Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 33)
Time/Location: Probably July now. 1965.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations.
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. So who can you trust?
He felt himself buckle under Paul’s confession, the slip of Paul’s bravado, the release of Paul’s deepest fears. Paul had opened himself to John tonight like he hadn’t ever done before. He’d cried and pleaded and fought his own taboo; his weaknesses.
Authors Notes: Treasure any nice moments here, because a lot of angst coming right up.
"I love you, you know."
George blinked a couple of times, removing the half-eaten jam tart from his mouth. "Huh?"
"I love you." Ringo confessed simply.
"Oh…" George mumbled, returning embarrassedly to his midnight feast.
He was tired. Really, really very tired, and even the effort of holding the food to his mouth put strains on his muscles. But what he was feeling wasn't the same terror of doom that he'd felt the night he and Ringo had… when Ringo had wanked him off under the covers. That evening, George had been struck on the insides by some horrible sinking feeling in his stomach and limbs and he felt sure he didn't have much time left. He'd been so desperate for Ringo to continue what he was doing… because it felt good, and because it was what Ringo wanted… that he hadn't said anything. Pretty selfish of him really. He'd felt sure that night that he was close to dying, and he didn't even bother to mention it. They could have woken up to that, and that wouldn't have been nice at all. Though apparently he had been asleep for a week. That can't have been nice for them either, all just sitting around waiting for him to open his lazy eyes. His clothes had been changed since he'd gone to sleep, but he didn't like to think about stuff like that. He certainly wasn't going to ask what had happened while he'd been inside his coma.
Even now, he couldn't ignore the resounding fear that the same thing might well happen again. He couldn't control his body, and it was betraying him with exhaustion and limpness when he most needed it.
But he supposed having Ringo next to him helped, even with the random declarations of love that caught George off-guard and embarrassed him no end. He didn't know what the hell to say to that. But then Ringo didn't seem to expect a reply. Ringo was unassuming; he didn't presume anything. He was happy to wrap George inside comforting embraces and shower him with kindness until George fell asleep again, and never wanted anything in return. It was no wonder then that George felt safe with him, wanted Ringo to kiss him and even allowed Ringo to touch him. Having Ringo so physically close bought security. They all needed that right now.
They were lucky they had each other. And that applied to all of them, George realised.
Downstairs, Paul was waiting for John patiently. Or maybe it wasn't patience, maybe he was just too drowned inside his sudden misery that he didn't even notice time passing. He was still laid down on the sofa, exactly where John had left him. He didn't look up when John entered the room; he just stared at the backrest of the sofa, picking at the buttons. When John threw the duvet cover over him, he didn't even seem to acknowledge it.
"Do you want somethin' to eat?" John muttered. He slouched down on the floor, resting his back against the sofa. "Or a drink or a fuck or something?"
"No."
The older man sighed heavily. "George is still awake you know. You could be up there right now if you weren't acting like such a bringer of doom."
But Paul didn't reply.
John rolled his eyes. “Or I could be up there right now, having more fun with ‘im than I am with you.”
Again, no answer.
John shook his head disdainfully, settling himself onto a more comfy position on the floor, assuming that's where he'd be staying for the rest of the night what with Paul's sudden disapproval of his love.
But once again, Paul surprised him.
"Can you come here?" He whispered, almost soundlessly.
John didn't hesitate, figuring he couldn't afford to wind Paul up, or indeed inflict any test of power on him right now.
"Uh-huh." he grunted softly, and pulled himself underneath the duvet cover next to Paul's shaking body. Pauls' skin was cold, and John linked his arms around the bassists chest, holding him steady. What with George's condition, it was easy to forget that Paul was suffering illness too. It was easy for PAUL to forget as well by the looks of things … Paul hadn't eaten properly all week.
"I'm gonna get us food." John decided.
"No, just…"
"Yes. Ice cream!!"
He didn't think that was REALLY what it took to cure sick stomachs, but then Ringo had cleared the kitchen of everything else. Paul didn't object, and when John returned, Paul had pushed himself into sitting position, silently accepting the spoon and helping himself. They sat like that for some time, not speaking, just eating, their minds pouring over every doubt and fear, every hope and promise.
Paul thought of George upstairs. He wondered whether John was telling the truth… he wondered whether George really was still awake.
The daunting recognition consumed his brain once again. The same realization that had tortured and taunted him for the last seven days;
Paul couldn't lose George.
He just couldn’t.
George was his brother. His baby brother, and Paul loved him.
When Paul had lost his mother, he’d been numb. He remembered it still; the shock, the confusion, the horror, anger, and the pitiless despair… it all had resounded to absolutely nothing. Just numbness and nothingness. And “how are we gonna pay for stuff?”, heartless bastard that he was.
By now, Paul was probably an orphan.
By now, John was probably a widower.
By now, there was probably no manager to speak of. No old school friends to bump into. There were probably no fans to love them, no distant aunts to shower them in kisses and then ask for autographs.
They only had each other.
But while they had each other, they would at least not be without brothers. That they could be sure of.
They finished up the ice cream, and Paul dropped the spoon into the empty tin.
“John?”
“Mm?”
“D’you think we’ll be ‘ere forever?”
“I dunno. You won’t. If we get hungry and turn into cannibals, you’ll be the first to go.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious.” John grinned. He leant down and squeezed the top of Paul’s thigh. “You got nice meaty legs.”
Paul smiled, although it didn’t reflect in his eyes. He kicked slightly. “Geofff.’
“And nice chubby cheeks.”
Paul wrinkled his nose. John supposed it was intended to be playful, but it was fake. As artificial as it could get, and Paul’s wooden expression only highlighted that sour fact.
Still, John persevered.
“And you got long legs. Legs are my favorite bit of meat. You got quite nice breasts as well.”
Paul chuckled. “Piss off.”
“And the worlds best arse.”
“Stop it.”
He was serious that time.
John rolled his eyes, tossing the empty ice cream carton onto the floor and rolling back into lying position on the sofa. The room was dark, and warm for some reason, and John felt his body adjust to the snugness, his brain melting into sleep. He hadn’t slept properly in days either. It was such a relief to be out of that bedroom.
But Paul remained sat up, his knee twitching up and down agitatedly as he bit down on his thumbnail this time.
“Paul, please.” John sighed, exasperated. “Jus’ go to sleep boy!”
“I can’t. I don’t know how you CAN! We’re gonna bloody die here John! In this fucking house!”
“Oh, I do not like you when you’re morbid. It’s a very unattractive side of you. And who exactly gets to live the longest in your warped little imagination?”
“Whoever can go the longest without FOOD by the looks of it.”
“Oh, not me then.” John grumbled, as though offended.
But the bassist was not amused.
“Oh Paul,” John sighed.
Once again he felt himself succumb to affection, and wrapped his arms around the bassists limp shoulders.
“We don’t need to worry about this shite right now. There’s plenty of food, you’re just bein’ ridiculous.”
“Would you kill me?!”
John blinked a couple of times, completely taken aback by such a farfetched statement.
“What the fuck?!”
“If I got infected? Would you kill me?”
“You can’t get infected can you?!” John reminded him smugly.
“I’d rather die than be one of them freaks. Just so you know.”
“No pressure on me then.”
“Well.”
“What’s the point of this conversation anyway!?”
“Cos sooner or later we’ll ‘ave to leave here!”
John shook his head, tenderly stroking his fingers through Paul’s hair, tracing his other hand around the centre of Paul’s knee. “Well, lets stick to later, eh? I like it here.”
Paul shuffled round, falling loose inside John’s affection, using his arms to attach himself around John’s neck. He nuzzled close, smelling the man he had spent so many years tied to. John didn’t smell of smoke like he usually did… they’d been without cigarettes for weeks and weeks. Nor did he have the vague scent of his usual aftershave, but did still hold signs of that very John-like smell that Paul had grown so accustomed to.
“George is really awake?” He mumbled. The sound came out muffled inside John’s chest, but the older man understood anyway.
“Well he was when I left ‘im.”
Paul nodded, deciding to believe him. “How many people do you reckon there are left? You know… normal people?”
“Tons.” John grunted. “I’m sure we’re not the only four to think of the revolutionary idea of staying indoors.”
“Hmm.” Paul sighed. And he found himself agreeing.
John’s hands tightened around his shoulders. “I don’t know if I could kill you. If you got infected. Think I’d just let you rape me.”
“Oh… Yuck.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Why’d you go an’ say that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ruined a perfectly good moment.” Paul pointed out. And he found himself smiling.
John grinned too, pulling Paul as close as force would allow.
They stayed like that for a while. Slowly rocking back and forth, wrapped in each others arms, wrapped in darkness, wrapped in isolation as they’d never known it. And yet, they felt safe. Paul felt safe in John’s arms, no matter what fears had triggered his brain for the past hundred hours. He remembered that John would fight for him till the end, and George.
He reached up, pressing a soft, thankful, trusting kiss to the side of John’s mouth.
“Okay?” John breathed, “Feeling better?”
Paul only responded with a second kiss, this time finding John’s lips, fastening them with his own. An exchange of mutual respect, admiration and belief in one another surged in their contact. And John pulled him further forward again, more fiercely this time.
He felt himself becoming consumed once again by Paul’s demeanor. He felt himself flaking inside the hold of Paul’s need for him. He felt himself buckle under Paul’s confession, the slip of Paul’s bravado, the release of Paul’s deepest fears. Paul had opened himself to John tonight like he hadn’t ever done before. He’d cried and pleaded and fought his own taboo; his weaknesses.
John had seen it all.
And he knew now, for sure, that Paul was his.
In mind, spirit, soul and body. Paul McCartney belonged to him.
In his arms, Paul breathed a sigh as John trailed his hands down the bassist’s back, tracing the other across his arms and stomach. His skin was so soft, still. The bruises that littered it were fading. John pressed kisses against his neck, allowing himself to taste and savor every part. Paul kissed the top of his head. John glided his fingers up the inside of his lovers shirt, making sure to softly caress every piece of skin that had been offered to him. Paul’s stomach jolted in and out every time John massaged a tickly spot.
This time, Paul was quick to move, soaking up every piece of love and reassurance that John blessed him with. He took hold of the bottom of John’s t-shirt, lifting it. John’s skin was illuminated only by the soft candlelight, his presence illuminated only by the soft silence. His gentle fingers caressed Paul’s back, tracing shapes there. Then his teeth were on Paul’s collarbone, nibbling, before he tore the t-shirt over Pauls’ head, revealing the finely muscular chest.
Paul cupped John’s face inside his hands, and for a moment, everything stopped moving. John’s face was paler than it usually was, deprived of sunlight and sick with nerves. His hair seemed to have grown longer, falling nearly into his eyes. His pupils were glazed over with a mixture of lust, need and adoration for the large doe-eyes that gazed back at him. Paul’s hands fell warm and shaky on his cheeks.
John placed his own hand over the top of Pauls’ quivering one, moving it to his lips, where he teased the fingertips with the wetness of his lips. Paul responded by letting out a small, shaking breath. Paul’s fingers closed, only slightly, around John’s bottom lip, feeling and stroking. John’s mouth was open and practically watering with the desire that evoked from Paul’s sensitivity.
He linked his arms beneath Paul’s, grasping his back. In this position, he guided his body slowly backwards into lying position, placing his own body protectively on top of the bassists. By now, Paul’s hips were arching with the suggestion of John’s touch… the opportunity for John to touch him in the places only very recently explored by male hands. Johns’ hands. John teased him with leisured timing, moving his mouth seductively across Pauls’ rounded cheeks, then neck, collarbone, then gliding provocatively across the flat, pale stomach.
Paul let out a labored breath, pushing up against John’s body. John obliged, his fingers moving to the rim of Pauls’ pyjama shorts. He’d been wearing them for a week straight. It was time for them to go. John removed the garment from Paul’s hips, pulling them down past his knees and toes, eyes transfixed on Paul’s naked erection.
Paul was frozen still now, tensed in anticipation. John removed his own trousers, revealing his own strong arousal, and Paul’s tongue swiped quickly across his own red, chapped lips as he analysed his own sudden submissiveness. John wouldn’t allow him time to think or stew; it never resulted in anything good when Paul allowed himself to scrutinise. Immediately he silenced Pauls’ mouth with his lips; tickled and rolled Pauls’ tongue inside his own. Paul moaned lightly, and his exposed erection rubbed against Johns’ for the first time, extracting fierce and fast spasms of delight pulsing through the two entwined bodies.
In a daze of passion and pleasure, Pauls’ legs wrapped around John’s hips, pulling him in further, pushing their two pricks against each other. John was in a position to manoeuvre in any way he pleased. He engulfed Paul’s nipple inside wet, strong lips, tickled Pauls nerves with teasing touches on his waist. He drew gasps and groans from the bassist with rhythmic thrusting of his body.
Their two figures fit together perfectly, like a puzzle. Every curve of Paul’s body was occupied with a member of John’s, completing it. Paul was overcome in zealous ecstasy, and John kissed him, confident that Paul would soon surrender to him, as promised.
“God, you’re amazing.” He whispered. His voice bounced off the walls with the candlelight; a soft hiss.
Pauls’ hands reached to John’s hair. He held John against the crook of his neck, his hands grasping and kneading as their bodies rocked against one another. The sensations vibrated between identical chests.
The hands that tickled Paul’s waist moved around, looping underneath the small of his back and pressing there in soft motions. John’s body rocked slowly against Paul’s, savouring him like a disciple of beauty, absorbing himself in the feelings they evoked together.
“Fa…faster.” Paul panted. John felt the droplets of tiny sweat on their chests submerge together.
John was overcome with need. He needed him. Has to feel him everywhere, connect the puzzle physically. He had to take from Paul what was his, because it was the only thing Paul had left to give.
“Come here…” He groaned quietly
His hands trailed further down Pauls’ back, sliding across his hips, meeting the cheeks of Paul’s arse. Paul whimpered at the sudden insinuation, and the sound danced wildly inside John’s ears and groin. He was aching for Paul, aching to take him. He stroked his cock, already wet and ready, across Pauls’ thighs and hips suggestively. He lifted his head, eyes fixing with Paul’s once more. They were wide, preparing… scared. But John would be gentle. John would always be nothing but gentle when it came to Paul.
His fingers brushed gently around the younger mans arsehole, readying him. Paul let out another small whine of apprehension, his mind betraying his body. He glanced down at John’s prick, the one that was wanting entry to his insides. He didn’t know how that was going to fit inside him.
And then he gasped out, for John’s finger was pushing its way in to Pauls’ insides. The sensation was so new, unfamiliar. It hurt and felt uncomfortable, and yet Paul felt his body arching, wanting to be closer to the owner of the wandering digit. His breathing became harder, his eyes fluttering shut, forehead sweating with a sense of foreboding and uneasiness, mingled with lust and desire. John fingered him, the digit twisting and feeling its way around. Paul felt the lower half of his body fire up at the invasion.
“Fuck…” he gasped
“Is it alright?”
“I… I dunno.” Paul confessed through gritted teeth.
He tried to meditate inside the feel of John’s wandering finger inside him, and John’s massaging cock against the insides of his legs. But he couldn’t concentrate, or think straight. He was submissive to John not only in body, but in psyche.
“I want to have you Paul.” John breathed inside his ear, and sucked at the rim.
He removed his finger from Paul, pushing it back inside… two this time.
Paul moaned out in pain; there wasn’t much room for manoeuvre. John twisted his fingers repeatedly, edging inside slowly, slowly, making gentle progress. He explored Pauls’ wet, sticky insides - the feel driving him mad. He found himself rubbing against Paul more frantically, his fingers scissoring and pushing, thrusting inside this unfamiliar territory. He was being driven overboard. He had to have him, had to have himself inside, moving with Paul, being him.
“Urhh… hmm…” Incoherent noises spilled from Pauls’ mouth, his chest heaving against Johns’, his prick rubbing incessantly against Johns’ stomach. “John…”
“Let me have you.” John whispered urgently. His own plea.
He was so tight. So warm, so inviting. His body was writing in pleasure, shaking in fear, his teeth biting down onto bleeding lips. He was giving everything up for John, and John knew that. He’d reward him for it. He needed Paul to give permission, to surrender. John was aching now with unparalleled longing.
“Let me have you!” he hissed again. Pauls’ body had fastened around Johns’ fingers, accepting him, fitting around the digits as he pushed them in and out. John had prepared him enough, he needed to have him, he felt insane with craving.
“I don’t think I can.” Paul whined, his eyes opening reluctantly. “Not tonight, I don’t think I can John.”
“You can.”
John moved his body further down, pushing Pauls’ legs further apart. He teased Pauls’ entrance with his prick, rubbing it softly up and down Paul’s arse, making it wet, ready. Paul moaned, his body shuddered. But he still didn’t succumb.
“I will. But John, not tonight.”
“Now.”
“I can’t.” Pauls’ voice was rasped, afraid. His hands had fastened tightly around John’s shoulders, fearful and determined. His eyes were still red from crying before. His body was still weak from illness, and now shaking with trepidation. His hair was sweaty, his face flushed with arousal. John’s teasing wasn’t making it easier for him. But he was adamant. “I can’t.”
Slowly, very slowly, consumed with reluctance, John pulled away. His prick was throbbing with burning yearning.
“Why?” he sighed desperately
“It’s not right now.”
“It’s perfect.”
“I can’t.”
“Paul…”
“John,” he breathed. He pulled himself upwards, and in doing so pushed Johns’ body into sitting position. They rested between each others legs. “I will. I promise I will. Tomorrow.”
John pleaded one more time. “Now.”
“Tomorrow.” Paul insisted. “I can’t now. I… it doesn’t feel…”
“Paul, I need you.”
Paul took an intake of breath. It was rare that he heard John so desperate, so ineffective, and it caught him off guard. He knew, hearing that, that John was as afraid as he was. He too needed the reassurance of familiar arms and touch and embrace.
“Tomorrow.” Paul promised.
“I love you.”
Paul opened his mouth… and then he pulled John forward, attaching their lips passionately, holding him there. They gripped each others naked bodies. They exchanged promises of submission and kindness through one embrace. They exchanged promises of trust and gentleness. And John knew then that Paul would stay true to his word.
“Tomorrow.” John repeated. And his voice cracked, rasped.
Hours slipped by. Ringo woke up and surveyed the bedspread. It was covered in crumbs and tomato ketchup from the various things he and George had eaten. They’d managed an hour of feasting and talking. Talking about nothing much; the good days and funny habits. And now, George was laid beside him, fast asleep. Ringo wanted to know how asleep. He wanted to wake him to know that he could, but that wasn’t fair.
In agony, he watched as the top of George’s eyelid quivered slightly. Georges’ eyes were moving beneath their skin protectors; he must have been dreaming. Ringo watched as Georges’ lip shivered slightly. He must have been talking in his dream. The guitarists forehead was covered in sweat, his face was pale as paper, even showing signs of a sickly yellow colour which Ringo was determined to blame on the candlelight.
Ringo moved his hand softly from George’s pointed cheekbone, down his chest and over the bones of his ribcage. Finally his hand came to rest on George’s stomach, which moved restfully up and down.
He trailed his fingers down again, meeting Georges’ hand. He fiddled between Georges’ fingers. And to his surprise, and elation, the digits closed around him.
“Ritch?” George’s voice whispered.
Ringo blinked, alerting himself to Georges’ sudden wake.
“Yes?”
The guitarists eyes remained closed, his breathing croaky. But he uttered small words with great meaning.
“Kiss me.”
The drummer didn’t hesitate. He moved up to meet George’s cracked lips, pressing his own like magnets against his. He kept them fastened there even as he spoke, and muttered,
“George, are you okay?”
A small voice. “Stay here.”
Ringo felt his heartbeat quicken. He felt George’s sweat against his cheek from the briefest of contact. “Are you okay??” he whispered hurriedly.
George didn’t reply, sinking back to sleep.
“I’m gonna get a cold flannel.” Ringo decided quickly, “You’re boiling. Okay??”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He’d never run so quickly.
When Ringo entered the kitchen, he found Paul sat silently alone at the table, lost in thought. He was bare-chested, dressed only in trousers. His thumb nail was bitten and bleeding. He was surrounded by mess, that Ringo vaguely remembered being responsible for. When he saw Ringo, Paul’s eyes went wide and frantic. He jumped up immediately.
“Is George okay???”
“I’m gettin’ him a flannel.” Ringo muttered distractedly. He looked around the mess, feeling increasingly agitated as precious seconds wore on. He’d never find anything amongst all this shit. “Have we got a candle!?”
“George is awake?!”
“He is, yeah. Paul, help me will ye?!”
Paul blinked, suddenly his thoughts catching up with him. “I’ll get a candle.”
In a sudden bid for helpfulness, Paul sprinted from the kitchen. Ringo made his way to the cold sink, running the water, his hand held underneath to check it was as cold as possible. Lucky really, they got nothing BUT cold water these days. He let the feeling shiver across his skin and pulsate around his body painfully. He felt his heartbeat quicken as Paul took longer and longer and George’s aloneness dragged on more.
“Paul, how’s it comin’?” he called impatiently.
There was no reply.
He grit his teeth together, tutting in frustration, moving towards the kitchen door until he heard Paul’s voice call back to him… sharp and authoritative.
“Ringo, don’t move!”
Ringo stopped dead. “What? What?”
“Shit Ringo…” Paul’s voice echoed into the kitchen, high with alarm.
“Paul, what??”
“Fuck…”
“WHAT?? WHAT’S WRONG??”
Ringo moved towards the kitchen door, pulling it open, but before he did so, Paul had run back inside, his face distorted in panic and shock.
“Paul… what is it?!” Ringo gasped, feeling his throat constrict, his breathing harden.
“Th… there’s somebody at the door.” Paul breathed.
Ringo frowned, the mention of another sparking confusion. “Huh? What?”
“Someone… at the door.”
Paul’s eyes became wider, filling with tears. His hand gripped painfully to Ringo’s arm as his voice rang high in terror .
“Shit Ringo… I think they saw me.”
Time/Location: Probably July now. 1965.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations.
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. So who can you trust?
He felt himself buckle under Paul’s confession, the slip of Paul’s bravado, the release of Paul’s deepest fears. Paul had opened himself to John tonight like he hadn’t ever done before. He’d cried and pleaded and fought his own taboo; his weaknesses.
Authors Notes: Treasure any nice moments here, because a lot of angst coming right up.
"I love you, you know."
George blinked a couple of times, removing the half-eaten jam tart from his mouth. "Huh?"
"I love you." Ringo confessed simply.
"Oh…" George mumbled, returning embarrassedly to his midnight feast.
He was tired. Really, really very tired, and even the effort of holding the food to his mouth put strains on his muscles. But what he was feeling wasn't the same terror of doom that he'd felt the night he and Ringo had… when Ringo had wanked him off under the covers. That evening, George had been struck on the insides by some horrible sinking feeling in his stomach and limbs and he felt sure he didn't have much time left. He'd been so desperate for Ringo to continue what he was doing… because it felt good, and because it was what Ringo wanted… that he hadn't said anything. Pretty selfish of him really. He'd felt sure that night that he was close to dying, and he didn't even bother to mention it. They could have woken up to that, and that wouldn't have been nice at all. Though apparently he had been asleep for a week. That can't have been nice for them either, all just sitting around waiting for him to open his lazy eyes. His clothes had been changed since he'd gone to sleep, but he didn't like to think about stuff like that. He certainly wasn't going to ask what had happened while he'd been inside his coma.
Even now, he couldn't ignore the resounding fear that the same thing might well happen again. He couldn't control his body, and it was betraying him with exhaustion and limpness when he most needed it.
But he supposed having Ringo next to him helped, even with the random declarations of love that caught George off-guard and embarrassed him no end. He didn't know what the hell to say to that. But then Ringo didn't seem to expect a reply. Ringo was unassuming; he didn't presume anything. He was happy to wrap George inside comforting embraces and shower him with kindness until George fell asleep again, and never wanted anything in return. It was no wonder then that George felt safe with him, wanted Ringo to kiss him and even allowed Ringo to touch him. Having Ringo so physically close bought security. They all needed that right now.
They were lucky they had each other. And that applied to all of them, George realised.
Downstairs, Paul was waiting for John patiently. Or maybe it wasn't patience, maybe he was just too drowned inside his sudden misery that he didn't even notice time passing. He was still laid down on the sofa, exactly where John had left him. He didn't look up when John entered the room; he just stared at the backrest of the sofa, picking at the buttons. When John threw the duvet cover over him, he didn't even seem to acknowledge it.
"Do you want somethin' to eat?" John muttered. He slouched down on the floor, resting his back against the sofa. "Or a drink or a fuck or something?"
"No."
The older man sighed heavily. "George is still awake you know. You could be up there right now if you weren't acting like such a bringer of doom."
But Paul didn't reply.
John rolled his eyes. “Or I could be up there right now, having more fun with ‘im than I am with you.”
Again, no answer.
John shook his head disdainfully, settling himself onto a more comfy position on the floor, assuming that's where he'd be staying for the rest of the night what with Paul's sudden disapproval of his love.
But once again, Paul surprised him.
"Can you come here?" He whispered, almost soundlessly.
John didn't hesitate, figuring he couldn't afford to wind Paul up, or indeed inflict any test of power on him right now.
"Uh-huh." he grunted softly, and pulled himself underneath the duvet cover next to Paul's shaking body. Pauls' skin was cold, and John linked his arms around the bassists chest, holding him steady. What with George's condition, it was easy to forget that Paul was suffering illness too. It was easy for PAUL to forget as well by the looks of things … Paul hadn't eaten properly all week.
"I'm gonna get us food." John decided.
"No, just…"
"Yes. Ice cream!!"
He didn't think that was REALLY what it took to cure sick stomachs, but then Ringo had cleared the kitchen of everything else. Paul didn't object, and when John returned, Paul had pushed himself into sitting position, silently accepting the spoon and helping himself. They sat like that for some time, not speaking, just eating, their minds pouring over every doubt and fear, every hope and promise.
Paul thought of George upstairs. He wondered whether John was telling the truth… he wondered whether George really was still awake.
The daunting recognition consumed his brain once again. The same realization that had tortured and taunted him for the last seven days;
Paul couldn't lose George.
He just couldn’t.
George was his brother. His baby brother, and Paul loved him.
When Paul had lost his mother, he’d been numb. He remembered it still; the shock, the confusion, the horror, anger, and the pitiless despair… it all had resounded to absolutely nothing. Just numbness and nothingness. And “how are we gonna pay for stuff?”, heartless bastard that he was.
By now, Paul was probably an orphan.
By now, John was probably a widower.
By now, there was probably no manager to speak of. No old school friends to bump into. There were probably no fans to love them, no distant aunts to shower them in kisses and then ask for autographs.
They only had each other.
But while they had each other, they would at least not be without brothers. That they could be sure of.
They finished up the ice cream, and Paul dropped the spoon into the empty tin.
“John?”
“Mm?”
“D’you think we’ll be ‘ere forever?”
“I dunno. You won’t. If we get hungry and turn into cannibals, you’ll be the first to go.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious.” John grinned. He leant down and squeezed the top of Paul’s thigh. “You got nice meaty legs.”
Paul smiled, although it didn’t reflect in his eyes. He kicked slightly. “Geofff.’
“And nice chubby cheeks.”
Paul wrinkled his nose. John supposed it was intended to be playful, but it was fake. As artificial as it could get, and Paul’s wooden expression only highlighted that sour fact.
Still, John persevered.
“And you got long legs. Legs are my favorite bit of meat. You got quite nice breasts as well.”
Paul chuckled. “Piss off.”
“And the worlds best arse.”
“Stop it.”
He was serious that time.
John rolled his eyes, tossing the empty ice cream carton onto the floor and rolling back into lying position on the sofa. The room was dark, and warm for some reason, and John felt his body adjust to the snugness, his brain melting into sleep. He hadn’t slept properly in days either. It was such a relief to be out of that bedroom.
But Paul remained sat up, his knee twitching up and down agitatedly as he bit down on his thumbnail this time.
“Paul, please.” John sighed, exasperated. “Jus’ go to sleep boy!”
“I can’t. I don’t know how you CAN! We’re gonna bloody die here John! In this fucking house!”
“Oh, I do not like you when you’re morbid. It’s a very unattractive side of you. And who exactly gets to live the longest in your warped little imagination?”
“Whoever can go the longest without FOOD by the looks of it.”
“Oh, not me then.” John grumbled, as though offended.
But the bassist was not amused.
“Oh Paul,” John sighed.
Once again he felt himself succumb to affection, and wrapped his arms around the bassists limp shoulders.
“We don’t need to worry about this shite right now. There’s plenty of food, you’re just bein’ ridiculous.”
“Would you kill me?!”
John blinked a couple of times, completely taken aback by such a farfetched statement.
“What the fuck?!”
“If I got infected? Would you kill me?”
“You can’t get infected can you?!” John reminded him smugly.
“I’d rather die than be one of them freaks. Just so you know.”
“No pressure on me then.”
“Well.”
“What’s the point of this conversation anyway!?”
“Cos sooner or later we’ll ‘ave to leave here!”
John shook his head, tenderly stroking his fingers through Paul’s hair, tracing his other hand around the centre of Paul’s knee. “Well, lets stick to later, eh? I like it here.”
Paul shuffled round, falling loose inside John’s affection, using his arms to attach himself around John’s neck. He nuzzled close, smelling the man he had spent so many years tied to. John didn’t smell of smoke like he usually did… they’d been without cigarettes for weeks and weeks. Nor did he have the vague scent of his usual aftershave, but did still hold signs of that very John-like smell that Paul had grown so accustomed to.
“George is really awake?” He mumbled. The sound came out muffled inside John’s chest, but the older man understood anyway.
“Well he was when I left ‘im.”
Paul nodded, deciding to believe him. “How many people do you reckon there are left? You know… normal people?”
“Tons.” John grunted. “I’m sure we’re not the only four to think of the revolutionary idea of staying indoors.”
“Hmm.” Paul sighed. And he found himself agreeing.
John’s hands tightened around his shoulders. “I don’t know if I could kill you. If you got infected. Think I’d just let you rape me.”
“Oh… Yuck.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Why’d you go an’ say that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ruined a perfectly good moment.” Paul pointed out. And he found himself smiling.
John grinned too, pulling Paul as close as force would allow.
They stayed like that for a while. Slowly rocking back and forth, wrapped in each others arms, wrapped in darkness, wrapped in isolation as they’d never known it. And yet, they felt safe. Paul felt safe in John’s arms, no matter what fears had triggered his brain for the past hundred hours. He remembered that John would fight for him till the end, and George.
He reached up, pressing a soft, thankful, trusting kiss to the side of John’s mouth.
“Okay?” John breathed, “Feeling better?”
Paul only responded with a second kiss, this time finding John’s lips, fastening them with his own. An exchange of mutual respect, admiration and belief in one another surged in their contact. And John pulled him further forward again, more fiercely this time.
He felt himself becoming consumed once again by Paul’s demeanor. He felt himself flaking inside the hold of Paul’s need for him. He felt himself buckle under Paul’s confession, the slip of Paul’s bravado, the release of Paul’s deepest fears. Paul had opened himself to John tonight like he hadn’t ever done before. He’d cried and pleaded and fought his own taboo; his weaknesses.
John had seen it all.
And he knew now, for sure, that Paul was his.
In mind, spirit, soul and body. Paul McCartney belonged to him.
In his arms, Paul breathed a sigh as John trailed his hands down the bassist’s back, tracing the other across his arms and stomach. His skin was so soft, still. The bruises that littered it were fading. John pressed kisses against his neck, allowing himself to taste and savor every part. Paul kissed the top of his head. John glided his fingers up the inside of his lovers shirt, making sure to softly caress every piece of skin that had been offered to him. Paul’s stomach jolted in and out every time John massaged a tickly spot.
This time, Paul was quick to move, soaking up every piece of love and reassurance that John blessed him with. He took hold of the bottom of John’s t-shirt, lifting it. John’s skin was illuminated only by the soft candlelight, his presence illuminated only by the soft silence. His gentle fingers caressed Paul’s back, tracing shapes there. Then his teeth were on Paul’s collarbone, nibbling, before he tore the t-shirt over Pauls’ head, revealing the finely muscular chest.
Paul cupped John’s face inside his hands, and for a moment, everything stopped moving. John’s face was paler than it usually was, deprived of sunlight and sick with nerves. His hair seemed to have grown longer, falling nearly into his eyes. His pupils were glazed over with a mixture of lust, need and adoration for the large doe-eyes that gazed back at him. Paul’s hands fell warm and shaky on his cheeks.
John placed his own hand over the top of Pauls’ quivering one, moving it to his lips, where he teased the fingertips with the wetness of his lips. Paul responded by letting out a small, shaking breath. Paul’s fingers closed, only slightly, around John’s bottom lip, feeling and stroking. John’s mouth was open and practically watering with the desire that evoked from Paul’s sensitivity.
He linked his arms beneath Paul’s, grasping his back. In this position, he guided his body slowly backwards into lying position, placing his own body protectively on top of the bassists. By now, Paul’s hips were arching with the suggestion of John’s touch… the opportunity for John to touch him in the places only very recently explored by male hands. Johns’ hands. John teased him with leisured timing, moving his mouth seductively across Pauls’ rounded cheeks, then neck, collarbone, then gliding provocatively across the flat, pale stomach.
Paul let out a labored breath, pushing up against John’s body. John obliged, his fingers moving to the rim of Pauls’ pyjama shorts. He’d been wearing them for a week straight. It was time for them to go. John removed the garment from Paul’s hips, pulling them down past his knees and toes, eyes transfixed on Paul’s naked erection.
Paul was frozen still now, tensed in anticipation. John removed his own trousers, revealing his own strong arousal, and Paul’s tongue swiped quickly across his own red, chapped lips as he analysed his own sudden submissiveness. John wouldn’t allow him time to think or stew; it never resulted in anything good when Paul allowed himself to scrutinise. Immediately he silenced Pauls’ mouth with his lips; tickled and rolled Pauls’ tongue inside his own. Paul moaned lightly, and his exposed erection rubbed against Johns’ for the first time, extracting fierce and fast spasms of delight pulsing through the two entwined bodies.
In a daze of passion and pleasure, Pauls’ legs wrapped around John’s hips, pulling him in further, pushing their two pricks against each other. John was in a position to manoeuvre in any way he pleased. He engulfed Paul’s nipple inside wet, strong lips, tickled Pauls nerves with teasing touches on his waist. He drew gasps and groans from the bassist with rhythmic thrusting of his body.
Their two figures fit together perfectly, like a puzzle. Every curve of Paul’s body was occupied with a member of John’s, completing it. Paul was overcome in zealous ecstasy, and John kissed him, confident that Paul would soon surrender to him, as promised.
“God, you’re amazing.” He whispered. His voice bounced off the walls with the candlelight; a soft hiss.
Pauls’ hands reached to John’s hair. He held John against the crook of his neck, his hands grasping and kneading as their bodies rocked against one another. The sensations vibrated between identical chests.
The hands that tickled Paul’s waist moved around, looping underneath the small of his back and pressing there in soft motions. John’s body rocked slowly against Paul’s, savouring him like a disciple of beauty, absorbing himself in the feelings they evoked together.
“Fa…faster.” Paul panted. John felt the droplets of tiny sweat on their chests submerge together.
John was overcome with need. He needed him. Has to feel him everywhere, connect the puzzle physically. He had to take from Paul what was his, because it was the only thing Paul had left to give.
“Come here…” He groaned quietly
His hands trailed further down Pauls’ back, sliding across his hips, meeting the cheeks of Paul’s arse. Paul whimpered at the sudden insinuation, and the sound danced wildly inside John’s ears and groin. He was aching for Paul, aching to take him. He stroked his cock, already wet and ready, across Pauls’ thighs and hips suggestively. He lifted his head, eyes fixing with Paul’s once more. They were wide, preparing… scared. But John would be gentle. John would always be nothing but gentle when it came to Paul.
His fingers brushed gently around the younger mans arsehole, readying him. Paul let out another small whine of apprehension, his mind betraying his body. He glanced down at John’s prick, the one that was wanting entry to his insides. He didn’t know how that was going to fit inside him.
And then he gasped out, for John’s finger was pushing its way in to Pauls’ insides. The sensation was so new, unfamiliar. It hurt and felt uncomfortable, and yet Paul felt his body arching, wanting to be closer to the owner of the wandering digit. His breathing became harder, his eyes fluttering shut, forehead sweating with a sense of foreboding and uneasiness, mingled with lust and desire. John fingered him, the digit twisting and feeling its way around. Paul felt the lower half of his body fire up at the invasion.
“Fuck…” he gasped
“Is it alright?”
“I… I dunno.” Paul confessed through gritted teeth.
He tried to meditate inside the feel of John’s wandering finger inside him, and John’s massaging cock against the insides of his legs. But he couldn’t concentrate, or think straight. He was submissive to John not only in body, but in psyche.
“I want to have you Paul.” John breathed inside his ear, and sucked at the rim.
He removed his finger from Paul, pushing it back inside… two this time.
Paul moaned out in pain; there wasn’t much room for manoeuvre. John twisted his fingers repeatedly, edging inside slowly, slowly, making gentle progress. He explored Pauls’ wet, sticky insides - the feel driving him mad. He found himself rubbing against Paul more frantically, his fingers scissoring and pushing, thrusting inside this unfamiliar territory. He was being driven overboard. He had to have him, had to have himself inside, moving with Paul, being him.
“Urhh… hmm…” Incoherent noises spilled from Pauls’ mouth, his chest heaving against Johns’, his prick rubbing incessantly against Johns’ stomach. “John…”
“Let me have you.” John whispered urgently. His own plea.
He was so tight. So warm, so inviting. His body was writing in pleasure, shaking in fear, his teeth biting down onto bleeding lips. He was giving everything up for John, and John knew that. He’d reward him for it. He needed Paul to give permission, to surrender. John was aching now with unparalleled longing.
“Let me have you!” he hissed again. Pauls’ body had fastened around Johns’ fingers, accepting him, fitting around the digits as he pushed them in and out. John had prepared him enough, he needed to have him, he felt insane with craving.
“I don’t think I can.” Paul whined, his eyes opening reluctantly. “Not tonight, I don’t think I can John.”
“You can.”
John moved his body further down, pushing Pauls’ legs further apart. He teased Pauls’ entrance with his prick, rubbing it softly up and down Paul’s arse, making it wet, ready. Paul moaned, his body shuddered. But he still didn’t succumb.
“I will. But John, not tonight.”
“Now.”
“I can’t.” Pauls’ voice was rasped, afraid. His hands had fastened tightly around John’s shoulders, fearful and determined. His eyes were still red from crying before. His body was still weak from illness, and now shaking with trepidation. His hair was sweaty, his face flushed with arousal. John’s teasing wasn’t making it easier for him. But he was adamant. “I can’t.”
Slowly, very slowly, consumed with reluctance, John pulled away. His prick was throbbing with burning yearning.
“Why?” he sighed desperately
“It’s not right now.”
“It’s perfect.”
“I can’t.”
“Paul…”
“John,” he breathed. He pulled himself upwards, and in doing so pushed Johns’ body into sitting position. They rested between each others legs. “I will. I promise I will. Tomorrow.”
John pleaded one more time. “Now.”
“Tomorrow.” Paul insisted. “I can’t now. I… it doesn’t feel…”
“Paul, I need you.”
Paul took an intake of breath. It was rare that he heard John so desperate, so ineffective, and it caught him off guard. He knew, hearing that, that John was as afraid as he was. He too needed the reassurance of familiar arms and touch and embrace.
“Tomorrow.” Paul promised.
“I love you.”
Paul opened his mouth… and then he pulled John forward, attaching their lips passionately, holding him there. They gripped each others naked bodies. They exchanged promises of submission and kindness through one embrace. They exchanged promises of trust and gentleness. And John knew then that Paul would stay true to his word.
“Tomorrow.” John repeated. And his voice cracked, rasped.
Hours slipped by. Ringo woke up and surveyed the bedspread. It was covered in crumbs and tomato ketchup from the various things he and George had eaten. They’d managed an hour of feasting and talking. Talking about nothing much; the good days and funny habits. And now, George was laid beside him, fast asleep. Ringo wanted to know how asleep. He wanted to wake him to know that he could, but that wasn’t fair.
In agony, he watched as the top of George’s eyelid quivered slightly. Georges’ eyes were moving beneath their skin protectors; he must have been dreaming. Ringo watched as Georges’ lip shivered slightly. He must have been talking in his dream. The guitarists forehead was covered in sweat, his face was pale as paper, even showing signs of a sickly yellow colour which Ringo was determined to blame on the candlelight.
Ringo moved his hand softly from George’s pointed cheekbone, down his chest and over the bones of his ribcage. Finally his hand came to rest on George’s stomach, which moved restfully up and down.
He trailed his fingers down again, meeting Georges’ hand. He fiddled between Georges’ fingers. And to his surprise, and elation, the digits closed around him.
“Ritch?” George’s voice whispered.
Ringo blinked, alerting himself to Georges’ sudden wake.
“Yes?”
The guitarists eyes remained closed, his breathing croaky. But he uttered small words with great meaning.
“Kiss me.”
The drummer didn’t hesitate. He moved up to meet George’s cracked lips, pressing his own like magnets against his. He kept them fastened there even as he spoke, and muttered,
“George, are you okay?”
A small voice. “Stay here.”
Ringo felt his heartbeat quicken. He felt George’s sweat against his cheek from the briefest of contact. “Are you okay??” he whispered hurriedly.
George didn’t reply, sinking back to sleep.
“I’m gonna get a cold flannel.” Ringo decided quickly, “You’re boiling. Okay??”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He’d never run so quickly.
When Ringo entered the kitchen, he found Paul sat silently alone at the table, lost in thought. He was bare-chested, dressed only in trousers. His thumb nail was bitten and bleeding. He was surrounded by mess, that Ringo vaguely remembered being responsible for. When he saw Ringo, Paul’s eyes went wide and frantic. He jumped up immediately.
“Is George okay???”
“I’m gettin’ him a flannel.” Ringo muttered distractedly. He looked around the mess, feeling increasingly agitated as precious seconds wore on. He’d never find anything amongst all this shit. “Have we got a candle!?”
“George is awake?!”
“He is, yeah. Paul, help me will ye?!”
Paul blinked, suddenly his thoughts catching up with him. “I’ll get a candle.”
In a sudden bid for helpfulness, Paul sprinted from the kitchen. Ringo made his way to the cold sink, running the water, his hand held underneath to check it was as cold as possible. Lucky really, they got nothing BUT cold water these days. He let the feeling shiver across his skin and pulsate around his body painfully. He felt his heartbeat quicken as Paul took longer and longer and George’s aloneness dragged on more.
“Paul, how’s it comin’?” he called impatiently.
There was no reply.
He grit his teeth together, tutting in frustration, moving towards the kitchen door until he heard Paul’s voice call back to him… sharp and authoritative.
“Ringo, don’t move!”
Ringo stopped dead. “What? What?”
“Shit Ringo…” Paul’s voice echoed into the kitchen, high with alarm.
“Paul, what??”
“Fuck…”
“WHAT?? WHAT’S WRONG??”
Ringo moved towards the kitchen door, pulling it open, but before he did so, Paul had run back inside, his face distorted in panic and shock.
“Paul… what is it?!” Ringo gasped, feeling his throat constrict, his breathing harden.
“Th… there’s somebody at the door.” Paul breathed.
Ringo frowned, the mention of another sparking confusion. “Huh? What?”
“Someone… at the door.”
Paul’s eyes became wider, filling with tears. His hand gripped painfully to Ringo’s arm as his voice rang high in terror .
“Shit Ringo… I think they saw me.”