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There were only a few times John ever scared himself. This was one of them.
The party had been going great prior to this. Champagne was passed from hand to hand as everyone basked in the pale light of the moon which was shimmering down on them from up above. Bob Wooler had made a proper—like, real proper—fix of his auntie’s garden. The immaculately manicured hedges were not only the perfect decoration, but moonlit as the perfect hiding spot for lovers who needed to get away for a snog or some other lustful, drunken fumblings.
Not like John was participating in any of that. No, siree. He was a happily married man with a wife and child waiting for him at home, both of whom couldn’t make it because they were simply too tired—
“Oh, John!”
Paul’s grunt broke John out of his reverie immediately. It was like for the last few minutes, he’d been working entirely on auto-pilot. The world came into focus now—well, as much as it could when he wasn’t wearing his glasses. And like some majestical vision from one of his wildest, most depraved dreams, he found Paul McCartney wedged between him and one of those bloody bushes, his face red and contorted with pleasure, John’s hand thrusted down the front of Paul’s trousers.
John huffed. “Right.” Paul was clearly worked up. Of course he’d oblige. “C’mon, c’mon,” he said, as his hand increased its pace sliding up and down Paul’s hard, perfect cock.
Paul moaned immediately, those darling doe eyes rolling into the back of his head, and damn John if his cock didn’t twitch with arousal inside his own trousers. Already he was imagining what he’d do once he’d gotten Paul off: he’d force the lad to his knees so he could suck John off too. The thought was irresistible. For a singer, Paul really knew what to do with that mouth. Sometimes, when they were singing harmonies together on-stage, all John could see were those perfect lips wrapped around a beautiful note—a note he had written. It drove him crazy, brought his playing to new heights, increased the hysteria in the fans on the ground as they fancied John’s antics to be for them and them only—meanwhile they were for his best mate…
“Fuck, fuck, bloody hell…” John couldn’t be thinking about this kind of stuff right now. He’d blow his load in an instant.
He tightened his hand on Paul’s cock, speeding up as much as he could amidst the intoxicatingly lusty haze. He was being undone by his own arousal, particularly about how it was going unattended as he tossed off Paul. “Fuck it,” he muttered, taking back his free hand, which he’d been using to pin Paul even harder against the bush, and shoving it down his own pant front.
Paul’s eyes went wide as he watched John jack himself off. It just made Paul moan and writhe harder.
“Good God… fuck… Johnny…”
John dragged a sly finger across Paul’s slit, and Paul let out a particularly glorious sound of pleasure. Proud as he was of having produced it, John immediately halted his fumblings. “Shhh… People are around, you hear?”
“Mhm!” His lips were pressed almost impossibly thin and spread into a pathetically hopeless smile, eyes bulging out of his head, ready to be wrecked.
Well, John couldn’t just leave him at that. He owed the man some release.
Increasing the pace of his own strokes, John’s breaths became hurried and his hand even quicker across Paul’s cock as they both neared completion. From someplace far off sounded the faint reminders of a party that wasn’t as distant as they’d like it to be, forks clinking against plates and voices being raised to make toasts to the as of yet inexplicably absent birthday boy. But John didn’t care a jot about any of that, however much he pretended to. It was purely selfish, he knew, the way he was taking Paul away from his own celebration to fulfill his own pleasure, but it felt so good that John just didn’t care. Paul deserved to be ravished on this day of all days anyway. It wasn’t his fault their schedules were too jam-packed to provided any chance for lengthy lovemaking in private…
“John—John!” The way Paul’s breath hitched, half-devouring a mewl, told John he was just as close to completion as John was himself.
John shushed him again, just for appearances. If anything the secrecy and scandal of it only made their dalliance, relationship, whatever, more appealing to him. He could still remember himself as a kid, imagining he was a world famous singer the likes of Elvis couldn’t ignore. He’d always fancied the impossible. And here was the most impossible thing of all.
Not the least because they were going to be world famous, and it was strictly illegal.
Not the least because John felt himself the most unlovable creature on earth.
In the end, it was that depressing, self-depreciating thought that drove John over the edge. He came with a grunt, spilling into his left hand, and he rapidly leaned forward, biting Paul’s shoulder hard to cut off the sound. Paul whimpered before going absolutely limp, his seed spilling into John’s right hand.
For a while they simply leaned against each other, absolutely boneless, panting up a storm.
Eventually, John heard a faint sound. A soft, little giggle. Looking up, he was met with Paul’s overjoyed face, his cheeks flush with the afterglow. His lips were twisted into an unbelievably innocent smile that tugged at John’s heartstrings in just the right way. It was like they were back at the fête and John was meeting this anxious but determined young man for the first time again.
“Hey,” John said, his voice more seductive than he meant it to be.
It only made Paul giggle hysterically again. “Hey.” He was softer with the sound, like he wanted to cherish the moment. How he possibly could, John had no idea—surely the branches hurt something awful against Paul’s back. But then again, he privately reveled in the idea that when Paul went home that night, he’d peel off his clothes and reveal a galaxy of cuts and bruises to remind him of what they’d just done…
Still breathing heavily, John leaned back a touch and zipped up his trousers. Paul did the same, before yanking a leaf off the bush behind him.
John’s brow furrowed. “What’s that for?”
Somehow, Paul’s smile got even bigger. “For your hands.”
“My…” hands, which John promptly looked down at and found they were covered in both his and Paul’s sperm. Fantastic.
For a moment, John said nothing, still processing the entire ordeal in his head. Taking it as reluctance, Paul’s grin became something wolfish. “Unless you’d like me to do the favor…”
Paul’s voice was so low, rumbling in his throat and chest, and caught John so off-guard that he couldn’t help but groan. “Jesus, Macca, you trying to kill me? You’re gonna make me come again, my God…”
John took the leaves from Paul’s hands and, over the sound of Paul’s zealous laughter, hastily cleaned himself of the juices.
“Well,” John said when everything was done with, his shoulders slumping a bit. He hated to return to the party, to go back to the real world, where they had reputations to maintain for stupid show business people. Even among their friends it felt like they were living a lie. All John wanted was the truth, and every day he felt it slipping further and further from him. No wonder Brian was so bloody miserable all the time. This kind of life took its toll.
But it had to be done. For the business, John guessed. For their wallets. For one of their comfortability levels.
He spread his now-clean hands nonchalantly, trying his best to appear unbothered by the whole thing. “Guess we should be off?”
“Yeah,” Paul said. It was awful, but John was overjoyed when he heard the dejection in Paul’s tone. It was his mate’s twenty-first birthday, and he was reveling in his rotten mood. What a character John had made himself to be. “I guess.”
Unsurprisingly, Paul was the first to go. He was always the quickest to leave whatever room he and John found themselves in. It was something of a skill, especially when he could manage it by only offending one person in particular—John. And besides, people were calling his name; they wanted to toast to him now. Just another excuse to drink, John thought angrily. Still shaded by the hedges, John grabbed a cig from inside his coat pocket and tried in vain to strike a match.
In the end it wasn’t him who lit his own cigarette. It was the man who was holding an immaculate gold lighter in the palm of his wrinkled, pale hand.
Taking a drag of his cig, John hooded his eyes, peeking through the haze to suss out just who he was dealing with here. Eventually the smoke cleared, revealing the smartly dressed and cruelly minded figure of Bob Wooler. Maybe it was all the drinks he’d had this evening—he certainly wreaked of alcohol—but John thought Bob’s curls looked a bit messier than usual.
“Living it up, huh?” John asked sourly.
Bob narrowed his eyes, the way he always did when he got offended but was too diplomatic to say anything about it. “Naturally. It’s a party.”
“Not just any party,” John corrected, the ghost of Paul’s touch still whispering along his skin. “Paul’s party. And if anyone’s supposed to be living it up, it’s him.”
“What? Can I not have fun as well?” Bob laughed incredulously, like John was being ridiculous. Which he wasn’t. He hated pricks like Bob who leached off of him and his bandmates for all their worth. They’d worked hard to get where they were going, goddammit. What did Bob have anything to do with it, in the long run? Not much.
John took another long drag of his cigarette to avoid answering. He thought, What a stupid question.
Then Bob said, “Really, no one should be policing where and when people can have their fun. Least of all you.”
There was an edge to his voice that John didn’t care to interpret himself. He was still a bit dimwitted in his post-coital state. “Oh yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, we’ve all heard the news over here. Your bird’s had a darling little baby.”
“Yeah. My baby,” John said, surprising even himself. He’d never made a point of distinguishing himself as Julian’s father. The entire wretched ordeal had taken too much of a toll to, at least this early in the game. But when it was Bob Wooler railing against him, he’d honestly have said anything just to prove the bastard wrong.
“What’s the name? Julia?”
“Julian.” John’s teeth gritted, his entire body tense. “He’s a boy and you know it.”
“Do you know it?”
“’Course I do. He’s my kid, christ.” John took another drag, too upset to think straight.
“But you haven’t seen much of him, I understand.”
“Oh, I’ve seen him plenty.” Just enough to watch him have his first fit and get the hell out of there. What was he doing being a father, anyway? He didn’t know how to be one. He’d never had a real one before. And he was so young. “Besides, I got a bit of growing up of my own to be doing.”
“Oh, yes. Do tell me, how did that growing up go? Was it nice?”
“Very nice,” John said. He was starting to realize what Bob was getting at, but by that point he was too far gone to care. Personally, he’d written off everything that had transpired in Spain as some addled, drink-induced dream.
“And sunny?”
“Very sunny. Not a hint of cloud in the sky. But you wouldn’t know a thing about that, would you? You just stay in this godforsaken town”—John threw his cig down and stamped it out under his foot, Bob’s aunt’s garden be damned—“all the time, doing nothing.”
“Now, no need to get testy with me. All I wanted to give you was good tidings.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.”
If John had been more sober, he’d have heard the new register of Bob’s voice. If John had been less addled by sex, he’d have recognized where this was going to go. But he was so far gone, so proud, that none of it so much as crossed his mind. To him, it was like he’d already won the battle.
One which went decidedly against him when Bob said, “Do tell me, John, how was your honeymoon with Mrs. John Lennon?”
In a moment, John’s skin became piping hot. A jolt was sent through him, his hands curling into fists on instinct.
He and Cynthia hadn’t gone on a honeymoon yet. The one they were currently planning was months ahead.
But he had gone to Spain with Brian Epstein, impresario Jew, queer extraordinaire. And he’d heard from Paul that tongues were wagging here, there, and everywhere about just what they were doing.
Sleeping together. Fucking John’s way to the top. Exploring Spain’s seedy queer bars in the dark of night. Ordering rent boys to their room who they’d ravish together.
Half-lies which were a thousand times worse than the half-truth.
All that rage and frustration bubbled up inside of him. Before he could even think, one of the hands at his side careened toward Bob’s face, hitting him squarely in the nose. There was an awful scream, a loud snap, and suddenly blood was gushing down Bob’s face.
Not like John cared. The hits just kept coming. First with his fists, getting everywhere they could reach—the face, the head, the sides—and then his feet once Bob was all crumpled on the ground, hands thrown over his skull to protect himself from the blows, absolutely shivering with fear.
“Fucking hell!” Bob yelled—perhaps the first time John had ever heard him swear. “John, stop!”
John laughed. How bloody pathetic this entire scene was. The man who’d always seen himself as something high and mighty now cowering in the dirt for him. It felt marvelous.
For a moment he stopped. He heard Bob let out a long, audible sigh of relief, as with grunts and groans he began to set himself to rights.
But that was a mistake. Because the next time John came swinging, it was with a random bar he’d found lying around in the grass—probably something Bob’s precious auntie used for her gardening. And Bob was poised just right to receive a blow to the face.
Bob slumped back, hardly breathing, groaning and gurgling blood. John flashed a grin, just this side of satisfied, before he felt hands grabbing at his shoulders and tugging him away. He kicked and dug his feet into the ground like a petulant child, trying to wriggle free of their grasps, yelling, “He called me a bloody queer! That bastard called me a queer!” Nothing anyone said could calm him.
Until he heard the broken, devastated sound of “John.”
Panting furiously, quickly John whirled around. He found Paul standing on the very edge of the crowd, his face white with shock. It didn’t help that some stupid bird was on the ground, crying over Bob’s body, shaking and screaming, “You’ve killed him, Johnny! You’ve killed him!”
“What’s going on here?” asked a concerned but fairly collected individual. Brian, of course. The last person John needed to see right now.
Brian had made his way through the crowd like bloody Moses, and was currently looking from Bob to John to Bob and back again. His face portrayed no emotion, nothing to say what he was feeling, which made John’s insides twist with annoyance. At least Paul was open with how he felt. The only time he’d ever seen Brian express anything remotely emotional was either when he was black out drunk or when John was fucking him into the mattress.
A slight breath left Brian’s lips, and his unaffected veneer shattered a bit. He turned to face John with a sigh, pinching his nose like a disappointed father. “Oh, John…” he murmured, mouth trembling with scarcely-hidden rage.
It probably didn’t help that John smiled when he saw that. Seeing Brian come out of his shell and because of him made him feel like the king of the world. “Y’know, I did this for you, Eppy,” he slurred, only then realizing how exhausted he was from all the exertion. Beating up a man was harder when you were out of practice, apparently. “I did this for you and me. You and me!”
By that time he was screaming, and Brian was hauling a very limp and barely alive Bob Wooler over his shoulder and bringing him to his pristine car. Brian’s perfect suit, his pride and joy, was now spattered with dirt and an excess of Bob’s blood. “I’m taking him to hospital!” Brian called over his shoulder. There was silence before the engine of Brian’s car revved into life and he went off speeding down the road.
Shocked still, for a long time people didn’t know what to do. Slowly but surely the crowd migrated away from the scene of the crime and back to the more open, seemingly safer areas. Eventually, it was just John standing by the bushes. John, and Paul five paces behind him.
Again, he said, “John…”
And they both damn near broke.
John turned to face him, his expression quivering with uncertainty. What the hell had he done? He felt vindicated, but by no means satisfied. Not the least because he’d made Paul so upset.
John spread his hands. He didn’t like it when Paul didn’t talk first. John always felt like he had precisely the wrong thing to say. “Sorry for busting the party,” he said noncommittally, trying and failing to sound earnest. Even though he was the most earnest he felt he’d ever been in his whole life right now.
He could see Paul drifting away from him. He had been ever since John had decided to hitch a ride to Spain instead of spending a glorious two weeks alone with him and the rest of the lads in Santa Cruz. He knew what John was, a political animal. But he was an erotic animal too. And Brian, with all his fawning glances and lingering touches, was the easiest damn prey John had ever seen.
Paul felt John had been promoting his own career. John felt like he’d been promoting both of their careers. Whatever the motivation, Paul could tell what John had been up to in Spain, even if he never properly admitted to it. And it had slowly eaten at whatever it was they’d had between them.
That was, until today. When he and Paul had trembled with pleasure against each other in the bushes, all the rest of the world be damned, concerned only with one another. A proper reunion, like.
And now John felt even farther away from Paul than when he had been in another country.
Apparently some of John’s anger still wasn’t spent, because Paul’s wet-dog look, his pathetic stare into John’s eyes, was too much for him. “What?” he asked. “I said I was sorry.”
Paul didn’t say a thing.
Sighing, John tried to step closer to him. Maybe some physical closeness would do them good. But the moment John moved, Paul staggered back in answer, his eyes still wide with shock.
By God, John thought. He’s afraid of me.
“Come on,” he said. He was trying to sound lighthearted, like Paul’s fear was some sort of joke, but when it came out it was more pleading, more desperate. “Come on, Macca, I—aren’t you listening to me? Can’t you hear what I’m saying? This—what happened—it won’t ever… I’d never harm you.”
“Just the rest of the world,” Paul said glumly. His eyes were wet now with tears.
John sighed again. The only thing he could say was the truth, and the truth was, “At least I’d be doing it for you.”
Not like that helped matters. Now Paul looked properly disgusted. A shocked sob broke out of his throat, and a hand flew across his mouth to stifle it.
Before John could do or say anything, Paul was fleeing back into the warm cocoon of his birthday party, where everyone loved him and adored him while not caring a jot for his wellbeing. No one in there would kill for you, John thought as he stood outside in the cold, his shoulders hunched against the wind, eyes smarting from the chilly night air. No one but me.
Yet he was the one out in the cold.