Work Text:
"Here," John hisses at Paul and yanks him unceremoniously into a utility closet, letting Paul slam the door shut behind them.
Paul's heart is running from the—well, the running. It happened quick: George had gone into the dressing room first, and the screaming started before the rest of them could even round the door frame. They hardly had the time to wonder how the girls had gotten in, instinct setting all of them off in different directions. Paul didn't see where George and Ringo had run off to, but he'd turned, knocking right into John behind him, and off they'd gone, down twisting hallways, until John pulled him in here.
Only, now that they've settled, it leaves Paul's senses whirring from the heightened adrenaline. He can feel his own pulse pumping like a bassline in his ears. He can't hear screaming anymore, but he can hear the ruffle of John's clothes as shifts behind him. He can hear John's panting breath. He can feel it too, hot on the back of his neck.
Paul leans forward, reflexive, but it's too tight in here for him to put any space between them, really. He loses his balance, tripping on a bucket, or a dustpan, or something. His arms go swinging for purchase, his left hand, smacking into a shelf and knocking a stack of paper towels out of place, grasping nothing; his right goes sliding uselessly against the flat wall, and before he can go clattering face first into the door, John's hands are on his hips, holding him steady.
The shock of it sends his heart racing again; the fear of falling, and fear of being found, and John—well, he's not afraid of John. It just shocks him, is all.
John's fingers are warm on him. He can feel each one—a distinctive hotspot through the fabric of his shirt. John's pressed all along the back of him—against his ass, and the back of his thighs, and his shoulders. John's slow breath dances, feather-light, against his hair. A shiver runs down Paul's back, his shoulders twitching, involuntarily; the feeling tingling through his nerves, coiling tightly in his abdomen. Waking up his prick.
It's only a natural response. It's not often Paul's touched there. Only in certain—quite specific—situations. His body just can't tell the difference between a bird's touch and John's. It's fine. It's fine as long as John doesn't notice.
Embarrassment blooms—hot like John's breath against Paul's skin. He can feel his cheeks burning, the heat rising quickly up his neck. He can feel every inch of John against him. Paul searches out a handhold, finding the edge of doorframe. He makes a show of it, settling his shoulders, perhaps a touch more dramatically than he really needs to. But John still doesn't let go. John only seems more attuned to him, now that Paul's made it a big fuss about it.
"You alright?" John whispers, leaning forward to get a better look at Paul, even though it's dark and he hasn't got his glasses. His words tickle the back of Paul's ear as he moves—almost damp, like he's so close he's left condensation on Paul's skin. One of his hands settles on the doorframe, to balance himself, and his palm brushes over the back of Paul's fingers. The sudden electricity of skin to skin contact startles Paul—more significant than it ought to feel. He twitches his hand away quickly, back to the useless wall. He can still feel the ghost of John's touch over his fingers.
Paul clears his throat. "Yeah," He says, trying to make it come out as neutrally as possible, but it ends up being a quiet sigh more than anything else. He can feel John looking at him. He's so close, it's as if they're cheek to cheek. If Paul turned his head slightly, they would be. John's all along Paul's back now, practically cocooning Paul in his warmth; his arm on the doorframe boxing Paul in; his hand on Paul's hip, the only thing keeping Paul from keeling over.
It's not like they've never been this close before. It just feels more intimate somehow—here, alone in the darkness of the tiny closet. With Paul's half-eager stiffy.
John seems to stare at him for a long time. Paul can feel his own heartbeat going, as fast as it had been when they'd come stumbling in.
"Do you reckon they're gone now?" Paul asks, quietly.
In his periphery, he catches John's head turning slightly to look at the door. His ear brushes Paul's, and it sends another shiver down Paul's neck, making him twitch—a quick inhale of breath, and spasm of his shoulders—but this time, John doesn't miss it.
John turns back to him. Paul stays as still as he possibly can, his eyes set on the faint line of light peeking in through the slim gap under the closet door. He has the rather ironic thought that he'd quite like to run and find a different closet, now, to hide from John.
He waits for John to decide how to react, his heart thundering with fear and shame, and then John's hand lifts off his hip. There's a strange twist in Paul's stomach, somewhere between humiliation and disappointment, but before he can make sense of it, John starts walking his hand slowly down Paul's thigh, his fingers dancing like a spider, landing quick over Paul's half-hard crotch.
"John—" Paul starts, panic and arousal spiking suddenly in his chest in a nauseating mix, but before he can think of an excuse, John's cupping him, and using his leverage to pull Paul's hips back into his own. And then Paul feels a distinct stiffness against his backside.
Paul gasps as John sighs against his cheek, his forehead coming to rest against Paul's temple. Oh, Paul thinks, a searing thrill blooming under his skin; the nerves that had been rattling in his chest, turning into something else entirely—pleased and ravenous.
John's hand slides against the wall until it finds Paul's, his fingers curling through the gaps between Paul's. His grip on Paul's hand tightens along with his grip over Paul's clothed dick, and it hits every part of Paul at once—his straining cock, and his dizzy brain, and his racing heart. Paul leans forward, into the pleasing pressure of it—John's hand—searching for more friction. It only serves to make John pull him back, John's erection pressing against his ass, a little frantically. John turns his face into Paul's neck, kissing him just under his ear. For a moment, Paul feels pleasantly light-headed. Desire simmering under his skin, making everything else fade into the background.
Paul squeezes John's fingers, for lack of anything else to do. There's not much he can do, caught between the door and the sturdy press of John's body. John grinds against him, and rubs his hand over him, leaving a trail of wet kisses down his neck, and the only thing Paul can do for it is let himself be manoeuvred. Paul closes his eyes, sinking into the balmy feeling of it.
John's hand pulls away from Paul's bulge, for a moment. Paul's eyes fly open to see what's wrong, but he feels John's fingers fumbling with his buttons before he can ask. It knocks through Paul, a swirl of emotions in his chest—surprised, and desperate, and for a moment scared. He hadn't considered this something that would—could—happen. A question almost comes tumbling out of him, too honest for whatever this moment really is; but then John lets out a frustrated huff, annoyed at Paul's buttons, which he still hasn't managed to undo, and whatever it was that was bubbling inside Paul turns, instead, into a familiar fondness.
"Need a hand?" He whispers.
"Fuck off," John hisses, sounding embarrassed.
Paul laughs. He takes his free hand off the shelf, pulling gently at John's wrist, and undoes them himself. He pauses for a moment. He's starkly aware that John can't actually see what he's doing. That the only way for John to keep touching him is for Paul to indicate that he can—to be deliberate about it. He hesitates a second too long, and John's hovering hand goes searching, bumping into Paul's. Paul expects him to get to business, but John pauses there, letting his fingers brush over Paul's, like a half-hearted attempt to hold his hand. It shoots a fiery heat through Paul's stomach. Something about feeling the calluses John got from playing their songs, and the knowledge that he could feel that—the evidence of their music, the evidence of them—against his cock.
Paul grabs his wrist and shoves John's hand into his underwear, and without missing a beat, John squeezes his cock.
"Oh—" Paul whines—the sound of it loud and jarring in the breathy silence of their closet. John's other hand flies away from where it was gripping Paul's on the wall, and covers Paul's mouth.
"Shh," John whispers into the shell of his ear. Paul remembers what they came in here for in the first place, but he doubts John really cares, seeing as he slides his hand—painfully slow—over the slick head of Paul's prick.
Paul moans into John's palm, trying to choke it off, and failing miserably. John huffs a laugh at Paul's helpless gasp; amused by it—wringing pleasure out of Paul. His mirth sparks something competitive in Paul, so he reaches his hand back, and presses it firm against John's hard cock.
John's head dips, his forehead resting against Paul's shoulder, as a breath comes shooting loudly out of his lungs. His hips piston forward, pure aroused reflex, chasing Paul's touch.
"Jesus, Paul," John whispers, his voice coming out strangely full—thrilled and awed—and it makes something rise, weighty in Paul's chest. He's never heard John sound like that. If he'd known he could do that, he wouldn't have had John sounding any other way. Paul's hit abruptly with the certainty of all the things he could have from John that he didn't know about before. He feels a mounting desperation to get them.
Paul turns, half stumbling against something on the floor, his shoulder knocking into the door. John stumbles after him, his hand still caught down the front of Paul's trousers. His other arm goes flying, yanking on the first thing he can grab a hold of—the string hanging down from the ceiling—and suddenly they're facing each other, under the yellow light of the single bulb in the closet.
John freezes in front of him. His cheeks are flushed pink, and his lips glisten a little under the light. His eyes are wide. Softer than Paul would have expected. All of him, softer than expected. Paul's seen John leer at hundreds of girls before—he's seen John fuck them too—but here, in the light, John seems caught off guard. Looking at Paul like he's unsure he's still going to get what he wants. Like he wants it, not because he wants to get off, but because he wants to get off with Paul, and he's afraid Paul wants it for the other reason. The vulnerability of it flutters, warm and light, inside Paul's chest. As if there's a world where Paul—where anyone—wouldn't want John like this. Don't be stupid, Johnny, he thinks. Of course. Of course! He can't think of anything to do for it but pull John in for a kiss.
John sighs out—like relief—and it only makes the thing in Paul's chest expand. Paul can feel the corners of John's mouth curving up into a small smile, and like a reflex—like the mirror of John that he's always been—Paul smiles too. John pulls away, all bashful-like—half-embarrassed and half-amused. His free hand comes spidering up Paul's thigh to find his hip again. Paul's acutely aware that John's other hand is still precariously close to his dick.
"You were in the middle of something," Paul reminds him.
"Why'd you move away then?" John asks.
Paul looks at John's lips so he doesn't have to look into John's clever eyes. "Wanted to touch you too," Paul tells him, hoping the casualness in his voice is enough to bely the flaming heat he can feel on his cheeks. John's smile turns smug and delighted. He steps slowly into Paul's space, his face tilting down, his mouth hovering over Paul's jaw.
"Go on, then," John whispers, and then gives Paul's cock an unceremonious tug.
Some soft noise comes keening out from the back of Paul's throat, and Paul has to let his eyes roll shut for a moment, just to feel it, knocking his head back against the door. There's a faint brush against his Adam's apple—a kiss. It makes him feel so stupidly happy for a moment, that he just laughs in response. When he opens his eyes again, John's grinning back at him like he knows exactly how Paul feels. Like he feels just as stupidly happy as Paul does.
Paul kisses him again, the impulse driving him to it, just as helpless as the first time. He licks his way into John's mouth, tasting the coke they had before the show, and the cigarettes they all smoke, in the firm press of John's tongue. Paul goes pawing around for the buttons on John's trousers; has an easier go of it than John did, two-handed and facing John. He can feel just how hard John is when he touches him, and the proof of it—John turned on by him—makes pride rise in his chest, the same as it does when he makes John laugh, or writes a lyric John really likes. He pulls John out of his trousers, with a sudden frantic yearning to see it—John hard in his fist.
When he pulls away to look, John does too, his forehead bumping Paul's. Paul gives him an experimental pull, rubbing his thumb over the head of John's cock, and John's body goes slack for a moment, made gelatinous from Paul's touch.
"You like that," Paul says, not so much a question as it is a wondrous revelation.
"Yeah," John answers him anyway, leaning forward and burying his face in Paul's neck, like it takes an effort to hold himself up now that Paul's touching him. Paul buries his fingers into the hair at the back of John's neck. Helps John stay steady just as John had for him, when they'd come in here.
John pulls Paul out of his pants too; their fists occasionally bumping as they work each other into a frenzy. The air around them growing thick and charged. It's too hot in their clothes. Paul can feel the line of sweat starting to form in his hairline. John kisses under his jaw, and the feeling is so hot it's almost sharp against Paul's skin. A stinging, delicious burn.
"It turned you on—me touching you," John says, but his voice comes out shaky and strained, and Paul understands that John is asking a question.
"Yeah," Paul says. He keeps pumping steadily at John. He can feel John's breath growing shallow against his neck.
"Always want to touch you," John murmurs into his skin, like he can't help himself.
"Me too," Paul says, though it's not something he can say he knew about himself until he said it. But he did want it. He does. Every time he's watched John's hands forming a chord, mirrored against his own; every time John's stepped into his space—just behind his shoulder, just by his elbow; every time John's fingers came crawling up his arm and behind his neck in interviews. Paul would always feel it lingering on him, after—always remember it. Like it was something worthy of remembrance. And it was, wasn't it? Being such a tangible part of John's world.
"John," Paul hisses, dizzy from it—John's fixed attention. John's grip on him tightens in reaction, stopping Paul's breath in his throat. He's not far off, he knows. He's both desperate for it, and disappointed that it'll end so soon. That they'll have to pull away from each other, again. He doesn't want to lose the warmth of John against him. He wants it to stick to him somehow. He wants—foolishly—for it to be obvious that John wanted to touch him so badly.
"Don't stop," he pleads, and John pumps him harder. Mumbling, "got you, Macca", into Paul's jaw. But Paul doesn't mean now, he means after. Don't stop touching me. Don't stop wanting me.
He uses the hand in John's hair to pull him closer, as if he could fuse John into himself. As if it might stave off the end somehow. But it's a mistake. He can feel John all around him. John takes the movement as encouragement, catching Paul's mouth in a sweet kiss. The overwhelming weight of it all seems to burst through Paul. He gasps into John's mouth, and comes spurting in John's hand. He buries his face in John's neck, as the feeling washes over him. Pulling John in to stop him pulling away. Letting go.
"Oh, fuck," John hisses, frantic now, from seeing Paul get there. He fucks into Paul's fist, thrusting a few more times, and then he's coming too, the feeling of it wet and thick in Paul's hand.
John pants down the back of Paul's collar. Paul wipes his hand against a stack of paper towels on the shelf and then holds him firm, hugging him there, feeling John's heart rate slowly settle, where it knocks against Paul's ribs. They don't speak for a minute, Paul holding onto John and John just sitting in it, waiting for Paul to decide when it's over. He can tell John's perplexed by it—his hands settling carefully where they started, at Paul's hips. A touch to ground Paul from his odd mood.
"Alright?" John asks, gently.
"You can, you know," Paul mumbles, into his neck, so he doesn't have to show John his face. He doesn't know what he's feeling, but he knows he doesn't want John to know he's feeling it.
"I can what?"
"Touch me," Paul whispers. "This. Whenever. I want— I like— it's nice. When you do." He doesn't know what he's trying to say. John seems to be able to translate it though. He's always had a better measure of Paul than anyone else. One of John's hands presses on Paul's back lightly, prompting him back. And when Paul lift his head, John catches him in a slow, easy kiss, melting away at the odd, overwhelming thing in Paul's chest.
"Well, I will, then," John says, as he pulls away. He smiles at Paul, small and sweet, and Paul smiles back.
John's eyes flick briefly to a point over Paul's shoulder—the door.
"I'd say they're gone now," he notes. And Paul remembers, belatedly, that they came here for a reason.
"Mm," he hums, pressing his forehead into John's shoulder. He tugs lightly at John's arms, pulling his hands in between their bodies, and running his fingertips over John's.
"Let's give it a minute," he says.
"Aye. Be on the safe side," John agrees, his voice soft and amused, his fingers interlocking with Paul's.