Archive of Our Own ^beta

March 1975

“Hey, Charlie? Yeah, erm — can you come over this afternoon?” 

The newspaper was open on the kitchen table right where he had thrown it, half-covering his plate of toast. His stomach was still turning as if he’d just seen the picture, threatening to churn up the breakfast he’d only moments ago been enjoying. 

There they were, caught in the flash of cameras outside Elaine’s, just two fucking nights ago, apparently. Robert Fraser, perfectly turned out as always and staring down the cameras with a wry smile, and there beside him, the reason for all the fucking cameras, Paul McCartney. 

“Okay, thanks. Cheers,” John said, adding a self-deprecating laugh at whatever Charles had quipped before he hung up. Truly, he hadn’t heard a word the man had said other than the affirmative that he’d be there in an hour. He put the phone back on its cradle as sure and unbothered as he could manage, but from the look Yoko was giving him, eyes raised from her part of the paper as she sat at the kitchen table, it wasn’t a convincing performance. 

Frankly, John couldn’t give a fuck what she thought. The only thing that mattered was that photo, taunting him, and the accompanying words twisting the knife in deeper. He sank into his seat at the table and read them again.

“McCartney has been seen out and about in Manhattan this weekend, accompanying London-based art dealer and bon vivant Robert Fraser to dinner at Elaine’s before attending a gallery opening on Friday evening. McCartney has been scarce in the public eye since the dissolution of his marriage to Linda Eastman, daughter of prominent New York lawyer John Eastman. The divorce was announced at the beginning of the month, and fans have been eagerly awaiting a public appearance from McCartney since news of the split. So yesterday’s coming out —” 

John hadn’t gotten that far into the column the first time, so now as he read that sentence he let out a cynical bark of laughter that made Yoko look up again, mouth set in a small line and eyebrows raised, but still she said nothing. 

“There is no word from McCartney or his representatives, so it remains a mystery how long he plans on staying in New York, though some close to the singer have suggested that he is here primarily to finalize the terms of his divorce. Nonetheless, he appears to be making the most of it. Mr Fraser was once a prominent art dealer and gallery owner based out of London, but he has long been absent from the industry, most recently spending much of his time in India. He is a close friend and sometimes business partner of Mr McCartney. “

“He’s coming over?” Yoko asked, and John looked up. It was the first thing she’d said to him since his world had ended. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled and then set his gaze back downward. He flipped back to the front page of the paper and began to numbly read, but he could feel her eyes still fixed on him. He knew she was weighing what, if anything, was worth saying, and when he made it two paragraphs down the page in silence he was certain she was going to leave it. Which wasn’t good. Silence from Yoko meant she wasn’t going to brush it off, it meant she was going to pick it up again, but only after careful consideration. It meant he had gotten her thinking about it all over again. John took a bite of dry toast and tore through the paper until he found the crossword.

———

Charlie Swan sat on the floor in the front room with his cards sitting in his lap. John was already on his second ciggie since he’d let him in, and had thrown some small talk around to keep up appearances, but he was already burning up inside, feeling sick with fear as Charlie casually shuffled the cards. How anyone could just sit cross-legged on the floor and have a laugh when Paul was here in the city, with Robert fucking Fraser, was beyond John’s comprehension. He took a long drag on his ciggie and watched the way Charles deftly spread the cards out in a neat line on the floor, his tone suddenly turning serious as he asked, “What do you want to know?” 

John exhaled smoke and pressed his eyes closed. 

“Erm…what Paul’s doing here?”

He opened his eyes, and to his immediate relief, he saw that Charlie hadn’t looked up from the line of cards. No surprise or suspicion registered on his face as he nodded along.  But then, nothing seemed to ever phase this man, which was why John liked to keep him around. He kept talking. 

“Is he — does he want to — is he going to stay?”

Charlie looked up at John now, but with the unruffled cool of a man who knew what to expect from a Dakota visit. 

“And what has he got to do with Robert Fraser?” John added hastily.

“Okay, you can pull three cards to start, then.” Charlie watched as John pulled from the line, with an urgency he couldn’t help. He felt nauseous as he watched the other man’s steady hands set the cards up in a simple line and turn them one by one. 

In all the times he’d circled around, or outright asked about the PaulandLinda shelf-life, he never had seen these cards in a neat line all together, upright and full of mocking possibilities. 

He knew that what he was looking at was bad, and Charlie’s awkward silence was doing nothing to make him think otherwise. Finally he spoke, pointing at the first card, two figures holding goblets up to the sky and clasping hands, a winged lion-angel-thing hovering above them. “Two of Cups, so…a new partnership, a strong bond, a meeting of souls.” 

“This is Paul? He’s just divorced, who the hell is he partnered with?” 

“Well, it’s not Linda; this card is all about the new. So he’s here in New York to start something new, or cement it maybe.”

“So he —” John cleared his throat, hoping to mask the way his voice was shaking. “He’s not trying to rekindle anything.” The floor was threatening to swallow him up where he sat. 

“No, not with her. Could be here to tie up all the loose ends on that, but it’s not his focus. This is a very optimistic card. And then there’s The Lovers.”

Charlie pointed to the second card in the line. John knew this one too well. Adam and Eve, ready to drop their fig leaves and get it on in the garden. “Really drives the message home,” Charlie said. “This is a love partnership.” 

“What is?” asked John, sharply, unable to hide the desperate tone in his voice. 

The man shrugged. “Whatever he’s here for. Whoever he’s come here to meet.” 

John was regretting bringing Robert into the conversation.

“This one is interesting.” Charlie’s tone pulled John out of his spiralling thoughts. “Three of Swords. This is maybe about his recent divorce?” It was said as a question, as if John would know the fucking answer better than his fucking psychic. 

“That’s what you’re here to tell me, Charlie,” he grumbled. 

“I can only answer the question you’re giving me, so yeah I’ll guess this is about his divorce.” Charlie had the tone of an exasperated parent. John pulled on his cigarette to have something to do with his mouth that wasn’t cursing out his on-call tarot reader. 

“You’re a saint, Charlie,” he exhaled, blowing smoke. The last card between them showed a bright red heart, three swords stabbed through it. The sickening tightness in his chest, unshakable since he’d seen the morning paper, told him all he needed to know about its meaning.

——

John was stalling. He’d invited Elliot Mintz to Max’s Kansas City for drinks, and the wanker was running late. And yeah he could’ve just walked in on his own and been seated right away, he was John fucking Lennon after all. But he hated using his name like that, and besides, he’d decided a smoke was what he needed at the moment. 

And yeah, maybe he’d rather be back home, warm on the couch with his cats and some records spinning, but he’d heard through the grapevine that Paul had been here more than once since he’d first arrived. And maybe the grapevine was more like a targeted pestering of Elliot about what Paul might be doing with his time in the city. And maybe that pestering had yielded nothing but the faintest of chances that John might run into him here. And maybe he didn’t want to be alone when that happened.

So John needed a smoke. It was cold, and as his cigarette was nearing its end, with still no sign of Elliot, John considered how long he could reasonably faff about on the corner. Already his fingers were numb. But stumbling into that den alone felt impossible. 

He glanced at his watch. Ten past nine; okay fine, not so late, but what if Paul was already there, what if he was there with Robert? And they were finishing their drinks before falling into a cab and back to a hotel for an early night. John felt a sudden certainty that if he didn’t interrupt whatever the fuck was happening in there then Paul would already be off to swallow Robert’s prick, and then they’d be jetting back to England together for more. 

Fuck Elliot then, serves him right for being late. John went to the doorman, who gave him a long glance as if he had to be sure that this was the actual John Lennon and not just some poor sap with a bird beak. I might as well be, John thought, and was about to say something just to prove he had the scouse accent to boot, when the man gave a small nod and opened the door.

Inside the lights were low and the place was packed to the corners. It hadn’t changed at all since he’d been here last, sometime before he’d run away from the city. John realised all at once that he hadn’t been out on his own since his move back in with Yoko, and there was something thrilling about the transgression, like it was a proper tryst. And if she had known exactly who he was looking for, and why, he was sure she’d have a fit. The thought delighted him, and he only hated himself a little more than usual for that. 

 He’d squeezed his way across the floor of the restaurant, looking for one familiar face, and beginning to believe that all this planning was for nothing. What the “plan” entailed was hard to define. He needed to see Paul, and he needed to see him with Robert. Then he would know, and then…

He had no fucking clue. He wanted to be seen by Paul, and he wanted it to hurt him somehow. He wanted Paul to feel the way he’d felt when he saw his picture in the paper. If he could be a ghost at Paul’s feast it would be enough. But that would all depend on whether Paul still cared about him. You couldn’t haunt a man who didn’t think about you anymore.

He’d had more than one familiar face try to stop him at their table to strike up a conversation, but no one had managed to keep him for long, thank god. He was close to the bathrooms now, and couldn’t properly see the bar for all the people standing around it, when he heard a voice just behind him. “John?”

He turned and saw none other than Robert Fraser standing right in front of him. He looked a lot like John had remembered him. Much thinner, and he looked tired. But still impeccably dressed, hair combed just so, wearing expensive-looking tortoise-shell glasses. He had heard from some mutual friends about all the trouble Groovy Bob had gotten into, and how he’d apparently fucked off to India, and so he’d been surprised to find him looking like his old self in that photo, but now seeing him face to face, he could more clearly perceive where the cracks were starting to show. He couldn’t properly judge though; he wasn’t exactly the model of clean living, even now that he was back from LA. 

John realised he hadn’t said anything. Robert, smiling wide, put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Good to see you, love,” he said, real warmth in his voice.

Finally, John found his words. “Bob? Christ, I didn’t know you were in the city!” He hoped it sounded convincing. 

Robert laughed. “Only for a short visit.” 

“Oh.” John felt…something he didn’t expect to feel, and couldn’t name. Looking at that familiar face, still smiling at him like they were back in ‘68 putting on their mad gallery show together, he felt like he’d missed something. Like he’d left something behind in London and only just now remembered it. 

“Erm, maybe you’ll join us for a drink?”

John blinked back to the present. “Who’s us?” he asked immediately, knowing the answer but still feeling dumbstruck. Robert’s smile quirked up just slightly at the tremor in his voice. 

“I’m here with Paul.”

Robert nodded toward the bar. All John’s mad imaginings disintegrated, and in their place was just panic. He felt like he was going to stop breathing and keel over right in front of the toilets at Max’s Kansas City. That would make for one hell of an obituary. 

Maybe something like consent had registered on his face. He might’ve even said “Yes”. He had no fucking idea. What he did know was that Groovy Bob had put a hand on his shoulder, and was leading him through the crowd towards the bar, and that’s when John saw him. 

Paul sat with his back to them both, but there he was, black Irish hair and pale skin. Wearing a button-up John was sure he’d had since ‘68, at least. If not for the way his hair had grown out into an obscenely pretty shag, curling at his shoulders, John would’ve sworn it was his same Paul from back then. 

Robert said his name, and Paul turned, and for a moment he didn’t seem to notice anyone but Robert. John could see the wheels turning behind his eyes just as the recognition hit him, and couldn’t help a satisfied feeling at the way his pale face flushed red, his mouth opening just slightly, betraying his surprise. He looked even younger in that moment than he had just half a year ago when they had last seen each other, when Paul had dropped in, Linda in tow, to visit with him and May. 

John said nothing, couldn’t move, and all he felt was shame. I’ve let you down. I couldn’t be arsed to meet you in New Orleans. And you looking like that. At least he was so dumb-struck he couldn’t run, which was what he wanted to do. Paul was getting up from his seat, a timid smile on his face, and John instinctively moved into his arms. They hugged quickly, and John mumbled a “Hi, lad” over Paul’s uncertain “Hey, John”. 

They both retreated quickly from the hug like it was something illicit, not to be seen by others. 

“What are the odds?” Robert’s delighted voice broke through the tension. 

“Quite high, actually,” John replied. “I do live here.” 

Robert let out an uncharacteristically delighted laugh. “Seven million people in Manhattan,” he said. “And two interlopers bump into one of them.”

He had sat back down next to Paul, and John stood awkwardly behind them, feeling more like the interloper himself, still in his coat. But he’d never felt at home here, though he’d die before admitting that to Paul, who was now waving down the bartender. John noticed the way his hand briefly brushed against Robert’s, intimate, familiar. He felt sick. 

“And what brings you both to New York, then?” John asked, instantly hating how accusatory his tone sounded. Neither man seemed to notice, or more likely they didn’t betray that they had. 

“I had some business here, and I thought it would be fun to have a bit of company,” Paul said matter-of-factly. “What do you want?” he asked John. 

John couldn’t help but feel that the question had nothing to do with his choice of drink. They were sitting so close together, Paul and Robert, and Robert had moved his hand down to his lap, where it rested half on his own thigh, and half on Paul’s. John wedged himself into the small space between Paul and some fellow just trying to enjoy his whisky sour and addressed the barman directly. “Whisky soda,” he said.

“Put it on my tab,” Paul added.

“Ta,” mumbled John, feeling very awkward, like he’d found himself on a blind date with a man he’d known for two decades now. And with another bloke probably feeling him up under the bar at this very moment. He felt a sudden compulsion to stake his own claim, and reached his hand down to brush “accidentally” against Paul’s side. Just barely, beneath the smooth fabric of the shirt he wore, John felt Paul’s breath hitch a little at his touch. Or maybe it had been something Robert had done. He hated the thought. 

“How is Yoko?” asked Robert. 

“Alright,” John said. He left it at that. There was nothing more to say. Robert had his eyebrows raised, looking absolutely delighted as he took another drink from his half-empty glass. 

John took a generous swig of his own drink as soon as it was placed before him. “But it’s good to see you looking well, Bob,” he said, as soon as he’d swallowed. Christ, you sound like Aunt Mimi.

Robert gave a shrug. “Not by half,” he said. “But it’s good to be among friends. Paul tells me you were nearly in New Orleans with him?”

John saw the way Paul bit his lip, and he felt wrenched. Stupid, stupid sod. They both despise you. And Paul’s run to groovy Bob to make it better. 

“Need a bit of air,” Paul mumbled, standing and going for the front door. It was so abrupt, that John wondered if he had missed something while lost in his self-pitying reverie. But he said nothing, just stood awkwardly next to a newly empty chair. 

“He wants you to talk to him,” Robert said, finishing his drink. 

John snorted. “And why the hell do you care?”

“I’ve always cared for you both,” Robert said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to say. “It is good to see you, John.” 

He was looking at John like he was putting something down he’d expected the other man to pick up, but John hadn’t come here to have a chat with anyone. In fact, the person he’d wanted to — confront? — haunt? — beg forgiveness from? — wasn’t even here anymore. 

John turned without a word and hurried in the direction Paul had gone. 

Through the front doors, he found him on the sidewalk, just off to the left of the line by the door. He was woefully underdressed for the weather, having left his coat and everything back at the bar, and taking a deep drag on his cigarette like his life depended on it. John went to stand beside him. 

“Manhattan,” he said, taking out a cigarette. Paul held out his lit end to ignite John’s. The air outside felt sharp.

“That is where we are,” Paul answered. 

“It’s where I am.” John stared at the pavement.

“I know that, John,” Paul answered, irritation creeping into the edge of his voice.

“You could have called.”

Paul snorted a laugh around his ciggie. “Didn’t think you’d like that. Trying again with Yoko and all that.”

John awkwardly kicked at a chunk of loose pavement on the ground. “I’m sorry about Linda,” he said. 

Paul gave him a bitter look. “It’s been four months, John. I’m here with Robert,” he said, and it stung. John felt like all his fears were coming home to roost. 

“Why?” he asked. 

“Because I asked. And he said yes.” Paul stamped out his fag end on the pavement and turned to go back inside, before hesitating. John raised his head to look at him. Paul’s eyes shone wet in the city light, betraying a deep hurt and a familiar vulnerability. He licked his lips, pink in the cold, as if he was weighing something on his mind, something he might regret deeply.  “We’re staying at The Plaza,” he said and then went back inside. 

——

John started walking toward the hotel. The wind made it feel much colder than it ought to be in March. He told himself that if he started to lose the feeling in his toes he’d call a cab, but he also thought maybe he deserved some suffering. 

He didn’t have any plan at all this time, and no fucking desire to go back home. All he knew was that Paul had asked for him. And unlike New Orleans, he intended to show up. 

He spent the walk trying to make sense of whatever the fuck Paul wanted from him. He was certain now that Paul and Robert were fucking, but were they — had they started something more? He kept on thinking back to the last time he’d fooled around with Paul, when they were together in LA, and it had felt like old times, finding any hidden place they could steal away to in that crowded house, and something of the old possibility they’d felt back then was hovering just at the edge of every conversation. 

John had wanted to try again. He hated himself now, for being so daft. It had felt like Paul wanted it to, but then. Then Paul had to blow it all up. “I talked to Yoko. She wants you to call her. She said she wants to see you.” As if Paul ever cared about what Yoko wanted. That’s when John understood what Paul meant. There was no future for them, even though every time they were near each other it still felt like he couldn’t imagine any other way to live. And so, when Paul had invited him to New Orleans, he’d said yes. Even if Paul had apparently been hoping to get him to run back to Yoko? And so, instead of going to New Orleans, he’d gone back to her.

But now, less than two months later, and here he was at the doors to the Plaza. He had no idea what to do next, so he walked in and sat in the lobby, in an overstuffed chair close to the front doors. If Paul was still out with Robert, maybe he’d find him on his return. 

Why are you doing this? What does he even want? What do you want? 

It was warm inside, and John started to nod off, half-laughing to himself at becoming a transient in the city he was supposed to call home. Would the concierge call the police on a loitering bum in the lobby, and would anyone know or care that said bum was John Lennon? He was imagining the scene when it all at once seemed to come to life, a hand shaking him awake. He opened his eyes and saw two beautiful, impossibly round, sickeningly familiar hazel eyes looking back at him.

“John,” they said. “Hey, wake up, ya sod.” 

“I’m awake, la,” he grumbled, and for a moment, before he adjusted to the warm lights of the lobby, it was just the two of them. 

“Where’s Bob?” John asked. 

“Gone up already,” Paul answered. “He’s found a date.”

John sat up, and his disbelief must’ve shown on his face because Paul gave him something of a pitying look. “I know how your head works, Johnny.”

“Do you, now? What’ll I do next then?”

“You’ll come up with me.” 

John stood and fell into step beside Paul as they walked to the elevator. He didn’t give a fuck for his pride. Even if it meant he’d have to share Paul with Robert and some other ponce none of them knew, he’d do it, because christ he missed Paul.

They stood in silence in the elevator, operated by some bloke who either didn’t clock them or was doing a hell of a job pretending he hadn’t. The silence held between them when they stepped off, and John followed where Paul led.

Paul opened the door to the suite, and John was genuinely surprised to find it dark, empty. The other man switched on the light and started to take his coat off, but John was frozen in the hallway, trying to fit this development into everything he’d already run into on this puzzling night. “No one else?” he asked. 

Paul stepped into the hallway and took John by the lapel of his jacket, shaking his head as he pulled him. John tripped into the entryway, and Paul shut the door quickly before pressing him into the wall, kissing him deeply, hungrily. John let him, humming his surprise into the other’s mouth, but welcoming him with a hand to hold the back of his neck, fingers to tangle in his hair. “Johnny,” he said, need shaking in his voice. 

John felt a rush of possessive lust. He pushed himself off the wall, sending Paul stumbling backwards, and caught him in his arms, pushing him flush against the opposite wall. Paul gasped in surprise. John had him pinned, holding him by the shoulders, and he was madly kissing him. Paul opened his mouth to let him in, and they were so close, the heat from Paul’s chest, the fast thrum of his heart vibrated against him. He felt Paul’s hands, with the little purchase he had, find his hips under his coat and cling to them. John stepped back, as much as it hurt to put space between them, and started to frantically undress, throwing his coat and scarf onto the floor. Paul started on the rest of his clothes, moving further into the room as he stripped until he was naked and fucking stunning, still as gorgeous as ever, and half sitting on the bed. John nearly tripped with his pants round his ankles, so he paused and watched Paul while he took off the rest of his clothes. He let himself drink in the sight of the man before him. Still looking so lithe and feminine, even with the thick hair on his arms and legs contrasted against his ivory skin. Even with his prick hard, standing flush against his belly. Finally naked, John dropped to the floor where Paul was perched right at the edge, who opened his thighs wide for John to settle between them. John kissed at the skin inside his thighs, lips and nose brushing against the soft hair. 

“Johnny, Johnny —” Paul was repeating above him, bending down to kiss his hair. 

“Does he do this for you?” John asked, hating the words as soon as they escaped his mouth. 

Paul was quiet, but John saw the way his cock jumped at the idea. John kept going. “Does he take you like this?” He put his tongue to the crown of Paul’s cock and lapped delicately at the slit. 

Paul gasped above him. “N — no, only you Johnny,” he said, voice trembling. John brushed his nose against Paul’s navel and moved his lips to encircle the whole head of Paul’s prick, and suckled at it, teasing, delighting in the tortured whines he was drawing out of him. He traced his right hand up Paul’s inner thigh and settled it under his sac, and then brushed his palm back, sweeping his fingers along the cleft of his arse. Paul whimpered. “John, please, please,” he repeated, voice strangled with need. John pulled his mouth away with a wet sound, and Paul gasped. “John —” 

John stood and pushed Paul down flat on the mattress with a hand on his shoulder, and Paul went easily. John was on top of him fast, and kissing desperately at his neck. Paul grabbed ahold of the blanket under him, bunching it up on either side of him, and when John pulled back to drink him in, it gave the effect of making him seem even more ethereal and feminine, eyes wide and wet with need, the crumpled edge of a gold embroidered bedspread framing his face like a halo in a piece of religious art. “God, look at you,” he said. “Tell me —” he hated what he was about to say, but he had to. “Tell me how he has you.” Paul gasped, maybe at the way John had started a slow grinding of his cock against Paul’s, drawing out each brush of friction. Or perhaps at what he was being asked to describe. Paul grabbed hard onto his hips, tried to draw him closer, but John grabbed him by the wrists and pinned them on either side of his head, into the rumpled halo of gold. Paul whimpered again, and the sound of it went straight to John’s cock. 

He kissed Paul’s jaw, feeling the thrum of his pulse against his lips, as he kept the slow rock of his hips hovering where he could brush his cock just slightly against the man under him. It was hell for him too, but he needed it to go this way. “Does he make you beg for it?” he asked.

“Yes,” Paul moaned. “Please Johnny — ah, god!

“Does he fuck you?”

Paul nodded frantically. 

“Tell me how he does it,” he demanded.

Paul moaned, throwing his head back. “He — he gets his fingers inside first. He’s got those beautiful fingers”, he said. John let go of Paul’s wrist to move his hand down, along the lad’s trembling stomach to the tip of his prick. He couldn’t help but notice that Paul didn’t move his arm now that it was free, still desperately gripping at the blanket. He found the head of his prick and rubbed it with his finger pads, collecting the precome. Paul gasped. “There’s a good lad. So hard for me,” John murmured, and the prick jumped in his hand. He looked at Paul under him, and the lad was flushed red, mouth open. Still so easy to undo with just a crumb of praise. And John needed to keep this going. He needed to keep the upper hand this time. And from the way Paul was looking at him, he needed it too. 

John stilled his hips and moved his fingers down under Paul, feeling for the pucker of his hole. When he found it, he swept his finger around it in soft circles. “Put it in, god Johnny,” Paul whined, and John bit his lip, pausing. He wanted to. He wanted to be inside him already; he was aching for it, hadn’t touched himself once even. But he could feel how close he was getting to losing himself, and maybe it would be too much for Paul to take, even if he was begging for it, and where would that leave either of them? 

“Do you have something?” he asked, voice steadier than he thought he’d be able to manage. It seemed to briefly pull Paul out of his trance. “John,” he groaned. “Fuck, in the bathroom.” 

John kissed him, sucking at his pillowy lower lip as he pulled away. “Don’t touch yourself,” he said, and Paul huffed out a gasp. 

“Fuck you, lad,” he breathed, but as John rolled off him he was fairly sure he had him undone enough to listen. 

There was a dopp kit open on the bathroom counter, and sure enough, there was a tube of KY near the top. John tried not to linger on the implications of that. He brought it back to the bed, where Paul had rolled over onto his stomach, head tucked into the crook of his elbow, but lying still, clearly fighting the urge to thrust down into the mattress. John took him by the shoulder and urged him to lie on his side, and settled against his back, kissing the back of his neck under his tangled hair. He felt another surge of possessiveness, but tinged now with a tenderness he hadn’t expected. 

He settled against him so that his cock was pressed against the cleft of his arse, and started to cover his fingers in the lube. He was peppering Paul with frantic, biting kisses against his shoulder. Paul leaned into it, and when John breached him with the first finger, he hissed but pushed into it. 

“Fuck, come on Johnny, fuck me.” 

John let out a groan, painfully aware of how heavy his cock felt. But he couldn’t touch himself. He needed to save it for Paul. He pushed his finger in until he found the mound of his prostate, and Paul moaned, soft at first, foot moving back to stroke up and down John’s bare calf. John rubbed at it with deliberate, focused strokes, and Paul came apart on his finger, shaking against him, trying to grind down onto it. John grabbed hold of his hair with his free hand, and tugged, signalling him to still.

“Does he fuck you like this?” he pushed another finger in, quickly, and Paul gasped. “Does he fuck you on his fingers until he’s used you up?” He kept the two fingers moving together, and listened to the way Paul breathed and moaned, shaking against him. “He does, doesn’t he?” John added a third, and christ Paul was so hot and tight up there, and his body so beautiful, shivering with every stroke of his prostate, pale skin shining with sweat. John kissed and sucked at his neck, determined to leave a bruise, and Paul squirmed against him, whining. “Johnny — I need you, Johnny —”

John pulled away from his neck and lifted his head to watch Paul, drinking in the sight of him, eyes screwed tight and mouth open, cheeks red, huffing desperately into the pillow. His beautiful prick was so hard and neglected, leaking steadily from its purple tip, twitching when John gave a particularly punishing stroke. “You’re doing so good for me, Paulie,” he murmured. “Are you good for him too?”

Paul bit his lip and shook his head. “No,” he breathed. 

“Even when he says you’re good? Because he thinks you're his?” 

“I’m not, Johnny, please —”

There was a real, shaking desperation to Paul’s voice that threatened to erode John’s defences. Again he felt a surge of protectiveness in his heart that made him want to give him anything. Fucking hell.

He pulled his fingers out. “Ah, oh god Johnny…”

John flipped him onto his back and kissed him, and Paul whimpered against his mouth, pulling him closer, so full of need that John felt the threat of tears behind his shut eyes. “Paulie, say you’re mine,” he said, hating himself for dropping his defences so quickly. But at least Paul’s were down too. 

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” Paul repeated, leaning up to press his jaw with kisses as John hastily slathered his prick in the lube. He put his hands on Paul’s thighs and urged them apart, and Paul opened them, gripping John by the forearms so hard he felt the nails pressing into his skin. 

He pushed in, and Paul moaned so loud John was sure that anyone in the hallway would have heard. God, it had been too long, but Paul felt as good as ever. John had learned with crushing but predictable disappointment that no one was a better fuck than Paul McCartney. No one felt as good, no one looked or sounded the same, no one else mattered at all. Forgettable, forgettable, forgettable. 

But not this, this was home. John pushed slowly until he was all the way in, Paul lifting his hips to urge him deeper. “Oh god, so good, Johnny, so good.”

“Fuck, Paul,” John gasped. 

“Move, come on, please.”

John gave in, too eager to give Paul what he wanted, done withholding. He started a slow rhythm and Paul huffed and gasped with him, arching his back to help John find the spot again. John pushed deeper and Paul grabbed him under the armpits, latching onto his shoulders and pulling him closer. “There, right there,” he said. “Oh fuck!” 

John started fucking hard into him, losing himself in the incredible tightness and Paul’s noises. “Paul, Paul,” he huffed with every thrust. Paul was moaning like a bird. It was beautiful to listen to. 

“There’s no one else — ah!” John had been mouthing at his chest as he rocked into him, but he lifted his head at those words, nearly losing his rhythm. Paul was fixing him with a deliberate look, even with his whole face drunk with sex. His eyes were big and teary, and John knew that he was crying too. “There’s no one else, Johnny,” he repeated. 

John needed to believe him. He needed it to be true. He moved his hand to Paul’s cock and started to stroke him the way he knew he liked; the muscle memory would never leave him. Paul gasped and swore, and John felt him tighten around him. “Fuck, oh fuck.” John kissed him on his temple, into the shell of his ear. “You’re so good, you’re so good, can you come now baby? Can you come for me?” Paul moaned and knit his brows together, hovering on the edge. John gave him a sure stroke, stopped to thumb over his wet slit, and then another stroke, and then Paul was spilling into his hand, moaning loud as he bore the intensity of his orgasm. John stroked him through it, still moving inside him, and as he clenched around him, John came hard and sudden, gasping as he collapsed into Paul, still thrusting until he was completely spent. They lay still, totally drained, breathing into each other. 

This was home, the familiar smell of Paul, warm and salty, breathing under him, with him. John was warm inside him, and even the mess between them, where Paul had spilt like a fountain, felt like bliss. He imagined falling asleep just like this, but he fought the urge and reluctantly pulled himself out of Paul. There was a groan from under him that felt so young and needy, and reminded John vividly of Forthlin Road, sharing that small bed, and forcing himself out of it even as Paul clung obstinately to him, that first summer when they would’ve never left each other’s arms if either of them could help it. You haven’t changed, and neither has he, John realised. 

He didn’t get out of the bed this time. He turned Paul to face him and wrapped him up in a tight embrace, and Paul hummed in relief, and clung to him, burying his face into John’s chest. After a pause, he spoke. “I meant it, John.”

“Hmm?” John had been fighting the threat of sleep.

“There’s only you.”

“What are you doing here with Robert, then?” As much as he hated it, he felt his guard coming back up. 

Paul didn’t move, didn’t stop clinging to him, and when he spoke he sounded unguarded. “We started talking, after Linda…after everything, and he said he wanted to come back to London. I did miss him.”

There was a pause, and John knew he wouldn’t like the next part. He could tell from the way Paul was holding him, how he refused to look at him. “I do love him, Johnny. If you need to know.” 

John swallowed.

“But we aren’t fucking.”

John closed his eyes. “But have you, ever?” He knew the answer.

“Yes.”

John exhaled. It didn’t hurt as much as he thought. Of course they had; there it was, and it didn’t break him. He kissed the top of Paul’s head. “Everything was like that, then,” he said, and he felt Paul relax against him. “Christ, I mean, I knew.” 

Paul pulled back just enough to look John in the eyes. “Are we confessing all our past affairs, then?”

John couldn’t help but laugh. Christ, they’d be at it for days. “God, I hope not.” 

Paul smiled. He seemed more relaxed, as he turned and settled into the cradle of John’s body. “I came here to see you,” he said.

John’s stomach swooped inside him. “But I had to hunt you down? You know my number.” 

“I was scared if that’s what you want to hear. It’s true, anyway.”

John’s heart swelled at that. He still couldn’t believe Paul to ever be scared; he was always the sure one. 

“Nowt to be scared of,” he said. 

Paul snorted. “That’s what Robert said, but after New Orleans —”

“Hmm,” John huffed, feeling all at once very guilty. He’d wanted to hurt Paul, and he had.

“I mean, I know I made a mess of things when I told you…I mean, because I’d talked to Yoko…I knew I had fucked that up, the way I told you. I guess I thought it’d be better for you? And things had gotten hard with Linda; I thought I could fix it.”

“I thought you’d call when I heard about that,” John said. “I mean, a fucking divorce, I thought you might tell me about that.”

Paul nodded.

“I wanted to. I almost did, but then I worried — I imagined you saying something cruel.”

John swallowed. The truth is, he would have. He was so angry, and he had so many ways to hurt Paul, and he’d wanted to use them. But now the idea of hurting Paul felt sickening. He couldn’t ever forgive himself for it, and he knew he’d done it too many times.

“That’s why I didn’t come to New Orleans,” he confessed. 

Paul was still in his arms, and quiet.

John continued. “I thought, I guess if you wanted me to try again with Yoko, it meant — I didn’t want to just have another wank in a closet and then back to the wives, every time we saw each other. I’d feel rotten every time. I felt so rotten after LA, and I hated how much I fucking missed you.”

“We could —,” Paul turned to look at him, and god he looked so scared, “We could try this…instead.”

John swallowed, chest tightening. “It can’t be like LA, he said. I don’t want to lose you as soon as we’re done.”

“I’m here for three more days,” Paul murmured around the finger in his mouth, at his old nervous habit of chewing on his cuticle. John felt so fond of him that it hurt. “Robert and I are going to London. He wants to look at some gallery spaces.”

“A new go at it for everyone,” John said, kissing the mussed top of Paul’s head. The lad looked up at him with those big cow eyes that still had the power to strike him dead.

“I’ll come with you,” he declared. 

Paul blinked, disbelieving. “What about Yoko?” 

John shook his head. “I wanted it to be different but I’m not…I don’t want to be here. I know she’ll hate me, but everyone here hates me.”

Paul smiled; his wet eyes crinkled at the corners. “Least she’ll hate me more,” he laughed, and then, concern shadowing his expression, “You won’t be able to come back.”

John nodded. “Okay.”

Paul looked as vulnerable as a bird in a romance melodrama, and John almost said so, but it would ruin the honesty of the way Paul leaned in to kiss him. It felt so pure beyond the cruel mind games he’d played out in his head, and John could only kiss him back.

“Don’t you dare change your mind, Johnny,” Paul said and kissed him again. 

“Aye, lad, and you can hold me to it,” John answered in a comical Scottish brogue. Paul snorted a laugh into his mouth. 

“Daft.” 

They fell silent, and John kissed Paul on his mouth, on his cheek, on his chin, marking every favourite part of his face. Paul was smiling like a kid.

“Johnny?” he said. His cheeks were flushing red again. 

“Yeah?” John asked, kissing his cheek, his temple. 

“That was the best shag I’ve had in years.” 

“Was it now?” John laughed. “Worth coming all this way?”

Paul pulled John close, a hand tangled into his hair, and kissed him deeply. “Mmm. And taking you back with me.”

June 1975

They had rushed to get ready, which meant John hadn’t properly combed his hair, but Paul said it looked bohemian. The haircut helped; he had to admit it. It made him look younger, almost like his ‘67 self. Paul had been right to suggest it.

A lot about the past few months had felt like ‘67. They had spent the chaos of it all hidden away in Cavendish, where everything felt so familiar and safe. Fucking and playing music, and trying to pick things back up and put them into place. It hadn’t been easy to weather the media storm of John’s sudden flight from New York, and the calls coming from Yoko, and then calls from the lawyers. And the reporters and fans with their questions and cameras at the gates.

But some time had passed, and the invitation from Robert seemed as good a chance as any to make a public appearance. He was having a gallery opening in SoHo, not far off from where the Indica had once stood. It felt like another sort of homecoming. 

John was nervous, and as Paul fixed his hair in the car, running his fingers through like a comb, John had the sudden desire to jump out the door and run. Maybe he’d started to curl into himself, because Paul frowned. “What?”

“He probably hates me,” John said, staring at his knees. 

Paul laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. He moved closer, and grabbed John’s hand. “He doesn’t, John. He invited you. He wants to see you.” 

They were just pulling up to the curb, so John didn’t have time to protest. He let Paul lead the way inside, the confidence of his partner felt so bright and beyond reproach, like the prodigal prince of swinging London had returned. They were as close as they could manage to be in mixed company, with Paul parting the Red Sea of ageing bohemians and their protégés, until he found Robert.

“Hi, darling,” Robert said, giving Paul an easy and familiar embrace. John felt himself blush. Before he could stumble into a suitable greeting, Robert pulled him close. “Good to see you, John. “

“Ta,” John managed. 

Someone John didn’t recognize, a younger man with long blond hair, was standing among the group with a drink and eyebrows raised. “Lennon and McCartney? Can I call this a reunion?”

Paul gave his partner a reassuring squeeze on the forearm. 

“We’ve had other things to sort out first,” he said. John sensed the way Paul smiled around his answer, in that palpable, protective way that felt like a threat toward any hint of patronizing. The same Paul fending off the hounds in ‘64, or ‘66. God, I love him.

“Before we get ahead of ourselves,” Robert announced, raising his glass, “I’ll toast to having my two dear friends from the old Apple days here.” There was a general hum of agreement, and John felt more indebted to Robert’s tact than he’d ever care to admit. 

——

It was getting late, and the thinning crowd allowed for John to find a relatively quiet corner in which to fall into a settee and light up another joint. The familiar shape of Paul sunk into the cushion beside him, and put a hand on his knee. The way they’d started being more affectionate among mixed company still thrilled John, especially when Paul was the one to do it. 

“So, I talked to Linda this morning,” he started. 

John cleared his throat. Every time Paul got on the phone with Linda, John would retreat to his music room and play until it was over. As much as Paul assured him again and again that Linda didn’t hate him, he still felt like the other woman.

“She wants me to come to the farm with the family next week. She wants you to come along too.”

John snorted out smoke. “I can’t quite picture myself frolicking around with Farmer Paul and the brood.”

“They like you, Johnny. Yes, even Linda likes you,” he added when he saw John open his mouth to protest. Paul grabbed hold of his hand. “I want you to be a part of it.”

John passed him the joint and gave him a small kiss on the neck. “Don’t you try making me muck about in sheep shit,” he mumbled, and Paul sniggered like a kid. “Oh, I do intend to, Johnny.”

John didn’t have a witty barb to throw back. He settled against Paul’s shoulder, head heavy with weed. He’d never admit it aloud, but he’d give anything to shovel farm shit if it meant Paul would choose him, and keep choosing him. 

“How’d I get you?” he asked. The grass had him thinking these things out loud. 

“You waited,” Paul said. “And you were a right stubborn bastard. But I’m glad you waited.”