Work Text:
1969
It was off-putting. Paul playing the piano all the way over there. John felt his head snap up automatically at the sound. His ears pricked at the delicate plinks and something deeper in him attached to the underlying rumble from Paul's left hand. But he stayed where he was. Paul was playing the piano all the way over there and John couldn't move a muscle to join him. And worse, he didn't have the foggiest idea what the hell it was his supposed partner was playing. Paul hadn't made it up, that's all John knew for certain. There was always a certain melancholic hint of clove under the ones Paul pulled out of the air, no matter how many sprinkles or garnishes he added. There was no bitter aftertaste in this. The jazz was wooden and brassy and smug. John hated it just like he hated the vast space of Twickenham, how with all the amps and cameras and instruments and speakers and mics and lights and crew and hari krishnas and toast and alcohol and the smoke from Paul's obnoxious cigars, it was still painfully empty. Baren. Hollow. John curled himself tighter in Yoko’s lap. He'd crawl into her womb right now if he could. It sounded wonderful to be so cramped, so held, so safe. She put a hand in his hair and intercepted an unwanted conversation with Dick James, who got the hint, and slumped over to Paul and his piano.
Paul kept it up, day after day. The pretenses and the grindstone and the song. John couldn't understand for the life of him why he kept playing it. It wasn't something that needed to be learned or improved. And it wasn't one of Paul's favorite comfort songs or John would've known it from the first chord.
On about the fifth day of the unexplained fixation, John decided to say something. “Oh come now, darling.” He made it camp and posh together, layering on the ridiculous so there was no possibility of misinterpretation. “I wager you've got more than one tune rattling around in that pretty little head of yours.”
Paul laughed. He was so beautiful with his head thrown back, his rosy mouth dropped open.
Always made John think of sex. This was just a short little laugh. John hadn't even said anything funny, so of course it was. But even the smallest reminder of the strings that used to tie them together – that John was the only person Paul gave those laughs to – was like a little shot of dope straight to the veins. John beamed at him, forgetting what he'd even said or why he'd said it.
But the next day, the tune was back. It wasn't as though it was a constant thing. Paul played the songs they were supposedly rehearsing for this program. He ran through the millions of little bits he might turn into wholes any second now if he put his mind to it. He joined happily when someone brought out a golden oldie and even tossed a few of his own standards into the mix. But it seemed that the nameless, faceless piano part was now to be part of the ambiance.
“What is that?” John finally asked, a few days later. Because he, unlike Paul, could actually use his words to communicate when he wanted to. He didn’t panic and run to his posh ginger fiance and refuse to ever be caught alone again at the drop of those apparently catastrophic three words. No, John was a reasonable, capable human being who believed in actual communication, when it came to it.
But Paul didn't even stop playing, let alone look up at John. There was no indication that he'd even heard anyone speak, though everyone else in the room hadn't had any trouble giving John their full attention the minute he'd opened his mouth.
“Such a silly little tune,” Yoko breathed into the silence.
John smiled at her and squeezed her hand. She was right. It didn't matter. He shouldn't care. “Paul?” He pushed. Then, a bit louder. “Paul.”
The music stopped abruptly as Paul looked up and John could suddenly hear George’s quiet picking. Dylan. Nice. Much better than whatever Paul was stuck on. Paul blinked at John, all innocent confusion.
“I don't know that song.” John forced a tone of curious nonchalance.
Paul squinted at him. “Which–” he looked around the room. “Are we doing that one George brought in, then?”
“He's talking about–” Ringo started.
“Yeah,” John cut him off and turned to George. “Give us the chords.” He didn't know if Paul was being cagey or obtuse, and the not knowing made him angrier than either of the two possibilities. Paul had always been emotionally thick. John was as used to it as anyone else who had to deal with him. Actually, it used to be his job to tell people ‘that's just Paul, he is how he is, can't expect him to change just for you.’ Now it was him who was thrown out of step by Paul's unknowable insensitivity. John felt like throwing his wine glass at the artificially colorful wall.
He shouldn’t care at this point. He really shouldn’t. But it was too bloody familiar. Something John couldn't name and couldn't ignore. Something Paul either wasn't aware existed or was refusing to acknowledge. Like the “I love you” John had let free – purposely, thoughtfully, meaningfully – in Rishikesh and the empty, lonely, echoing chasm he’d been given in return. Which was it? Had Paul really not known John had felt that love? Or was he actually so terrified of it that he couldn’t accept its existence? John didn’t know which he hated more.
________________1960________________
On the way back to the Bambi Kino one night after a house party at Astrid's, happily tipsy, kept awake only by the fizz of amphetamines in his veins, John poked Stu in his black leather ribs.
Stu tripped sideways and yelped in response.
John grinned, reached easily over Stu’s head to tug at his ear.
“Cut it out!” Stu shoved him, half-concealed laughter bubbling. Made John feel big.
He'd probably get Stu to suck him off tonight when they were back in their room. Snickering, he stepped closer to Stu and opened his mouth to let free some licentious quip he'd almost thought through when he heard his name from across the street.
“John!” Paul. Leaning on the doorway of the kaiserkeller, guitar in hand, cig in mouth. Long, graceful legs propped in a pretense of lazy repose while everything about that beautiful body advertised a longing for constant motion. John wasted no time crossing over to join him. Paul's full lips formed a perfect circle and his strong chin tilted up as he blew smoke into the night. John swallowed thickly as heat pooled in a dangerous place. “Come listen to this. I'm stuck on a part. Can't decide if I like the chords on the –”
“Bye, then, John!” Stu called after him, clearly put out at being so unceremoniously abandoned.
Paul's gaze left John to focus on Stu. John couldn't help the guilty little zing of pride when he saw the haughty smirk Paul was throwing at Stu. He turned around to see Stu glaring daggers back at Paul, looking like a much put-upon hero. It was wrong, John knew. But he also felt like he was walking on air as he followed Paul through the slanted doorway to hear and help with his current project.
________________1969________________
Two weeks in, John still had no idea what the song was, but he had caught on enough that he knew it had something to do with Yoko.
It wasn't just the piano part Paul was picking at anymore. No, now Moses’s plagues had increased to include Paul humming the main melody at times that probably seemed completely random to anyone else. But John knew Paul better than anyone else.
When Yoko put John's fourth piece of toast back on the tray, Paul started in, whistling like a workman and studiously avoiding John's gaze. When John had Kevin move a mic down to the floor for him so he could harmonize with Paul from Yoko's lap, Paul began humming nasally through a superior smile. And when Yoko thankfully broke into a tedious conversation with Dick James to tell John not to worry so much about ‘Beatle Business’ Paul glared at nothing and picked out the melody on his Hoffner. John grinned at Mr. James, said “bye, Dick,” and asked Paul if he'd decided what to do about the bridge on Maxwell. The murder suicide story.
Was John not allowed to be fucking happy? Was that it? Paul just invented a leitmotif to ominously inflict on John's new relationship? No. Paul didn't come up with this one, John reminded himself. He'd know. He'd be able to sense it somehow. So what the hell did it mean? Why couldn’t Paul use his goddamn words like a normal fucking person?
The clear pattern further darkened the song and the sessions for John. If he had a problem with Yoko, why couldn't Paul just come out and bloody well say it? Because Paul was an asshole, John reasoned. Couldn't come out and say anything, good or evil, to save his own perfect skin. Which was part of why John needed Yoko in the first place. So fuck Paul for not being about to wrap his pretty little head around that. John was sick of longing for things Paul was incapable of giving, and he was sick of all these exhausting mindgames. Paul could drive himself crazy with his little jazz age ditty. George and Ringo and everyone else, too. They could all lose their shit and go to pieces. Not John.
________________1960________________
The schwanky piano part had John's hackles up from the beginning. Sounded too much like something fucking Jim McCartney would approve of to have any place in the middle of their set. The Kaiserkeller’s piano had a few sticky keys near the middle, so Paul played the right hand an extra octave up, emphasizing the contrast between the anchored harmony and the bouncing melody. And John had to admit there was something catching in it. Paul could make him like absolutely anything, the tricky little fuck. Still, it wasn't like Paul to change the setlist mid-show. Especially to something the rest of the band obviously didn't know.
John tried to catch Paul's eye to ask him what the hell he was thinking, but Paul was grinning maniacally at Stu.
Then, as the verse joined the piano, Paul was on his best mach schau behavior, ignoring Stu and John and everyone in the band – who all stood a bit awkwardly on stage with nothing to do now – to bobble his head and bat his eyes and shimmy and all-together act like a fucking giggilo as he sang at the crowd of shipmen and students.
“I'm not ashamed to say what's in my heart.
I'm not ashamed
To say what's in my heart.
Because I know
The best of friends must part.”
What the hell? John did not like these lyrics, but he hurried to strum along as best he could with the basic chord structure. He glanced at George, who looked bored with the whole situation, but who was already doing exactly what John was trying to accomplish.
“What’s he doing?” Stu muttered near John’s right shoulder, well-practiced for just such an occasion as this in the arena of fake bass-playing.
John shook his head.
“You came to me. You said my dog was yours.
You came to me. You said my dog was yours.
I’m not ashamed to speak my mind because.”
Shit, these lyrics were garbage. It was a good thing most of these people didn’t speak much English and were just here, like John was, really, for the very pretty boy bouncing about on the piano bench and his black velvet voice and his agile fingers and his delicate smirk.
“He may be your dog, but he’s wearing my collar.
I’m putting you right.
He may be your dog, but it’s me he’ll follow when he wants
Good exercise!” Paul laughed here, and there were a few cheeky whistles from the audience, and it dawned on John that this wasn’t actually a song about a dog. Something warm grew heavy at the base of his core and everything dulled except Paul's melty hot voice and strong, broad shoulders. John listened a bit more closely as Paul kept at his smug, cocksure performance, which seemed to be directed, again, unfathomably, at Stu.
“All day long, you’ll treat him right.
But you find him at my house every night.
He may be your dog, but he’s wearing my collar.
How you gonna keep him home?”
From John’s right, there was a sudden twanging clatter. John turned to see Stuart’s violin bass still buzzing from the impact of being dropped so carelessly, and he watched Stu’s leather shoes disappear behind the swinging stage door.
And then it hit him. He was the dog! John had never felt happier in all his life. Everything around him and inside him seemed to widen, puffing up with heady helium. He felt himself give an accidental little jump-skip and then he threw his head back and laughed with his whole body.
Paul grinned at him over his shoulder, dark eyes sparkling with mischief, and kept on with the song. Dick swelling under tight black leather, John walked over to the other mic and began to punctuate the jazz-tempo phrases with barks. Whether these ex Nazis and their babies understood the English word for dog or not, they laughed drunkenly and heartily at John’s little act. And, so much better, so did Paul. Whenever he achieved it, John found himself newly convinced that he could live off of making Paul laugh. Well, maybe that and a few prellies and ciggies and a little attention to his poor aching prick. Just the natural creature comforts, really, and Paul’s pep-pill of a laugh. That would do him fine for the rest of his days. The old jazz number went on about how no matter how good poor little Stu was, John would always go back to Paul. And it was funny, because it was true. John planned to prove to Paul tonight just how true his little joke song really was.
By the time the set was over John was completely off his head with the lusty thrill of Paul's secret yet public claim and with the little blood left in his brain, he'd planned the perfect response. They had a bit of rope they used to tie up their amps between sets so they'd be less easy to make off with. John tied one end around his neck while still very visible at the side of the stage. People stared and pointed. He lumbered across the stage and handed the other end of the rope to Paul. Grinning like a five year old on his birthday, Paul took the rope from John. The minute his hands were emptied, John put them on the ground, let out a wild howl that had girls shrieking and Paul useless with laughter, and ran off on all fours through the crowd and out the Keller’s front doors, dragging Paul behind him.
The pavement was sharp and cold under John's palms, and unforgiving to his knees. The dully present pain added to his arousal making his head dizzy with a manic need for Paul to touch him. He kept up his act, yapping and snarling at innocent passers by, so that Paul could pull on the rope and laughingly call him a bad dog. He'd never noticed how old and frayed it was before, but he supposed the palms of his hands weren't as sensitive as his neck. It scratched at his skin, and when Paul had to yank him back with it, the coarse fibers dug into him, painfully disrupting his airflow. And every little movement reminded John with a happy jolt of pleasure exactly who he belonged to.
________________1969________________
John hadn't wanted to spend his morning shut up in someone's stuffy sitting room, staring out the half-curtained window as Yoko and Klein discussed strategy and finances. He'd never imagined, when he'd set out to become a rock and roller, just how many business meetings it would entail. He nodded along and spoke up where he had to. Yoko would take care of him, John knew that. It was one of the best parts about her. He'd even argued that he didn't need to come, that he could just go along to band practice with the rest of the boys while she did what she did best. It didn't work like that, Yoko had reminded him. Klein wasn't interested in her on her own and the others would have a conniption if they thought she was making management arrangements for John. John had said the patriarchy could go fuck itself if that was what forced him into his monkey suit, and Yoko had kissed him and handed him a white blazer.
And so, by the time the driver pulled up beside Apple Studios, a full four hours late, with three whole ignored phone calls under his belt, John was numb with the string of necessities his life had come to. He half hoped there would be a row, actually. Maybe this would be the final straw to finally break Paul's cursed camel-like patience. And John would get to feel something real again. Even if it was only for the few moments they spent hollering at each other from the painful distance of the full length of the room.
John held the door for Yoko. Paul was singing. Loud. He was very clearly unaccompanied by George or Ringo. Just what Paul wanted these days. He was also clearly stoned. Pot hadn't been a stranger to Paul for years now, but this was a heavy high. John could hear it in the drawn out vowels and softened consonants.
A very old memory presented itself as the lyrics floated like smoke down the hall. “He may be your dog, but he's wearing my collar. I'm putting you right.”
The recognition caught at something tender and loose in John's chest and his cheeks burned. What the actual hell? This song? This is what Paul had been taunting him with for the past three weeks? John's mouth went dry. There was no way of knowing if it was due to the acrid air or the strange chemical mixture the song was compounding in his body.
“He may be your dog, but it's me he'll follow when he wants good exercise.” The piano was still fucking perfect, of course, something John could never have done fully sober, let alone completely blazed. Shit, it was strong. He could hardly breathe with the thickness of it, now they were almost to the door.
“Come on, it's clearly not a good time.” Yoko tugged at his hand.
“He might eat right off your hand, but you can't make him beg like momma can,” came Paul’s voice from under the door. John could already feel the anger burning up the apathy in his head. It was hot, flooding his blood, sending it pumping fast and hard down his spine and toward his groin. Felt good. “See you later,” he muttered. He kissed Yoko’s temple, squeezed her hand, cut off her protest with a slammed door.
Far too bloody relaxed for someone who was playing out the climax of his little stage show, Paul didn't even start at John's harsh entrance. He looked up, smiled, did the little half nod he'd given John a thousand precious times, as he kept on singing, beckoning John to join. And the worst of it was, John wanted to. Badly. Wanted to sit next to Paul as he played and sang and add his little nothing contributions and have that beaming glow focused on him. Wanted to get a good fistful of that long, black hair and put his mouth rough and greedy on Paul's. “He may be your dog, but he's wearing my collar. How you gonna keep him home?” Paul sang, deepening his voice subtly and winking at John. Like it was that simple. As if it was a given that John would just skip to his side, tongue lolling, eyes doting. John felt the heat of his shame flood the pathways of his brain and send angry tremors up the shaft of his swelling cock.
He crossed the room with long, purposeful strides through the thick clouds of Mary Jane.
“He's with you each night till six.” Paul kept eye contact, dopey smile unchanged, playing like this whole thing was a vaudeville show. “Then he comes over here and does his tricks.”
John took off his jacket, focused on his end goal that he was hardly even aware of the minutiae of what he was doing anymore. Paul really thought he could play the exact same card and John would just fold? Just come crawling for the same empty fix? Clearly Paul needed to learn a long overdue lesson.
“He may be your dog, but he's wearing my collar,” Paul's eyes followed John's jacket to the ground and he half smiled through his singing. John's heart fluttered pathetically. He tore the feeling away and glared back, but Paul was now focused on something behind John's back. “How you gonna keep him home?” Full black beard and all, he looked just like an American sorority girl as he snickered and smirked. John knew before he turned to confirm. Yoko had followed him in.
________________1960________________
When they reached their stale, windowless rooms at the back of the Bambi Kino, Paul pulled up sharply on the rope, then pushed John into a kneeling position. “That's my boy,” he praised.
John strained against his trousers and a little whimper slipped free from his tired lips.
Paul brushed the backs of his fingers down John's cheek, something darkly greedy in his big beautiful eyes. “You are, aren't you?” He was trying to sound sure, like it was a rhetorical question. Anyone but John would've fallen for it. “Mine?”
John swallowed heavily in spite of himself, feeling the tightness of the rope as his Adam's apple bobbed. That word was a chemical in John's veins.
But Paul was impatient. He read John's desperate desire to be taken, claimed, owned, as he read everything else John could never hide from him. He traded his gentle caress for a hard grip in John's hair that forced his head back and his jaw ajar. He stepped forward, straddling John's bent thighs, as his free hand hurried to undo his zip. “Then prove it.” John was salivating now at the thick scent of Paul's musk and when his dick fell free from its restraints, bouncing and purple, John took it eagerly into his mouth.
Paul groaned and staggered as John pulled him deep into his throat, and John moaned through his stuffed full mouth, proud of his ability to please. He kept at it, the unforgiving cement floor starting already to show itself through John's leathers. His cock pulsing and swollen between his legs. John tried to change the movement he was employing to suck Paul's cock in and out of his throat so that it included his lower body, hoping he could get some friction of his own as his dick pressed and rubbed against his tight pants. Paul hadn't let go of John's hair and he suddenly pulled hard and fast so that John yelped and pulled off. “What the f–”
“Go on, you clearly need it.” Paul looked down at John with smug disdain and stuck out his leg. He gripped himself now with the strong left hand that has just been at John's scalp and began to toss himself off.
A wave of disappointment fell over John. He had wanted to get Paul off. Had wanted to feel Paul shoot down his throat, to take it all down and hear Paul shout something wonderfully possessive and then to jerk himself while Paul watched with blown pupils and flushed, happy cheeks. But alright. He was bloody stiff with desperation and he sure as hell did not have the strength to protest. He unbuttoned his waistband and –
“What are you doing?” Paul slapped John's hand away.
“You said–”
“No I didn't.” Paul clicked his tongue condescendingly and John swore the exact same facial expression would've had him in a bloody rage at any other time. Paul gestured at his knee.
John's face burned.
“Now you got it.”
John whimpered, but the shame of it had him achingly hard. He pretended he wasn't going to regret this tomorrow, pretended he didn't have a care in the world except getting himself and Paul off, which was an extremely fucking easy thing to pretend actually, and he mounted Paul's leg. He wrapped his arms around Paul's long, shapely thigh and ground his cock into Paul's shun, gingerly at first but almost instantly settling into it as the pleasure built easily in his needy prick.
It helped, too, that Paul moaned above him and wanked himself faster. “Bloody hell you're depraved aren't you? Fuck, you're going to make me come just from watching you.” His voice shook with the obvious effort of talking around his deep desire.
John panicked at that. “Wait, I want to–” he reached for Paul's prick.
But Paul was too fast. Before John could grip his prick, Paul yanked on the rope again, sending John flying back. He had to catch himself, palms slapping against the cold cement. “Trust me John, I want your filthy mouth on me. But tell me what I need to hear first.”
Breathless and dizzy with need, mouth aching to close around and suck down Paul's dripping, turgid cock, John let the words fly without a second thought. “I'm yours. I'm all yours. Everything I am. It's all, all of it, for you.”
Paul moaned like a bird at that and pulled John back up to his knees so fast that he saw dark spots before closing his eyes and taking all of Paul deep into the back of his throat. Something about being so perfectly full of Paul had John's body buzzing and warm and wonderfully pliant. His throat opened easily and his jaw wanted to hang loose and open, but he kept his lips tight and his cheeks hollow for Paul, and used what was left of his concentration to pull clumsily at his own erection. The rising waves of pleasure overtook John completely as he worked himself beneath Paul and everything brightened behind his tight shut eyes.
Paul seemed to be talking more to himself than John now, but John didn't mind at all, not with that tone of selfish pride and those words referring to him. “Mine, all mine, all fucking mine, my John, mine, fuck!”
John gagged at the sudden stream of hot, fast spunk in his throat, but Paul refused to let him off. He pushed John deeper so his nose pressed into the coarse black hair there. “Don't you ever forget it.” John did his best to hum an affirmative as he desperately swallowed. And suddenly Paul was soft again. He pulled out, crouched down with a soft smile, brushed John's hair back where it had fallen forward out of his quiff, and took John's prick in hand. John gasped. His own hand was nothing to Paul's. A few gentle pumps had the electric, all-consuming pleasure shooting up from his pulsing dick and into his every vein and the spots returned to John's vision as he shot off into Paul's fist.
________________1969________________
John crossed the floor in seconds, a loud and blinding storm raging in his head as his cock burned for some friction. He shoved Paul's hands off the keys and slammed the lid down hard so the hollow heart of the thing sent metallic echoes clanging around the studio.
“John!” Yoko gasped.
Much as he knew he should, John simply wasn't capable of paying her any mind at this point. Paul’s smug smile had completely disappeared, and his weed-blown eyes focused on John with a kind of terrified adoration. John pulled Paul up off the bench by his shirt collar. Paul was heavier than John at this point, but John's anger had always made him unnaturally strong, and Paul was perfectly willing in this state to go wherever John wanted him. John held Paul inches from his own face. He didn't know what it was he needed to say. “You can't just fucking–”
“John!” Yoko was next to him now. “John, don’t. This isn't right.”
“Johnny.” Paul was so fucking beautiful like this, lips red and trembling ever so slightly, eyes hazy but determined.
John licked his lips. Talked to Yoko. Kept staring at Paul's mouth. “He doesn't get that things are different now, with us, and I just need–”
Paul grabbed John's face, his hands shaky but firm, and kissed him hard. John meant to push him off, he really did. He should have stormed off, actually. Given Paul a bit of his own Indian medicine. See how he liked it when he went out on a limb only to be left dangling over a deathly height. But though his arms went through with the plan, his mouth and his prick had other ideas, and soon John and Paul were on the ground. All reserve went out with the fall and John bit down on Paul's full bottom lip. He felt the coarse softness of the perfect bloody beard against his chin, and he tasted the sour warmth of too-strong pot. He pinned Paul's limp hands above his head and kissed him fast and breathless again and again.
The studio door clicked and both of them froze, but it was just Yoko seeing herself out. John'd make it up to her later, poor bird. Woman, he reminded himself. Yoko was a woman, not a bird.
“Lock the door on your way out, yeah love?” Paul called at her over John's shoulder.
And normally that kind of cattiness directed at his last life preserve would've made John see red, but – maybe the second hand smoke had got to him a bit – he could only focus on taking what he needed in the moment. “This isn't gonna be what you want it to be by the way, so you can stop acting so fucking smug.” He pushed himself up, still straddling Paul's waist, and unbuttoned Paul's slacks.
Paul frowned slightly, eyes focused on John's hands. “How do you know?” Hitting John exactly where it hurt most as only Paul could. The reminder that he didn’t know anymore what Paul wanted. The taunt that no matter what John intended, everything always went Paul’s way in the end.
John glared at him. Always so bloody calm. Nothing phased. Because nothing mattered to Paul, not really. Certainly not John and whatever it was that had grown and now drooped, neglected, between them. He told himself to follow suit. At least for today, for right now. All he wanted was one last good fuck and hopefully he could get some anger out along the way. He gripped Paul harshly by his bared hips and flipped him onto his stomach. Paul helped him shimmy his round, beautiful arse free by wriggling a bit on the carpet. Of fucking course it had grown in John's absence over the last year. It was typical of fate to have set it out so that Paul's leanest years had happened to coincide with the years of John's greatest access. Far be it from John to begrudge the cheeks he'd been blessed to enjoy. He'd cherish Hamburg and Cavendish until the day he died, bless those sacred places like the holy land in his final prayers. But it was unfair. It was. That this was the ass he would only get to fuck once. Better make the most of it.
He palmed the plush cheeks and squoze, relishing the way the fat pillowed between his fingers. “Such a shame,” he muttered, as he loosened his belt. “An ass like that should be used. Proper. Regular.”
Paul moaned into the carpet. “Need it.”
John looped his belt in his hand. “You’ll get it when you bloody deserve it, yeah?”
Paul wriggled, raising his arse higher between John’s legs. “Yeah.”
John brought the belt down. The leather snapped, the fat cheeks rippled, Paul gasped. Power surged through John’s shoulders and head. His dick struggled for freedom, but he would make himself wait. If this was the last time, it had to be done right. He spanked Paul again with his belt, and again, and again. Three times in quick succession so he wouldn’t have time to go into that still, secret place in his head where everything was dulled. None of that, now. John was going to keep Paul here with him to feel every high and low just the same as he did. He scooted back and leaned down. Planted his lips on Paul’s tailbone. Besides the first gasp, Paul had remained silent through all John’s abuse, but this little kiss drew a pained little cry from his lips. Heart twisting, John peppered more all across Paul’s beautiful ass before sliding his tongue up Paul’s crack. Paul moaned and jerked and John licked again, this time lingering to swirl his tongue around Paul’s rim. Then he sat back again and let his belt fly again. Red welts were already forming across the beautiful white hills. Good. Paul would need the reminders. “I’ve wised up, you know. Got a lot smarter these days,” he growled, as he grabbed Paul’s wrists and looped his belt around them.
“You were always–” Paul started.
“Don’t.” John dragged Paul, staggering with his pants half down, to a locked closet door blocked by a large, dusty speaker. “I was so stupid back then. Not anymore, alright?” He bent Paul roughly in half over the speaker. “This is the last time. I’m telling you so you’ll relax and enjoy it for what it is.” He knotted his belt around the closet door handle and jerked it tight. “Doesn’t matter how good it is, you’re not pulling me back in,” he breathed in Paul’s ear. “Ever again. Got it?”
John caught the tip of a smirk from Paul. “We’ll see.” Anger flared, and he bit down hard on Paul’s stretched-tight shoulder, only stopping just short of drawing blood. Paul cried out in real pain, and John felt two warring parts of himself physically tearing at each other inside his body, so he took his dick out to shut them up. At the sound of his zip, Paul spread his legs wider and stuck his ass out as best he could with his abdomen pressed so tightly against that speaker.
John spat in his hand and wanked himself a few times, feeling an instant stream of something powerful let loose in his head. “Whore,” he threw at Paul.
“Only for you, baby,” was the teasing response.
But the pain of the thing was, John knew it. This Paul was one he alone got to see. Too bad the minute they were done, he disappeared, never to be mentioned or admitted. Too bad twelve years of this unacknowledged paradise had driven John to the brink of absolute insanity. He loved Paul. Always would. If he thought he could come out of another year alive, he’d put himself through it without a second thought. But he knew he couldn’t. This had to be the last time.
Without messing with stretching this time around, he pushed himself into Paul’s clenching pink hole. The tightness was blinding. John wanted to take advantage of the friction it would bring, but he forced himself to wait one more time to allow Paul to adjust to the stretch. He kept still until he felt Paul squirming beneath him, body begging the way his voice would never allow. And then, he let himself go. He anchored his hands around Paul’s hips and thighs, pulled out, closed his eyes at the grip Paul’s hole provided him, slammed back in. He felt the fleshy give of Paul’s prostate at his tip, heard Paul’s guttural sound of pleasure, chased the sensation of pulsing heat that built in his prick as he ploughed into this beautiful latest model of Paul for the first and last time.
He tried to mark the feel of the sparser, softer hair at the tops of Paul’s thighs under his fingers. Tried to capture the sway of his arched back, his supple waist, his taut shoulders, muscles in his back and arms clenching as he strained against his restraint searching for more of John. He needed the shiny toss of that black mane burned into his retinas, the heat. The almost womanly softness of Paul’s insides imprinted forever on his swollen prick, ready now almost, for the final release. He sped up his thrusts against his own best interests. If he was stronger, John would’ve pulled out, kept them both on the edge, stretched out this final fuck into an eternity. But John had always been weak, too weak, for Paul.
He pushed in flush as he reached over Paul’s back to unfasten his belt. The stick of their mingled sweat so torturously familiar on his stomach. Last time. “Touch yourself,” he got out, as he lowered Paul slowly. “I want us to come at the same time.”
“John,” Paul whimpered his name as if he too was afraid for this to end, but he obeyed, laying one beautiful bearded cheek on the speaker and reaching between his own legs to grip his prick where it hung, pressed heavy and tight against the speaker.
Swallowing and shaky, John guided Paul back a few steps so he could wank himself better, and pushed back in. “I’m not going to last–” he started.
“Fuck, John, more!” Paul shouted.
So John did his best to give Paul what he needed for as long as he could, pounding mercilessly as the pleasure built and built until he was seeing stars and it almost hurt and finally he had to give in to it before his veins tore free from beneath his skin. With a broken cry, he fell on top of Paul as his body jerked and the pleasure washed over him in crashing waves and he spouted into him for the last time. Paul reached around and pressed John deeper still, holding him tight as his hole clenched hard around John’s pulsing prick and Paul came beneath him, whimpering into the speaker.
The minute the euphoria began to fade, a great and terrible emptiness set in and John hated Paul for finishing just a few seconds after him. So selfish, to last longer, to take more pleasure, to refuse John this one final request. Feeling a shameful lump rising in his throat, John pulled out and rushed to tuck himself back away and get the fuck out of here before any tears fell. Paul gasped at the hurried loss. Good. He should feel at least a little of what John was going through for once.
John reached over Paul’s still quivering back for his belt and felt a fast, strong grip on his wrist. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
John raised his eyes to the ceiling, willing the tears to stay bloody down. “I told you–”
“I love you.”
What? John yanked his hand free and stumbled back with the effort, knocking over a mic stand.
Paul stood, his kind dark eyes blinking stupidly. “I–”
“Don’t.” Too fucking late. A year ago when John said it to Paul it had been too late, actually, but this?
Paul started toward him, awkwardly pulling his pants and slacks over his come-soaked thighs as he did. “I love you, John.”
Panic rose in John’s throat with all the choking, heavy tears. He wasn’t exactly in a corner, but with all the mess of chairs and music stands and chords and shit, he didn’t have an easy exit. His heart raced and he could hear the blood pounding in his head as it tried to redistribute itself after spending so much time stuck in his dick. Why was it so terrifying? He’d wanted it for who knew how long, and now?
Paul took his hand. “Johnny?”
John swallowed, but it was no use. The tears would have their way. Knowing it was the last thing he should be doing, John let himself collapse on Paul’s shoulder as sobs overtook his body.
Paul was crying too. John could feel the tears trickling into his hair. But he stayed standing, held John steady and strong as he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Over John’s head. “I should’ve said it back at the ashram, but I choked. Should’ve said it, I don’t know, years ago, really. And now–” Paul took a shuddering breath. “I just hope it’s one of those ‘better late than never’ situations.”
John would have stood, now, on his own. But he wasn’t ready to let go of Paul. Nor was he ready to look him in the eye. And the last thing he wanted was to interrupt this train of spoken thoughts or accidentally give the impression that he was okay. He was so bloody far from okay. “I hope so too,” he managed, when he realised Paul was waiting for him to contribute.
Paul rested his chin now, instead of his cheek, on John’s head. “I don’t know if–” he cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you want. You know, at this point. I just know I can’t lose you. Can we try and figure something out?”
John heaved an involuntary sigh as the rush of tears slowed for the moment. He tried to ignore the twist of the knife that came from Paul not knowing what he wanted. How had they let themselves drift so far apart? It was torture being in this liminal space. He’d thought the only solution was the exit sign, and he’d been dragging himself slowly toward it until Paul cracked open another door. Trouble was, with all the light shining into the dim hallway, John couldn’t tell what was behind it. “You know what love means, Paul?” he asked, finally disentangling himself.
Paul shook his head. Swallowed. “Not really, no. But I reckon you do.”
John scoffed. “That’s a cop-out.”
Paul’s eyes widened and he hurried to dig himself out of his hole. John loved to see him panicking. Felt like being chased. “I mean I’d say it’s–”
John kissed him. “S’alright. I know.”
Paul beamed. "I know."