else, on stage it was almost impossible; despite the fact that Paul certainly didn’t want to look at John, their mirror positions made it unavoidable. But it was far from just physical logistics; it had always been habitual, almost instinctive, for them to lock eyes across the stage. It fueled Paul to share a smile with John as they sang, far more effective than even the prellies at keeping him going. Just one look and Paul would be feel a surge of adrenaline, the rush of being alive and in the moment, ready to conquer the world with John by his side.
Since that day last week, however, the synergy was gone. John’s look no longer felt like a gift. It repeatedly left him drained. Empty. Lost.
Apparently the same was not true for John, even though Paul knew he was angry. In his periphery he could see John peeking at him from around George’s profile, feel his intent gaze boring into the side of his face and beckoning Paul to meet his eyes. Paul ignored him as best he could, and the cold wave of guilt enveloped him again.
After “Please Please Me,” John announced, tetchily, that the next song was “yet another original number from the brilliant minds of Lennon and McCartney.” Paul gave the crowd a dispirited thumb’s up, the fact that he was about to be mocked yet again by his own lyrics, their lyrics, making him feel ill in a way that had nothing to do with a virus as they started in on the sappy chords to “Ask Me Why.”
George served as a welcome wall for the first few lines, but when he pivoted to look at Ringo, Paul, on some sadist bend, couldn’t keep his eyes from venturing across the stage. John was already staring his way, his hardened glare making no secret of his rage. It provided a strange juxtaposition to the lines he was singing.
And in time
You’ll understand the reason why
If I cry
It’s not because I’m sad,
But you’re the only love that I’ve ever had…
George then stepped back fully to give Paul access to the microphone for the next lines, and with his now unobstructed view Paul watched John’s frosty look suddenly seep away, leaving behind a mask of hurt and confusion. The raw emotion etched into John’s every feature forced bile into Paul’s throat as he sang those lines, of course in harmony. It twisted their meaning into exactly the opposite of what the pair had intended when they’d written them, holed up in John’s room.
I can’t believe it’s happened to me
I can’t conceive of any more misery…
George came forward again but didn’t completely block John from Paul’s view, so he saw the reverse transformation take place; just as quickly as it had changed the first time, John’s sad expression morphed into one of steely anger. Some element of pain lingered, though - perhaps only in Paul’s mind, but it was enough so that he had to look away as John sang the next lines alone.
Ask me why - I’ll say I love you
And I’m always thinking of you…
----
On the ride back to Liverpool the others discussed heading to The Grapes for a few pints. Paul tried to shrug them off, but by the time the car reached Mathew Street he grudgingly agreed to come along. Ringo, Neil and George were pleased. John said nothing, only stared out the window with his head in hand.
Paul should have known it would be a huge mistake.
He ended up on the opposite side of the backroom table from John, who was in rare form and wasting no time in his apparent goal of getting pissed as quickly as possible. Paul nursed his first pint, but soon learned he would need more alcohol to tolerate John and his cutting remarks, the majority of which were directed at him - not all, because it was clear that John didn’t want everyone in on whatever rift had formed between the two, but those that were fired his way landed so precisely it was as if Paul were wearing a bull’s eye. Usually he was the accomplice, laughing hysterically and egging John on as he dealt out abuse with his rapier wit. It would be an understatement to say that being on the other side of the fence was much less enjoyable; a more accurate description was being John’s target now, when all that they were already seemed to be disintegrating before his eyes, was nearly unbearable.
“Don’t you have a little missus to get home to?” Ringo teasingly asked John around two o’clock.
“Eh, ’m sure Brian’ll be fine,” John said, to great laughter.
“Yer other little missus,” George clarified through chuckles. Paul downed the rest of what he was fairly certain was his seventh - or was it eighth? - pint while John gave George a sloppy shove.
“What you implyin’, cuntface? ‘m the man. I come home whenever I like!” John pronounced in a booming tone, holding his drink aloft before chugging it down. “Jus’ ‘cause ’m married don’t mean anythin’ changes,” he muttered into his empty glass.
Paul felt as if he had been sucker-punched, and his fight or flight instinct definitively chose the latter.
He got to his feet, paused until he was steady, and made his way for the loo. “Where’s ’e goin’?” John asked the table, then yelled after Paul, “Where you goin’?”
“T’piss, if that’s all ri’ with you,” Paul called over his shoulder, weaving his way to the door.
Once inside the dimly lit room he stumbled to a sink, splashing water on his face. He stared at his reflection - the bleary-eyed, pale and dripping face staring back epitomized “pathetic.” Overcome by the need to be off his feet, Paul lunged for a stall and fell onto the toilet, swatting the door shut behind him. He folded his arms on his knees and dropped his head onto them, his head ringing with John’s utterance.
It didn’t mean anything had changed? It meant everything had changed. Was he really the only one who could see that?
A moment later he heard the door thrown open with violent force, the smack of it hitting the adjacent wall reverberating through the space. His stall door was pulled open with equal fervor and he raised his head to see John glowering over him.
“The fuck is y’r problem?” he asked, slamming the stall door back closed. Paul stared up at him.
“My problem?!”
“’s what I said, innit?”
“You been takin’ the piss all night - what’s yer fuckin’ problem?”
John let out one bark of mirthless laughter. “Tonight? You think this is about tonight? You fuckin’ twat!” Paul’s earlier choice of flight instantly reversed, but John beat him to acting on it. He grabbed Paul by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him to his feet. Paul, dizzy from the alcohol and sudden change in position, careened into the wall of the cubicle.
“What the fuck, son?” he yelled at John, trying to first gain his footing, then squeeze past him and out, but John just shoved him against the wall again. Paul reeled, steadied himself, then shoved back fiercely. “’re you mental? What you doin’?”
John’s visage loomed huge before him, his eyes mere slits. “’s not about me. ‘s about you. Can’t be arsed to talk to me anymore? Return my calls? Fuckin’ stand next to me on stage?!” he spat, his yeasty breath swirling its way around Paul like some noxious cloud. “We’re fuckin’ on the verge, goddammit. The fuckin’ precipice.” He was no longer yelling, but the words beat against Paul’s eardrums and into his brain as if John had screamed them. He wanted to tell John that they had already gone over the precipice - crossed the Rubicon and burned the bridge behind them - but he couldn’t form the words.
“Every fuckin’ thing we been f’r years, about to pay off, ’n now you can’t even bleedin’ look at me?” John pressed on in an ominous hiss. There was an almost imperceptible quiver in his voice Paul most likely wouldn’t have heard if John hadn’t been so close, but he was, and so Paul did. The only sound was the faint gurgling in the old pipes while Paul found an answer.
“No,” he finally whispered, glaring back at John. “I can’t.”
John froze for what could have been a second or an hour - there was no way to measure time in that abyss of silence - then in a flurry he slammed him against the wall again, harder than before, pinning him there tightly with his body. The shock of impact rattled down Paul’s spine as he readied himself for a blow.
The crush of a hot mouth against his own wasn’t the next physical contact he was expecting, but it seemed Paul’s body had prepared itself for exactly this because despite his drunken state he responded almost immediately.
Every movement reeked of the desperate need for possession. John’s clutch on his lapels tightened; Paul fisted John’s hair, his arms having automatically snaked around his partner’s neck. Each of their tongues, flavored by ale and tobacco, jockeyed mercilessly for dominance, claiming every nook and cranny of the other’s mouth for its own. John moved one hand to the back of Paul’s neck, gripping him roughly. Not to be outdone, Paul yanked at John’s hair before he clawed at his shoulders. Grunts and huffs echoed in the tiny space.
Paul’s sensory nerves fired on overdrive; every square centimeter of his body that made any contact with John’s burning with a white-hot intensity that flared with each heartbeat. His rational mind - the one that knew this should no longer be happening, and certainly not in a public washroom with their mates outside - had long since gone dark. Only his id remained functional and it craved- no, demanded more. John seemed to be on the same page, forcing a leg in between Paul’s and arching his pelvis mercilessly against him. Paul, his member already stirring and twitching with want, easily met the thrust with a hard one of his own, and the two found some brutal rhythm as deftly as they had in so many situations and so many times before.
Their guttural noises began melting into groans and sighs; while it would be a stretch to say their actions took on a note of sweetness, some semblance of calm washed over the pair and slowed the primal, frantic pace initially set. Their kisses - still deep - were no longer bruising but lingering, taking time to taste and savor. Their touches - no less hungry - now sought to please rather than wound. John’s hands traversed Paul’s face. Slid down to his chest. Glided over his hips before heading north again to cover long-familiar territory. Paul’s combed through John’s sweaty locks, an unspoken apology for the harsh treatment of a moment before, then made their way to the small of John’s back, stealing under his untucked shirt to stroke the damp, smooth skin there. John hummed his approval and sucked at Paul’s lower lip before moving his mouth to Paul’s jaw line. Paul’s cock grew harder with each ministration, and he ground himself against John’s own bulging arousal.
John expelled a long, shaky sigh into Paul’s ear. He nipped at the lobe before whispering, “Come over.”
Paul almost agreed, on the tail of his own sigh at John’s wet mouth against his ear, but some flicker of logic turned the acceptance to a gravelly “can’t.”
“Can,” John argued, grabbing Paul’s backside and pulling his hips more tightly against his own as they rocked together.
Paul sucked in a breath between his teeth, his pleasure centers overloaded. Despite that, the formerly shut down portion of his brain sparked again; he wondered blurrily why he had to remember a wife John saw fit to forget. “Cyn,” he managed raggedly.
Groaning, John persisted. “Anyone home at yours?”
“Yeah…”
A ghosting of lips and tongue over Paul’s neck. “Asleep by now.”
“Yeah,” Paul repeated, fighting every instinct to leave his answer at that as John’s hands kneaded his flesh. “But…John…”
“No buts,” John insisted, greedily bringing his mouth to Paul’s again. Paul matched his kiss with equal passion, but it was too late - his earlier response was ricocheting through his mind uncontrollably now. Cyn Cyn Cyn… And although it required every reserve of willpower he had ever stored, Paul slowly turned his head away from John’s fervent kiss and, as delicately as possible, he reached behind him to take John’s wrists and guide his hands away from his ass. John allowed it, but still took Paul’s hands in his own and held them loosely.
“We can’t, John,” Paul ruled, dropping his head and letting it rest against John’s shoulder. Even with such limited contact he could feel John’s erratic breathing, feel every tendon and muscle stretched tight.
“Why?” John finally asked, his voice hoarse, and when Paul lifted his head he was again met with the look of utter despair John had worn during that shared glance onstage.
Despair, and worse, a childlike fear and vulnerability he had only seen John show on one other, horrible occasion.
A lump rose in Paul’s throat; all he could do was shake his head. John only continued to stare at him, that same gutting look on his face. Paul took a much-needed deep breath and collected his muddled thoughts, tried to make some sense out of something that, by its very nature, made no sense at all.
“You know why,” he offered when he could at last trust his voice, squeezing John’s hands once.
Even to his own ears it was so soft Paul wasn’t sure he hadn’t said it, but one look in John’s eyes confirmed that he had - in fact, for just a beat John looked as Paul had shouted the words, and had followed them with a slap for good measure. He dropped Paul’s hands and took a half step back, not breaking their gaze. Paul tried to silently convey what he could not in words - how he too felt lost, broken. John understood his message, Paul knew, but did not believe it, because now he was the one to shake his head.
“It’s…it’ll be…you chose this…an’…’s for the best,” Paul explained falteringly, running a hand through his hair. He knew the moment the words left his lips it was absolutely the wrong thing to say. John’s eyes glazed over, and his whole countenance turned icy.
“Fuck. You,” he breathed, his tone just as venomous as the last look he threw Paul’s way before marching out of the washroom.