Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 25)
Time/Location: June 1965. Living room/Bathroom.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Sexual situations, bad language, references to violance.
Previous Parts: HERE!
Summary: It's 1965, and a terrible virus is spreading. Those who get it turn violent, dangerous and even homicidal. Only trouble is, it's impossible to know who has the virus and who doesn't. And nobody is safe from it. So who can you trust?
John knew Paul from the very core of his insecurities to the very brunt of his pride. He knew how Paul would act, how to make him tick, how to make him mad and how to cheer him up again.
Authors Notes: Whatever happens in this chapter will continue in the next chapter, just so ye know.
His heart was hammering fast in the way it only did in those very early days, back before it became so easy to score. He was experiencing the nervous butterflies that he got, back when he was innocent and naïve to the whole world of dating and whatnot. And yet here he was, just turned 23 and John Lennon - yes John Lennon - was the cause of these initial stresses and worries. As well as that, John Lennon was also responsible for that overpowering need to please Paul felt, and the fixation on a set of man’s lips, the unwavering attachment, and desire to follow this man everywhere he went. He was so proud to be John’s friend. And he rarely got that. He wanted people to know, he wanted everybody to recognise what he meant to John……. and, he supposed, what John meant to him.
The ridiculous thing was that John was annoying and stubborn and argumentative and rude and insensitive and one of the worlds biggest bastards, and he could hurt Paul in a way that nobody else could. But he could also melt Paul in a way nobody could as well. And he’d told Paul he loved him. Not once … but many times over the past few days. And when he kissed Paul his lips were tender and his hands were soft. And he would stroke Paul’s hair and face and caress him in a way no woman could. And why? Well probably because John knew Paul in a way no woman had ever done. John knew Paul from the very core of his insecurities to the very brunt of his pride. He knew how Paul would act, how to make him tick, how to make him mad and how to cheer him up again. He knew what Paul would say, how he would feel, and what he wanted, when he wanted. And that never ceased to amaze him.
And now he would know Paul in another way.
The only way which Paul had never allowed him to explore.
But he was ready to now.
The bathroom didn’t have a lock on the door, but neither of them paid a whole lot of notice to that. John was the one to put the plug into the tub, and began running the water. He ran both the hot and the cold, because Paul already had a nasty temperature and John didn’t want to boil him half to death. And after the water was running, there was a silence. Not an uncomfortable one. John simply turned, sat on the edge of the bathtub, and he watched Paul through surveying eyes, trying to work out where Paul was functioning mentally. How did he want to do this?
And Paul didn’t respond. He didn’t offer any words of approval, nor discomfort. He didn’t make any suggestions, or even crook any eyebrows as an indication of his mindset. He wanted John to take the initiative, because something about John’s power excited him.
And take the initiative, he did.
Again everything was silent. John was coming to welcome silences, especially with Paul; there was something incredibly intense and prevailing about them. The only sound was the running water. The only sight was the steam that filled the room from the bathtub. But the sensations were running on overdrive. Droplets of condensation mixed with the excited trickle of sweat on the back of John’s neck, as he stood up, and moved closer towards Paul. Paul didn’t move or make any gesture of excitement not uneasiness. He stood perfectly still, perfectly poker-faced, as John moved towards him.
And Christ, John’s presence was very, very fucking powerful. Paul felt his heart speed up as his figure moved in on him. He felt his skin quiver as John’s breath brushed his ear. He felt his legs buckle slightly, as John moved his hands to Paul’s waist, and slowly begin lifting up the jumper there.
Paul produced a sharp intake of breath, and John’s hands stopped moving.
“Are you alright?” he whispered
But Paul could hardly breathe, let alone speak. It was surreal, even contemplating anything like this… with a guy. And yet he wanted it. Every inch of his body was tingling with sensual energy that John provoked in him, with just a stare. Paul had declined him in the woods. He’d been adamant he wouldn’t take that step with a man. But things were different now. Circumstances had changed, perceptions had altered. And Paul was beginning to see for himself what John and George had talked about……. now was the perfect time. For there might never be another. This stranger’s home with the boarded up windows reminded him of that.
“I’m alright.” he whispered
John smiled. It wasn’t his usual wide grin, nor his smirk or any other alteration of the word. It was soft and genuine; to match the tenderness of his hands, as he gently peeled the jumper up Paul’s body and over his head. Underneath was a slim, white t-shirt, and John fiddled inoffensively with the rim. The heat radiating from his hands burned Paul’s waist and stomach even without touching it. And even with a pretty nasty temperature already at hand, Paul could feel his body heat rising even more than it was originally.
They stayed like that for a long time. And neither of them spoke, and neither of them moved. John just twirled the bottom of Paul’s shirt between his fingers, Paul’s hand sat comfortably on John’s shoulder, and otherwise they just stood in a calm serenity.
Eventually, when the bath was so full it was about to overflow, Paul broke the tranquillity. All it took was a very small head movement to end the trancelike solitude, and make John turn around to quietly switch the water off.
And now, without the flow of water, everything was well and truly silent.
John moved back towards the bassist, and pressed a kiss onto the side of his mouth. At the same time, his hands moved back to the bottom of Paul’s t-shirt, this time sliding underneath, and feeling the skin there, just on the point of Paul’s hipbones. Paul’s whole body shivered from the contact, and he rested his head softly onto John’s shoulder, urging for more touch. He wanted it. He was intrigued, he was absorbed, and he was suddenly consumed with some kind of fiery need for those hands.
Slowly, painfully slowly, John slithered his hands up the inside of Paul’s shirt, tracing along the bassist’s slender waist, his ribs, and then stroking lightly against his chest. Paul took a deep intake of breath which danced inside John’s ears, and for a second, he was about to rip the whole thing off him. But then Paul winced. John’s fingers had touched something which hurt him.
And hastily, John drew his hands out.
“It’s okay,” Paul whispered. He caught John’s hands just before they returned to the guitarists’ side, holding them tightly between their two bodies. “It’s just a bruise.”
John swallowed. “A bruise?”
“Mm-hm.”
Paul let go of the older mans hands, and they lingered, again radiating heat towards Paul’s covered stomach.
“Can I look?” John muttered softly.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He took hold of the bottom of the t-shirt, and gently prised it upwards, peeling it from Paul’s belly, which was damp from a sweaty temperature. There were cuts and bruises littered across Paul’s lean stomach, the physical memories of fights and falls and survival. Moving upwards, the bruises seemed to get heavier and more frequent, until John reached Paul’s chest. The bassist lifted his arms, and John removed the whole garment from his body, discarding it quietly onto the floor.
And sure enough, on the centre of Paul’s chest, a large yellow bruise was situated. It morphed sickly green and dark purple, swelling and tingling with tender nerves. John’s eyes widened in disbelief at the wound, grazing his middle finger over the injury. Paul winced again, even at the softest of contact.
“How the hell did you do that!?” John gasped
“You!” Paul chuckled, “Fuckin’… elbowed me REALLY hard!”
“When?!”
“Just before you went off to that bloody hospital.”
John gaped, staring at the sickly wound that contaminated Paul’s toned, bare chest.
“Not THAT hard…”
“You did.”
“Holy shit, why didn’t you hit me back?!”
“I did!” Paul chuckled, “But a few days later.”
He pressed his thumb onto the bridge of John’s bruised nose, making the older man flinch from the pain of his own injury.
“Okay, so we’re even then?” John breathed, still unable to take his eyes off Paul’s heavy bruise which he himself had inflicted upon him.
“Yeah, even.” Paul assured. He took hold of John’s fingers, prising them away from the bruise, and squeezing them tightly in a bid to prove his forgiveness. Paul always forgave John for pretty much everything he did. And when John looked so mortified by his own actions, it became easier to pardon him than ever.
Paul moved his own hands to John’s blazer, and pulled it softly from his shoulders, watching with satisfaction as the garment dropped to the floor. Underneath, John simply wore a black t-shirt; he’d already discarded the turtle-neck jumper at some point in the woods.
“Let’s see your bruises then!” Paul challenged, his head tilted cheekily.
“Oh, they’re not nearly as impressive.” John mused, and pulled the t-shirt hastily off himself. He didn’t draw it out or make a show of it; Paul knew he wasn’t particularly confident in his body, even though John would only admit it under the pretence of jest. Like Paul’s, John’s stomach was decorated in scratches and small various wounds and bruises. No elbow-punches, that was for sure, but certain signs of combat and terrible state.
Paul scoffed jokingly. “That’s not very inspiring, is it?”
“No?” John asked. He turned around, revealing his bare back to the bassist. There was a nasty gash, startlingly deep, that stretched from his arm, down to the top of his waist. Paul moved forward, tracing his finger down the side of the slash, tracing it all the way down that smooth, broad back.
“How’d you do it?” He mumbled softly under his breath, sliding his finger back up again, reaching John’s shoulders.
“I’ve no idea. Hurts like shit though.”
“That’s cos you got dirt in it. Looks like shit too.”
“Hmm.” John turned around abruptly, taking hold of the back of Paul’s head and pulling the bassist towards him. Their lips met, hard and fast in comparison to their slow, gentle movements and conversation of before.
And Paul didn’t think he’d ever wanted something more. He’d never been more aroused, more determined for somebody’s taste and smell and touch as he was this guys. He moved his hands to John’s bare back, felt their naked chests pressing against one another, and John’s hands in his hair. And then John’s hands were gripping his hair, pulling it with raucous passion. Paul moaned softly as John tugged, while John’s other hand held to Paul’s waist, his nails digging in to the skin.
The same hand then travelled around, clawing between their two stomachs, and then their two hips, and finally meeting Paul’s zipper, wrenching it down with fierce fervour. He fumbled with the button, which was hard with only one hand, but his other clung determinedly to Paul’s hair, and then Paul’s neck. He squeezed the back of Paul’s neck with growing need for reaction, squeezing and grasping. But Paul broke the kiss, suddenly flinching in pain.
“Arghh! Ouch!”
“Shit,” John muttered, betraying himself with signs of evident worry, “What is it?”
“Nothing, just…” Paul rubbed the back of his neck, “Ugh, it really hurts.”
“Let me see.”
Obediently, Paul turned around. His hair fell in small wisps just on the back of his neck, but not enough to cover the injury. Yet another bruise. Purple and swollen like the one on his chest, but this time, the shape was unmistakable. It was a hand.
“Paul, who the fuck did this to you?” John muttered disbelievingly.
“Brian.” Paul whispered, “Bloody… grabbin’ at me and that.”
John closed his eyes. Because, holy fuck, it was bad enough when he first heard about what that fucking bastard had done to Paul. But seeing it… well, that was worse still. To see the physical signs of the pain Paul endured and the suffering Brian wreaked out on him. It made it all the more real. To see the bruise, the outline of Brian’s hand. Brian who John trusted, who he loved, who he… even respected, on some level. Brian who he’d shared secret kisses with. And here displayed in front of him was the imprint of his dangerous, betraying hands. Stamped upon the skin of a guy who did no intentional harm to anybody.
“I’m sorry, Paul.” John whispered again. His lips brushed the back of Paul’s neck as he spoke, and his breath washed over the bruise like a plaster.
“S’alright.” Paul muttered. “It’s okay now.”
“I shoulda been there. I wouldn’t have let ‘im do that to you.”
Paul tut quietly under his breath. “I can look after myself, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah.” John rolled his eyes.
Paul felt the older mans eyelashes flicker on the back of his neck, tickling the wound. And then he felt John’s lips, pressing small, healing, protective kisses over the place Brian had grabbed and pulled him. John’s lips tended to the bruise, while his hands moved around Paul’s body, round onto his stomach. John pulled Paul backwards, so they were pressed bare back and bare stomach against each other. Paul glanced downwards, and watched in trance-like fascination as John’s hands appeared from behind him, gliding across Paul’s stomach, and falling to his trousers. The two hands pulled open the button.
Paul let his head fall backwards, and it balanced on John’s shoulder. Now John could press small, tender kisses to the bassists’ cheek and hair, while his hands worked the waistline of Paul’s trousers.
Paul took a deep breath, bracing himself, his legs and arms shaking with the anticipation, as John’s tender, focussed hands moved into his trousers, found their way to Paul’s cock, and practiced long loving strokes there.
“Oh shit…” Paul gasped.
His legs buckled, but John used his other hand to wrap around Paul’s bare stomach, holding him upright as he continued to press kisses to the back of Paul’s head and neck.
His hand massaged Paul, skilfully, lovingly, devotedly. Paul thrust into the hold, his whole skin burning, all his nerves tingling with unparalleled lust. He was ready to accept John in whatever way John chose. It was times like these that, once again, John demonstrated how he - and only he - could hold such a power over the bassist. This was a fact that Paul used to despise, but he now loved. And he accepted John’s touch gratefully, and threw his inhibitions to the infected. John could do what he liked with him now. He was John’s to take.
George had finished signing the records. There were quite a lot there to get through, and George always took a long time doing his autograph for some reason. Once it was done, he scooped them up, carefully piled them, motioned to Ringo to come and do the same.
And of course, ever one to please George, Ringo did it without argument.
He picked up the pen and worked his way through the albums and singles one-by-one, scribbling an autograph above each picture of himself. The sound of pen scratching paper relaxed George for some reason; it was almost hypnotising. He could hear it even louder than the record that way playing. He leant back against the armchair, allowing his head to flop back and his eyes to flutter shut, allowing sleep to take him once more into a peaceful slumber. George loved falling asleep to music.
When he opened his eyes again, Ringo had finished the signing. He was kneeling close-by to George, stacking the records up again in the same order that George had, just in case they were in some important layout. The “Carls Perkins” record had finished already.
“Shall we put one of ours on?” Ringo suggested quietly. “I like listenin’ to us.”
The guitarist nodded, and Ringo hastily inserted the “With the Beatles” record, not willing to keep the silence going for too long.
”It won’t be long, yeah! yeah! yeah! It won’t be long, yeah! Yeah! Yeah! It won’t be long, yeah! Yeah! Till I belong to you…”
“I can’t wait to have a bath.” George muttered, absent-mindedly.
He wasn’t looking at Ringo; he was staring unblinkingly into the spinning record, and for a moment or two the drummer couldn’t work out whether George was talking to himself or not. He decided he better reply anyway, just in case.
“They shouldn’t take too long.”
George nodded distractedly, and began picking at the carpet. As the record rolled on, the two listened to it in silence, occasionally mouthing the words or drumming onto laps, but otherwise they kept still and attentive. Ringo sat huddled on the sofa, his feet stretched out in front of him. They both remained in their music-inspired dream-worlds; reminiscing what was before, and envisioning what could have been.
This stupor was only broken when a harsh cough erupted from George, and the music was suddenly drowned out by a never-ending progression of choking and spluttering. Once again, Ringo had to listen to the all-familiar sound of the guitarists’ throat tearing and ripping. He wouldn’t be surprised if George were to draw blood! Still, having come familiar with the sound didn’t make it easier to take, and Ringo leapt from the sofa, landing at the youngers side within seconds.
“Alright,” he coaxed, “It’s alright.”
George let out a noise that fell somewhere between a moan and a whimper, his whole body rocking violently with the coughs. Ringo placed a gentle hand onto the guitarists back, instinctively rubbing up and down for lack of any better feat. George’s back was long, if bony, and trembling from the impact. Ringo’s one hand massaged supportively there, while the other found its way to George’s wrist, squeezing with gentle, instinctive compassion.
Eventually, the coughing subsided. Ringo didn’t let go of the guitarist, transfixed to kneel at his side, eyes brimming with concern.
“Are you okay?!”
“Mmm..” George croaked. His voice truly was almost gone. “Hurts.”
“Sounds like it.” Ringo winced in sympathy.
“But should be thankful for it I guess.” George attempted a laugh, but quickly stopped as his throat threatened to split again. “Stops you goin’ mad, I spose.”
“I suppose.” Ringo frowned. He too attempted a half-hearted chuckle. “And if you wanted to go mad, you could always mix alcohol and pills again. That seems to do the trick.”
But apparently he’d said the wrong thing.
Because George immediately tensed up in his hold, and Ringo’s senses were alerted to how possessively he was gripping his bandmates back and wrist. He let go quickly, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably as George turned to look at him.
“Why would you want me to do that?”
Ringo swallowed. He was suddenly feeling very shaky, very exposed. He realised this was the first time he and George had actually LOOKED at each other in… well, a very long time. He wished it didn’t have to be under such scrutinising circumstances.
“I… I don’t.” He muttered, “No, I definitely don’t.”
“I’m not…….”
But George trailed off, resuming his preoccupied picking of the carpet.
“Not what?” Ringo whispered carefully. “Not what George?”
George shook his head gently. “I’m not… you know… a whore.”
“Wha…”
“…And whatever I said, you know… I know what I said. But… it doesn’t… I wish I ‘adn’t said anything… really. I didn’t want…”
Ringo’s whole stomach knotted up. Oh. He realised where this was going. He’d known George long enough now to translate his disjointed thought processes. He knew what he was trying to say: George regretted everything that happened in that bed last night. He regretted laying lips on Ringo, or laying hands on him.
But, fuck, George’s lament couldn’t be anything in comparison to Ringo’s, for even beginning to let him do those things.
“I’m sorry!” Ringo blurted out immediately. “I mean… I know I should’ve…”
“It’s…”
“I mean I didn’t… you didn’t do…” Ringo sighed, searching for the right words. “It’s understandable, you know. I don’t think you’re a… whore, or anything. Don’t be daft.”
“Kay.” George muttered.
But even so, his toes curled with the mortification of such a conversation. Here they were talking, almost as if it were perfectly normal what things they had done while George was out of his mind. And the worst thing being of course, that George did not have the benefit of memory to support him in such a difficult conversation. All he had was distorted images and spare a couple of humiliating recollections. And of course, the knowledge that Ringo wanted to “fuck him” as Paul so bluntly put it, and that George had offered him to opportunity to do exactly that.
And every single time he thought about … that … his stomach churned and his heart sunk and his throat grew dry and his whole body seemed to curl and shrivel from the insides with the very idea of it.
He needed to know.
“Ringo,” he croaked suddenly, “What we did… What we did……. Did I… like it? At all?”
Ringo swallowed. Surely George would remember that?! Did he like kissing and touching Ringo, and opening his trousers and wanking him off?! Was he SUPPOSED to get pleasure from that!? Christ… what did he want Ringo to SAY?!
“I… I dunno.” Ringo muttered honestly, “You were jus’ bein’… you know, weird. And I… I shouldn’t have let you…”
“I shouldn’t really have told you… that you could.” George muttered uncomfortably, his face suddenly turning very red. “I don’t think… you know… I don’t think I’m actually into… that.”
There was a silence for a minute, where Ringo stared at the top of George’s hair, which was once again buried somewhere in the direction of the floor.
“What are you talking about?!” the drummer frowned
“You know…” George stuttered quietly. “What we did…”
“Yeah?!”
“I’m jus’ saying… I know I said at the time… so it’s my fault…”
“What is?”
“That we did… you know. I’m not actually queer though, Ringo. Even though you…… even if I let you……”
Ringo’s head reeled, trying to work out just what the hell George was on about. Ringo hadn’t done ANYTHING! It was GEORGE that had been doing stuff, and Ringo had just let him, like a bastard. But what the hell was George on about?? Even if Ringo had done WHAT?!
“Just say it George.” he urged, his heart pounding.
“If you… we… I didn’t actually ever want to… you know,” he shrugged uncomfortably, “sleep with a guy or ought.”
It was like the whole floor had been pulled from underneath the drummers’ feet, and the wind was knocked out of him like some brutal punch.
“George!!” he stuttered, incredulously. “I would never… I’d never do that to you!! Bloody hell… what, you REALLY believe I would do that? You think I’d… USE YOU like THAT!? What were you thinking?!”
“I…” George frowned, his eyes darting from the floor to Ringo’s wide, blue eyes. “I don’t… I…”
“Oh My God!!” Ringo seemed to be getting more appalled as George’s confession dawned on him, “George - you… you know me! You know I’d never… Don’t you?! I mean…”
“I’m sorry!” George suddenly gasped, realisation washing over him.
“You must think so little of me!”
“I don’t!”
“No?”
“No, I….” George’s eyes widened. His face suddenly stretched slightly, a small smile creeping across his exhausted features. “You… we didn’t…?”
“NO!”
And then… despite everything… despite Ringo’s horrified and hurt expression, despite the stress, the ankle, the confrontation… despite all of that… George heard himself laugh. Relief at its highest level flooded his body, like a revival of life, or an intake of oxygen… a restore of virginity. And he was laughing.
A mixture of extreme relief, and embarrassment at ever having thought such a thing, drew him to laugh more, until he’d buried his face in his hands, hard, hysterical chokes of laughter erupting from his stomach and throat.
“You didn’t do anything!” he cackled joyously, “Noth…nothing happened!”
Ringo watched him, a fierce and vindicated expression still plastered across his face. But at the sight of George’s sudden change of mood, even Ringo couldn’t stop the small smile creeping across his lips. George had been so tired, and so hopeless for days. It was… it was rather exhilarating to hear such a sound escaping the younger guitarist. A sound that Ringo had missed so much.
And, through default, the drummer laughed too.
“You… why on Earth would you think…”
“I don’t know!” George confessed, his shoulders shaking from cackles of reassurance. “But we didn’t……. we didn’t….”
“No we didn’t.”
And suddenly George’s arms were wrapped tightly around Ringo’s neck. The guitarist had pounced on the drummer in an aberrant display of utmost emotion, clinging so tightly that Ringo was almost pulled over by the weight. The drummer giggled, moving his own arms around George, letting them rest and stroke up and down the younger mans back.
“Thank you.” George’s voice muffled into Ringo’s shoulder.
Ringo chuckled lightly, pulling slightly away from George so he could see his face properly, “For what?”
George shrugged, and again pulled Ringo back towards him, and Ringo’s hands felt George’s hair, running his fingers through the thick layers smoothly.
“You know I’d never do anything you didn’t want to do.” the drummer confirmed softly.
“I know.” George nodded into Ringo’s shoulder. “I was stupid.”, and he really was starting to appreciate how true those words were.
George held on like that in heartfelt, relieved silence for a few minutes, and of course, Ringo let him. He’d have happily continued to hold George in such an emotional embrace forever, but soon George let go, his arms flopping contentedly to the floor. Ringo released him as well, pulling back slightly, although not far enough to remove from the intensity of the sudden eye-contact.
George’s eyes seemed to be piercing into his own, suddenly overflowing with trust, forgiveness, and an overwhelming thankfulness that Ringo didn’t feel he truly deserved. They were so close together, Ringo could practically feel the temperature radiating off the young guitarist’s forehead.
“But do you actually love me, Ritch?” George asked with curiosity.
“Yeah, I do.” Ringo breathed, not daring to drop his eye-level. “I do, yeah, I’m sorry.”
How could George ever have doubted Ringo? How could he have ever believed such a thing of him, as to exploit George’s drugged up, alcohol-induced mind and body? Ringo would never do that. He wasn’t like Brian, he wasn’t infected. Just because he loved George suddenly - didn’t make him not Ringo. He was still the same kind, and gentle, and patient and understanding. And he made George laugh and he made time for him, and listened to what he said. He really listened, did Ringo, he didn’t just wait for his turn to speak. The fact that he was in LOVE with George to result in this behaviour - well that wasn’t such a bad thing. It was a nice thing. And here with Ringo, George felt safe. Safe, not vulnerable as was the case a few minutes ago. How could he have ever felt that way, towards the owner of those startlingly blue eyes? Eyes that reflected kindness and acceptance, even when George had accused him of such scandal.
George’s eyes were piercing into his, holding him under a microscope. George was the first to break eye-contact, although Ringo didn’t remove his gaze. He watched as George’s eye-line moved down to Ringo’s lips, and then back up watchfully to his eyes. And then George moved forward, nervously, hesitating slightly. But just a second later, George’s lips were against his. They weren’t needy or desperate the way they were the night before… they were tentative, experimental. His long fingers touched timidly to Ringo’s chin. His lips closed softly around Ringo’s… once, twice, three times. He was unsure it seemed, and nervous. Ringo’s hand moved up to take hold of George’s hair once again, and he clasped their lips together indefinitely.
In the hands of a person who loved him, George grew confident in what he was doing. Their lips sunk and melted and tingled against each others, creating comfort, security, and most of all a reconciliation of affections too intense to comprehend.
Time/Location: June 1965. Living room/Bathroom.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Sexual situations, bad language, references to violance.
Previous Parts: HERE!
Summary: It's 1965, and a terrible virus is spreading. Those who get it turn violent, dangerous and even homicidal. Only trouble is, it's impossible to know who has the virus and who doesn't. And nobody is safe from it. So who can you trust?
John knew Paul from the very core of his insecurities to the very brunt of his pride. He knew how Paul would act, how to make him tick, how to make him mad and how to cheer him up again.
Authors Notes: Whatever happens in this chapter will continue in the next chapter, just so ye know.
His heart was hammering fast in the way it only did in those very early days, back before it became so easy to score. He was experiencing the nervous butterflies that he got, back when he was innocent and naïve to the whole world of dating and whatnot. And yet here he was, just turned 23 and John Lennon - yes John Lennon - was the cause of these initial stresses and worries. As well as that, John Lennon was also responsible for that overpowering need to please Paul felt, and the fixation on a set of man’s lips, the unwavering attachment, and desire to follow this man everywhere he went. He was so proud to be John’s friend. And he rarely got that. He wanted people to know, he wanted everybody to recognise what he meant to John……. and, he supposed, what John meant to him.
The ridiculous thing was that John was annoying and stubborn and argumentative and rude and insensitive and one of the worlds biggest bastards, and he could hurt Paul in a way that nobody else could. But he could also melt Paul in a way nobody could as well. And he’d told Paul he loved him. Not once … but many times over the past few days. And when he kissed Paul his lips were tender and his hands were soft. And he would stroke Paul’s hair and face and caress him in a way no woman could. And why? Well probably because John knew Paul in a way no woman had ever done. John knew Paul from the very core of his insecurities to the very brunt of his pride. He knew how Paul would act, how to make him tick, how to make him mad and how to cheer him up again. He knew what Paul would say, how he would feel, and what he wanted, when he wanted. And that never ceased to amaze him.
And now he would know Paul in another way.
The only way which Paul had never allowed him to explore.
But he was ready to now.
The bathroom didn’t have a lock on the door, but neither of them paid a whole lot of notice to that. John was the one to put the plug into the tub, and began running the water. He ran both the hot and the cold, because Paul already had a nasty temperature and John didn’t want to boil him half to death. And after the water was running, there was a silence. Not an uncomfortable one. John simply turned, sat on the edge of the bathtub, and he watched Paul through surveying eyes, trying to work out where Paul was functioning mentally. How did he want to do this?
And Paul didn’t respond. He didn’t offer any words of approval, nor discomfort. He didn’t make any suggestions, or even crook any eyebrows as an indication of his mindset. He wanted John to take the initiative, because something about John’s power excited him.
And take the initiative, he did.
Again everything was silent. John was coming to welcome silences, especially with Paul; there was something incredibly intense and prevailing about them. The only sound was the running water. The only sight was the steam that filled the room from the bathtub. But the sensations were running on overdrive. Droplets of condensation mixed with the excited trickle of sweat on the back of John’s neck, as he stood up, and moved closer towards Paul. Paul didn’t move or make any gesture of excitement not uneasiness. He stood perfectly still, perfectly poker-faced, as John moved towards him.
And Christ, John’s presence was very, very fucking powerful. Paul felt his heart speed up as his figure moved in on him. He felt his skin quiver as John’s breath brushed his ear. He felt his legs buckle slightly, as John moved his hands to Paul’s waist, and slowly begin lifting up the jumper there.
Paul produced a sharp intake of breath, and John’s hands stopped moving.
“Are you alright?” he whispered
But Paul could hardly breathe, let alone speak. It was surreal, even contemplating anything like this… with a guy. And yet he wanted it. Every inch of his body was tingling with sensual energy that John provoked in him, with just a stare. Paul had declined him in the woods. He’d been adamant he wouldn’t take that step with a man. But things were different now. Circumstances had changed, perceptions had altered. And Paul was beginning to see for himself what John and George had talked about……. now was the perfect time. For there might never be another. This stranger’s home with the boarded up windows reminded him of that.
“I’m alright.” he whispered
John smiled. It wasn’t his usual wide grin, nor his smirk or any other alteration of the word. It was soft and genuine; to match the tenderness of his hands, as he gently peeled the jumper up Paul’s body and over his head. Underneath was a slim, white t-shirt, and John fiddled inoffensively with the rim. The heat radiating from his hands burned Paul’s waist and stomach even without touching it. And even with a pretty nasty temperature already at hand, Paul could feel his body heat rising even more than it was originally.
They stayed like that for a long time. And neither of them spoke, and neither of them moved. John just twirled the bottom of Paul’s shirt between his fingers, Paul’s hand sat comfortably on John’s shoulder, and otherwise they just stood in a calm serenity.
Eventually, when the bath was so full it was about to overflow, Paul broke the tranquillity. All it took was a very small head movement to end the trancelike solitude, and make John turn around to quietly switch the water off.
And now, without the flow of water, everything was well and truly silent.
John moved back towards the bassist, and pressed a kiss onto the side of his mouth. At the same time, his hands moved back to the bottom of Paul’s t-shirt, this time sliding underneath, and feeling the skin there, just on the point of Paul’s hipbones. Paul’s whole body shivered from the contact, and he rested his head softly onto John’s shoulder, urging for more touch. He wanted it. He was intrigued, he was absorbed, and he was suddenly consumed with some kind of fiery need for those hands.
Slowly, painfully slowly, John slithered his hands up the inside of Paul’s shirt, tracing along the bassist’s slender waist, his ribs, and then stroking lightly against his chest. Paul took a deep intake of breath which danced inside John’s ears, and for a second, he was about to rip the whole thing off him. But then Paul winced. John’s fingers had touched something which hurt him.
And hastily, John drew his hands out.
“It’s okay,” Paul whispered. He caught John’s hands just before they returned to the guitarists’ side, holding them tightly between their two bodies. “It’s just a bruise.”
John swallowed. “A bruise?”
“Mm-hm.”
Paul let go of the older mans hands, and they lingered, again radiating heat towards Paul’s covered stomach.
“Can I look?” John muttered softly.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He took hold of the bottom of the t-shirt, and gently prised it upwards, peeling it from Paul’s belly, which was damp from a sweaty temperature. There were cuts and bruises littered across Paul’s lean stomach, the physical memories of fights and falls and survival. Moving upwards, the bruises seemed to get heavier and more frequent, until John reached Paul’s chest. The bassist lifted his arms, and John removed the whole garment from his body, discarding it quietly onto the floor.
And sure enough, on the centre of Paul’s chest, a large yellow bruise was situated. It morphed sickly green and dark purple, swelling and tingling with tender nerves. John’s eyes widened in disbelief at the wound, grazing his middle finger over the injury. Paul winced again, even at the softest of contact.
“How the hell did you do that!?” John gasped
“You!” Paul chuckled, “Fuckin’… elbowed me REALLY hard!”
“When?!”
“Just before you went off to that bloody hospital.”
John gaped, staring at the sickly wound that contaminated Paul’s toned, bare chest.
“Not THAT hard…”
“You did.”
“Holy shit, why didn’t you hit me back?!”
“I did!” Paul chuckled, “But a few days later.”
He pressed his thumb onto the bridge of John’s bruised nose, making the older man flinch from the pain of his own injury.
“Okay, so we’re even then?” John breathed, still unable to take his eyes off Paul’s heavy bruise which he himself had inflicted upon him.
“Yeah, even.” Paul assured. He took hold of John’s fingers, prising them away from the bruise, and squeezing them tightly in a bid to prove his forgiveness. Paul always forgave John for pretty much everything he did. And when John looked so mortified by his own actions, it became easier to pardon him than ever.
Paul moved his own hands to John’s blazer, and pulled it softly from his shoulders, watching with satisfaction as the garment dropped to the floor. Underneath, John simply wore a black t-shirt; he’d already discarded the turtle-neck jumper at some point in the woods.
“Let’s see your bruises then!” Paul challenged, his head tilted cheekily.
“Oh, they’re not nearly as impressive.” John mused, and pulled the t-shirt hastily off himself. He didn’t draw it out or make a show of it; Paul knew he wasn’t particularly confident in his body, even though John would only admit it under the pretence of jest. Like Paul’s, John’s stomach was decorated in scratches and small various wounds and bruises. No elbow-punches, that was for sure, but certain signs of combat and terrible state.
Paul scoffed jokingly. “That’s not very inspiring, is it?”
“No?” John asked. He turned around, revealing his bare back to the bassist. There was a nasty gash, startlingly deep, that stretched from his arm, down to the top of his waist. Paul moved forward, tracing his finger down the side of the slash, tracing it all the way down that smooth, broad back.
“How’d you do it?” He mumbled softly under his breath, sliding his finger back up again, reaching John’s shoulders.
“I’ve no idea. Hurts like shit though.”
“That’s cos you got dirt in it. Looks like shit too.”
“Hmm.” John turned around abruptly, taking hold of the back of Paul’s head and pulling the bassist towards him. Their lips met, hard and fast in comparison to their slow, gentle movements and conversation of before.
And Paul didn’t think he’d ever wanted something more. He’d never been more aroused, more determined for somebody’s taste and smell and touch as he was this guys. He moved his hands to John’s bare back, felt their naked chests pressing against one another, and John’s hands in his hair. And then John’s hands were gripping his hair, pulling it with raucous passion. Paul moaned softly as John tugged, while John’s other hand held to Paul’s waist, his nails digging in to the skin.
The same hand then travelled around, clawing between their two stomachs, and then their two hips, and finally meeting Paul’s zipper, wrenching it down with fierce fervour. He fumbled with the button, which was hard with only one hand, but his other clung determinedly to Paul’s hair, and then Paul’s neck. He squeezed the back of Paul’s neck with growing need for reaction, squeezing and grasping. But Paul broke the kiss, suddenly flinching in pain.
“Arghh! Ouch!”
“Shit,” John muttered, betraying himself with signs of evident worry, “What is it?”
“Nothing, just…” Paul rubbed the back of his neck, “Ugh, it really hurts.”
“Let me see.”
Obediently, Paul turned around. His hair fell in small wisps just on the back of his neck, but not enough to cover the injury. Yet another bruise. Purple and swollen like the one on his chest, but this time, the shape was unmistakable. It was a hand.
“Paul, who the fuck did this to you?” John muttered disbelievingly.
“Brian.” Paul whispered, “Bloody… grabbin’ at me and that.”
John closed his eyes. Because, holy fuck, it was bad enough when he first heard about what that fucking bastard had done to Paul. But seeing it… well, that was worse still. To see the physical signs of the pain Paul endured and the suffering Brian wreaked out on him. It made it all the more real. To see the bruise, the outline of Brian’s hand. Brian who John trusted, who he loved, who he… even respected, on some level. Brian who he’d shared secret kisses with. And here displayed in front of him was the imprint of his dangerous, betraying hands. Stamped upon the skin of a guy who did no intentional harm to anybody.
“I’m sorry, Paul.” John whispered again. His lips brushed the back of Paul’s neck as he spoke, and his breath washed over the bruise like a plaster.
“S’alright.” Paul muttered. “It’s okay now.”
“I shoulda been there. I wouldn’t have let ‘im do that to you.”
Paul tut quietly under his breath. “I can look after myself, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah.” John rolled his eyes.
Paul felt the older mans eyelashes flicker on the back of his neck, tickling the wound. And then he felt John’s lips, pressing small, healing, protective kisses over the place Brian had grabbed and pulled him. John’s lips tended to the bruise, while his hands moved around Paul’s body, round onto his stomach. John pulled Paul backwards, so they were pressed bare back and bare stomach against each other. Paul glanced downwards, and watched in trance-like fascination as John’s hands appeared from behind him, gliding across Paul’s stomach, and falling to his trousers. The two hands pulled open the button.
Paul let his head fall backwards, and it balanced on John’s shoulder. Now John could press small, tender kisses to the bassists’ cheek and hair, while his hands worked the waistline of Paul’s trousers.
Paul took a deep breath, bracing himself, his legs and arms shaking with the anticipation, as John’s tender, focussed hands moved into his trousers, found their way to Paul’s cock, and practiced long loving strokes there.
“Oh shit…” Paul gasped.
His legs buckled, but John used his other hand to wrap around Paul’s bare stomach, holding him upright as he continued to press kisses to the back of Paul’s head and neck.
His hand massaged Paul, skilfully, lovingly, devotedly. Paul thrust into the hold, his whole skin burning, all his nerves tingling with unparalleled lust. He was ready to accept John in whatever way John chose. It was times like these that, once again, John demonstrated how he - and only he - could hold such a power over the bassist. This was a fact that Paul used to despise, but he now loved. And he accepted John’s touch gratefully, and threw his inhibitions to the infected. John could do what he liked with him now. He was John’s to take.
George had finished signing the records. There were quite a lot there to get through, and George always took a long time doing his autograph for some reason. Once it was done, he scooped them up, carefully piled them, motioned to Ringo to come and do the same.
And of course, ever one to please George, Ringo did it without argument.
He picked up the pen and worked his way through the albums and singles one-by-one, scribbling an autograph above each picture of himself. The sound of pen scratching paper relaxed George for some reason; it was almost hypnotising. He could hear it even louder than the record that way playing. He leant back against the armchair, allowing his head to flop back and his eyes to flutter shut, allowing sleep to take him once more into a peaceful slumber. George loved falling asleep to music.
When he opened his eyes again, Ringo had finished the signing. He was kneeling close-by to George, stacking the records up again in the same order that George had, just in case they were in some important layout. The “Carls Perkins” record had finished already.
“Shall we put one of ours on?” Ringo suggested quietly. “I like listenin’ to us.”
The guitarist nodded, and Ringo hastily inserted the “With the Beatles” record, not willing to keep the silence going for too long.
”It won’t be long, yeah! yeah! yeah! It won’t be long, yeah! Yeah! Yeah! It won’t be long, yeah! Yeah! Till I belong to you…”
“I can’t wait to have a bath.” George muttered, absent-mindedly.
He wasn’t looking at Ringo; he was staring unblinkingly into the spinning record, and for a moment or two the drummer couldn’t work out whether George was talking to himself or not. He decided he better reply anyway, just in case.
“They shouldn’t take too long.”
George nodded distractedly, and began picking at the carpet. As the record rolled on, the two listened to it in silence, occasionally mouthing the words or drumming onto laps, but otherwise they kept still and attentive. Ringo sat huddled on the sofa, his feet stretched out in front of him. They both remained in their music-inspired dream-worlds; reminiscing what was before, and envisioning what could have been.
This stupor was only broken when a harsh cough erupted from George, and the music was suddenly drowned out by a never-ending progression of choking and spluttering. Once again, Ringo had to listen to the all-familiar sound of the guitarists’ throat tearing and ripping. He wouldn’t be surprised if George were to draw blood! Still, having come familiar with the sound didn’t make it easier to take, and Ringo leapt from the sofa, landing at the youngers side within seconds.
“Alright,” he coaxed, “It’s alright.”
George let out a noise that fell somewhere between a moan and a whimper, his whole body rocking violently with the coughs. Ringo placed a gentle hand onto the guitarists back, instinctively rubbing up and down for lack of any better feat. George’s back was long, if bony, and trembling from the impact. Ringo’s one hand massaged supportively there, while the other found its way to George’s wrist, squeezing with gentle, instinctive compassion.
Eventually, the coughing subsided. Ringo didn’t let go of the guitarist, transfixed to kneel at his side, eyes brimming with concern.
“Are you okay?!”
“Mmm..” George croaked. His voice truly was almost gone. “Hurts.”
“Sounds like it.” Ringo winced in sympathy.
“But should be thankful for it I guess.” George attempted a laugh, but quickly stopped as his throat threatened to split again. “Stops you goin’ mad, I spose.”
“I suppose.” Ringo frowned. He too attempted a half-hearted chuckle. “And if you wanted to go mad, you could always mix alcohol and pills again. That seems to do the trick.”
But apparently he’d said the wrong thing.
Because George immediately tensed up in his hold, and Ringo’s senses were alerted to how possessively he was gripping his bandmates back and wrist. He let go quickly, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably as George turned to look at him.
“Why would you want me to do that?”
Ringo swallowed. He was suddenly feeling very shaky, very exposed. He realised this was the first time he and George had actually LOOKED at each other in… well, a very long time. He wished it didn’t have to be under such scrutinising circumstances.
“I… I don’t.” He muttered, “No, I definitely don’t.”
“I’m not…….”
But George trailed off, resuming his preoccupied picking of the carpet.
“Not what?” Ringo whispered carefully. “Not what George?”
George shook his head gently. “I’m not… you know… a whore.”
“Wha…”
“…And whatever I said, you know… I know what I said. But… it doesn’t… I wish I ‘adn’t said anything… really. I didn’t want…”
Ringo’s whole stomach knotted up. Oh. He realised where this was going. He’d known George long enough now to translate his disjointed thought processes. He knew what he was trying to say: George regretted everything that happened in that bed last night. He regretted laying lips on Ringo, or laying hands on him.
But, fuck, George’s lament couldn’t be anything in comparison to Ringo’s, for even beginning to let him do those things.
“I’m sorry!” Ringo blurted out immediately. “I mean… I know I should’ve…”
“It’s…”
“I mean I didn’t… you didn’t do…” Ringo sighed, searching for the right words. “It’s understandable, you know. I don’t think you’re a… whore, or anything. Don’t be daft.”
“Kay.” George muttered.
But even so, his toes curled with the mortification of such a conversation. Here they were talking, almost as if it were perfectly normal what things they had done while George was out of his mind. And the worst thing being of course, that George did not have the benefit of memory to support him in such a difficult conversation. All he had was distorted images and spare a couple of humiliating recollections. And of course, the knowledge that Ringo wanted to “fuck him” as Paul so bluntly put it, and that George had offered him to opportunity to do exactly that.
And every single time he thought about … that … his stomach churned and his heart sunk and his throat grew dry and his whole body seemed to curl and shrivel from the insides with the very idea of it.
He needed to know.
“Ringo,” he croaked suddenly, “What we did… What we did……. Did I… like it? At all?”
Ringo swallowed. Surely George would remember that?! Did he like kissing and touching Ringo, and opening his trousers and wanking him off?! Was he SUPPOSED to get pleasure from that!? Christ… what did he want Ringo to SAY?!
“I… I dunno.” Ringo muttered honestly, “You were jus’ bein’… you know, weird. And I… I shouldn’t have let you…”
“I shouldn’t really have told you… that you could.” George muttered uncomfortably, his face suddenly turning very red. “I don’t think… you know… I don’t think I’m actually into… that.”
There was a silence for a minute, where Ringo stared at the top of George’s hair, which was once again buried somewhere in the direction of the floor.
“What are you talking about?!” the drummer frowned
“You know…” George stuttered quietly. “What we did…”
“Yeah?!”
“I’m jus’ saying… I know I said at the time… so it’s my fault…”
“What is?”
“That we did… you know. I’m not actually queer though, Ringo. Even though you…… even if I let you……”
Ringo’s head reeled, trying to work out just what the hell George was on about. Ringo hadn’t done ANYTHING! It was GEORGE that had been doing stuff, and Ringo had just let him, like a bastard. But what the hell was George on about?? Even if Ringo had done WHAT?!
“Just say it George.” he urged, his heart pounding.
“If you… we… I didn’t actually ever want to… you know,” he shrugged uncomfortably, “sleep with a guy or ought.”
It was like the whole floor had been pulled from underneath the drummers’ feet, and the wind was knocked out of him like some brutal punch.
“George!!” he stuttered, incredulously. “I would never… I’d never do that to you!! Bloody hell… what, you REALLY believe I would do that? You think I’d… USE YOU like THAT!? What were you thinking?!”
“I…” George frowned, his eyes darting from the floor to Ringo’s wide, blue eyes. “I don’t… I…”
“Oh My God!!” Ringo seemed to be getting more appalled as George’s confession dawned on him, “George - you… you know me! You know I’d never… Don’t you?! I mean…”
“I’m sorry!” George suddenly gasped, realisation washing over him.
“You must think so little of me!”
“I don’t!”
“No?”
“No, I….” George’s eyes widened. His face suddenly stretched slightly, a small smile creeping across his exhausted features. “You… we didn’t…?”
“NO!”
And then… despite everything… despite Ringo’s horrified and hurt expression, despite the stress, the ankle, the confrontation… despite all of that… George heard himself laugh. Relief at its highest level flooded his body, like a revival of life, or an intake of oxygen… a restore of virginity. And he was laughing.
A mixture of extreme relief, and embarrassment at ever having thought such a thing, drew him to laugh more, until he’d buried his face in his hands, hard, hysterical chokes of laughter erupting from his stomach and throat.
“You didn’t do anything!” he cackled joyously, “Noth…nothing happened!”
Ringo watched him, a fierce and vindicated expression still plastered across his face. But at the sight of George’s sudden change of mood, even Ringo couldn’t stop the small smile creeping across his lips. George had been so tired, and so hopeless for days. It was… it was rather exhilarating to hear such a sound escaping the younger guitarist. A sound that Ringo had missed so much.
And, through default, the drummer laughed too.
“You… why on Earth would you think…”
“I don’t know!” George confessed, his shoulders shaking from cackles of reassurance. “But we didn’t……. we didn’t….”
“No we didn’t.”
And suddenly George’s arms were wrapped tightly around Ringo’s neck. The guitarist had pounced on the drummer in an aberrant display of utmost emotion, clinging so tightly that Ringo was almost pulled over by the weight. The drummer giggled, moving his own arms around George, letting them rest and stroke up and down the younger mans back.
“Thank you.” George’s voice muffled into Ringo’s shoulder.
Ringo chuckled lightly, pulling slightly away from George so he could see his face properly, “For what?”
George shrugged, and again pulled Ringo back towards him, and Ringo’s hands felt George’s hair, running his fingers through the thick layers smoothly.
“You know I’d never do anything you didn’t want to do.” the drummer confirmed softly.
“I know.” George nodded into Ringo’s shoulder. “I was stupid.”, and he really was starting to appreciate how true those words were.
George held on like that in heartfelt, relieved silence for a few minutes, and of course, Ringo let him. He’d have happily continued to hold George in such an emotional embrace forever, but soon George let go, his arms flopping contentedly to the floor. Ringo released him as well, pulling back slightly, although not far enough to remove from the intensity of the sudden eye-contact.
George’s eyes seemed to be piercing into his own, suddenly overflowing with trust, forgiveness, and an overwhelming thankfulness that Ringo didn’t feel he truly deserved. They were so close together, Ringo could practically feel the temperature radiating off the young guitarist’s forehead.
“But do you actually love me, Ritch?” George asked with curiosity.
“Yeah, I do.” Ringo breathed, not daring to drop his eye-level. “I do, yeah, I’m sorry.”
How could George ever have doubted Ringo? How could he have ever believed such a thing of him, as to exploit George’s drugged up, alcohol-induced mind and body? Ringo would never do that. He wasn’t like Brian, he wasn’t infected. Just because he loved George suddenly - didn’t make him not Ringo. He was still the same kind, and gentle, and patient and understanding. And he made George laugh and he made time for him, and listened to what he said. He really listened, did Ringo, he didn’t just wait for his turn to speak. The fact that he was in LOVE with George to result in this behaviour - well that wasn’t such a bad thing. It was a nice thing. And here with Ringo, George felt safe. Safe, not vulnerable as was the case a few minutes ago. How could he have ever felt that way, towards the owner of those startlingly blue eyes? Eyes that reflected kindness and acceptance, even when George had accused him of such scandal.
George’s eyes were piercing into his, holding him under a microscope. George was the first to break eye-contact, although Ringo didn’t remove his gaze. He watched as George’s eye-line moved down to Ringo’s lips, and then back up watchfully to his eyes. And then George moved forward, nervously, hesitating slightly. But just a second later, George’s lips were against his. They weren’t needy or desperate the way they were the night before… they were tentative, experimental. His long fingers touched timidly to Ringo’s chin. His lips closed softly around Ringo’s… once, twice, three times. He was unsure it seemed, and nervous. Ringo’s hand moved up to take hold of George’s hair once again, and he clasped their lips together indefinitely.
In the hands of a person who loved him, George grew confident in what he was doing. Their lips sunk and melted and tingled against each others, creating comfort, security, and most of all a reconciliation of affections too intense to comprehend.