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The hotel room smells of cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey, the ashtray overflowing, the curtains half-drawn against the Liverpool afternoon. Paul lies face-down on the bed, sheets bunched under his hips, legs bent at the knees—his body taut, waiting. John kneels behind him, fingers tracing the curve of his spine down to the dip of his lower back, then lower still.
"Y'look like a bloody masterpiece," John murmurs, voice rough.
He doesn’t wait for a reply—just leans in, presses his mouth to the soft swell of Paul’s right cheek first, because he knows. Knows how Paul’s right side thrums with sensitivity, how even the slightest touch there makes his breath hitch. John licks a slow, deliberate stripe from the bottom-left, dragging his tongue diagonally upward—like tracing the neck of his guitar, like following the rise of a melody. Paul shudders immediately, hips jerking forward into the mattress.
"Better than Jesus, than absolution—" he gasps, fingers twisting in the sheets.
John grins against his skin, does it again, firmer this time. It’s a stupidly tiny adjustment, angling his licks just like this, but Paul’s thighs tremble like he’s been struck. He’s loud now, moans punched out of him in ragged bursts, and John swallows every sound, every twitch, chasing the way Paul’s body clenches around nothing. Their bandmates most assuredly know what they're doing; Brian, too. There's no way they wouldn't.
Too soon—too fast—Paul comes with a broken cry, spine arching, face buried in the pillow. John doesn’t stop, not until Paul’s shaking with oversensitivity, not until he’s dragging himself up onto his elbows, turning, reaching for John with clumsy hands. John’s already there, hard and untouched, but it doesn’t matter—Paul yanks him forward, kisses him messy and open, tasting himself on John’s tongue. They collapse together, tangled, breathless.
"Love you," Paul mumbles into John’s shoulder, and John laughs, giddy, dizzy, pressing his grin into Paul’s hair.
"Damn right you do. I love you, too."