A night in the life

  The hotel they were staying in was in Miami , it was the sixties, and their dream had already begun to expand out of the borders of England , and across the ocean the Beatles were now in the USA , visiting those incredibly warm and dazzling beaches for the first time. Paul, John, Ringo and George had been playing together for little more than three years, but it felt like they'd known each other for all their lives, and it had been specially like this ever since Paul had met John back in Liverpool, it had been one of those moments time seems to lapse to a parallel universe and everything just falls right into place, like we are indeed destiny's fools, and happy in that moment to be exactly what we are meant to be, have been meant to be for longer than we could have imagined. At least that was the way he, Paul, had felt when their eyes first locked together, when their voices first mingled into the smoothness of a song, it hadn't been awkward the first time their fingers caressed guitars, not even in the choice of ballads. Nothing was ever awkward or had been up to the present moment. John and him were still like two peas in a pod, their creative minds working together, better and in closer harmony as each day closed by.

The screaming fans, the money, the trips… Well, that was a really good plus, it was more than he would have expected, to be so loved and admired for doing simply what he loved best to do, which was getting together with those four guys and making music. They were all incredibly talented, and Paul lived that dream life day by day, sometimes not believing they were making it all so great.

He was having a drink by the pool with George, chatting away as the sun settled in the horizon. They were young, charming and talented, and the sound of laughter, specially John's laughter at that, was particularly eliciting. Paul turned his head to see what was the reason for such a fuss.

"Ha! Caught you, old man!" – John was having a wonderful time as he managed to throw one of their producers into the swimming pool.

"John, you are such a child!" – Paul grinned.

His voice got his attention, and still laughing John came closer to George and Paul.

"I'm not a child, where's your sense of humor dear boy?" – he sat on the ground and his hands were quickly fumbling for a cigarette into his pocket. – "Want one, Paulie?"

"If you stop calling me that, yeah." – he mocked annoyance before accepting one. John lit it for him and Paul relished in the feeling of smoke filling his lungs. Back then smoking was pure freedom and joy, they were too young and eager to believe it could mean any danger to the super healthy Beatles.

"Who was the clown?"

They looked up. That was Ringo standing in front of them.

"Oh, please, you are standing in the way of my beauty and the last rays of sunshine!" – John complained.

"I've heard we just got fired because some clown threw the executive producer of the next album into the pool."

There was silence for two long seconds before a burst of laughter shook them, including the playful Ringo.

"You don't believe me? The man is cursing his arse off, you should've seen it!" – he laughed. – "Now seriously, who was the dork?"

"Dear Ringo, do you really have to ask this question? Does it look like Paul or I could be capable of such evil action?"

"Who is the freaky clown here, huh?" – Paul hinted.

"I'll go away, I'm feeling underappreciated."

They all laughed as John got up and left them, entering inside the hotel's lobby.

"One day he's going to overdo his little stupid jokes and we'll be in serious trouble. That guy was carrying a microphone, if it had been plugged John could have killed the guy!" – George pointed out.

"Oh, c'mon!" – it was Ringo's turn to sit beside them. – "The mic was obviously unplugged! You don't think John knew this before he threw him in?"

"Honestly? I don't." – Paul laughed, thinking back on John's free spirit and playful manners. 'He is a teenager that grew too fast', he thought smiley to himself. But of course, that was before he was in a room with Paul and they were composing. The goofy John would then change into the serious, poetic John that together with him wrote most of the Beatles' hits.

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Oh, but he saw through that goofy, rebel, sweet guy. Paul that sometimes felt himself not as good as the amazing John was good at watching his friend, studying his friend, mind you. He admired John profoundly, he learned from him, he was inspired by him, it was more than friendship, he was a fan of the Lennon Beatle, and maybe for this reason he seemed to only one to truly understand the constant mood swings, the sometimes outbursts of anger or loneliness, the cheerful sweetness, the playfulness, the creativity… John sometimes bore so many feelings and moods inside that Paul wondered if he would ever explode. Well, in those cases it was usually when John would go to him and spill a whole bunch of thoughts, incoherent as they were most of times, and then he would cry a little, and they would lit a cigarette and in a few minutes they would be laughing whatever it was off, changing the conversation to something light and silly, until they were dead tired and John returned to his room for welcomed sleep. Paul sometimes thought of himself as the one responsible for John's sanity. He wouldn't have known how things would evolve from that through the years until the dream was over.

But tonight was different, tonight Paul was heavy with thoughts and he was the one knocking on John Lennon's door. Despite the obviously good humor he had sensed John had been somewhat distant during the day, but that, even if he couldn't bring himself to admit it, was just part of the reason that brought him there, to stand in front of John's door and knock, wanting to be let in quickly, before he ran into one of the others, before anyone could ask him anything. Anything he wouldn't be able to explain.

Paul was young just as the rest of them, and even though he was a gifted artist, he was like the safe harbor of the Beatles, he was good with numbers, he understood of business as well as poetry. What wouldn't the others think if the controlled, reasonable Paul told them just how troubled he had been lately. Well, pretty much since he started looking at things… differently. I mean, it was all the same in the day by day… if you could call the craziness they were living something "common"… But it's just the way you start looking at things: one word, one gaze, one slightly brush of fingers… And his heart raced, and he felt helpless and frightened.

Then in that moment, with all this going through his head he thought that perhaps knocking on John's door hadn't been the wisest of things. But then it turned out to be too late, for the door was already opening, and he saw a messy John that had no glasses, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a naked chest explained by the hot night with bright stars outside and a hot breath that touched Paul's cheeks and entered his nose as a sign of one that had already drank at least one dose of Scotch.

"Hi, pretty." – John smiled, but Paul noticed he was sober. If he had indeed drank it hadn't been much. – "Come in." – and without further invitation John slid inside his room and let Paul enter and close the door behind himself.

Paul stood by the door for a few seconds, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light in the place. At first he hadn't been able to see a thing coming from the hallway with bright lights behind the closed door. But soon he understood it was dark because John had been sitting on the sofa, and the only light came from a lamp beside the sofa and the bright TV with something going on. Paul turned his head to it and nearly gasped.

"You watching porn?!"

John didn't answer immediately, he was frowning, as if in deep thought, though his eyes focused a scene that didn't really need many brain cells for full comprehension of content.

"What? Was it the moaning that gave me away?"

Paul then realized the TV was actually on mute.

"Why no sound?" – it was a stupid question, but John seemed a little strange.

He shrugged before answering.

"I think these guys are pretty phony, don't you? Like, the girl screams as if she's having the time of her life and not just wanting to make some money and get the hell out."

"Well, that's almost… poetic." – Paul said sarcastically as he approached and sat on the larger sofa by the side of John's smaller one. There was a small living room table. John had his feet on it, he was sat directly in front of the TV, and Paul sat facing the window that was closed by now, having John to his right and the naughty movie if he turned his head to the left.

"Oh, don't take me wrong. I still think the whole fucking part is hot."

Paul listened. John could fool anyone that he was having a good time, but he knew better. Watching porn was so not John, it was like a screaming sign that something was wrong, and then once again – despite the fast rate of his insecure heart – he was glad he had knocked on his friend's door.

With a sigh Paul relaxed against the soft sofa. He didn't care what was playing on TV, and deep inside he had a feeling John didn't either. He felt good actually. Paul's troubles seemed to fade in thin air just by being there. He felt good in there, he felt as if he didn't have to think about what troubled him, he didn't really have to put a name to something if he could deal with it so nicely…

"You too think I'm a crazy ass?"

Paul opened his eyes, he realized he had fallen into his own thoughts and now he didn't know for exactly how many seconds – or minutes.

"Why? Did the guys tell you that? I'm surprised it bothers you."

John finished that cigarette and drank another sip of the liquor.

"Cyn said that."

Oh. His wife. Paul glanced at the porn and convinced himself John was more depressed than anything else. The jokes and games during the day had been just another of his obvious cover-ups.

"So? You know she loves you. Why do you think she meant it any other way?"

"Well, she threw a coffeepot at me to accompany the words. You know, make sure I really got her point."

Paul didn't say a thing. His eyes now were even more comfortable with the little light, and he realized he could see John's face in details, even though there was a short distance between them.

"Sometimes I think it'll all fall apart."

"Your marriage?"

"Too."

Paul frowned. John sometimes concerned him.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you feel it's all too good to be true? Like we're going to wake up tomorrow and it won't be there?"

"What, The Beatles?"

"The world…"

Paul waited a second before grinning.

"For heaven's sake, what's gotten into you today?"

"Just lacking inspiration, I believe."

"The wonderful John lacking inspiration? Ah, that's a good one!"

"You really think so?"

"Well, you surely won't find it there!" – then he pointed to the TV with his chin, where the man was changing position to keep banging into the girl.

"No, I mean, do you think?"

"What? That the Beatles will end? Of course. Tomorrow? Probably not. As for the world? Who knows. It might as well end as far as all living things must perish someday…"

"No, not what I meant. Do you really think I'm wonderful?"

That seemed to have caught Paul off guard. He froze for a second. He felt as if he was stepping into thin ice.

"People seem to think that, yes. The fans, and even the critics…"

"And you? What do you think, Paulie?"

Paul's heart skipped a beat. John had a funny glassy stare to his eyes. Oh, those soul-searching eyes. Paul felt uncomfortable.

"Why should it matter what I think? I'm your best friend and bandmate."

"Didn't answer my question." – John was back to staring at the TV.

"Like you care. Probably had too much to drink already." – Paul mumbled, but his fingers grew cold when John turned off the TV and the room grew even darker. His heart beat faster at each second it took for his eyes to adapt to the fading yellow light from the lamp beside John. He reached and turned another one just between the sofa and the TV. This way their faces were both visible. Barely, which was even more… what? Mysterious? Strange? Foreign? Exciting? Did he just think that?

"I do care. Now tell me."

Paul breathed in deeply, trying to relax. There went John in another 'artistic crisis'. He figured he would just soothe his sometimes greedy ego and it would be ok. And that strange spell would be undone.

"Yes, John. I think you're wonderful too." – and he smiled it off, but the serious and intense staring that John held made him quiver in his certainty and Paul licked at his lips nervously.

"Thank you." – he said finally. – "You're amazing too."

Paul smiled a bit more relieved. Admiring John Lennon so much made his compliments the more appreciated. It wasn't often, but even though he knew John liked his work he was delighted to hear him say it.

"Yeah, we're both pretty good together, aren't we?"

This time John smiled. A smile that started in the corner of his lips and spread a glint of something – was it malice or joy? – to his eyes. Paul's fingers unconsciously gripped the sofa beside his knees when John got up and sat on the bigger sofa, just beside him. The TV was off, it should be past three in the morning, there was no other sound other than that of their breathing – Paul's ragged one.

"This too. But besides songwriting, you know I think you're amazing, Paul."

For the first time he felt glad for the poor lights in the place. He was afraid to say something and sound as nervous as he was.

"The way you look after me. I adore the way you care."

"We all care." – he managed through a small passage of air in his tense throat muscles.

"But you care the most. I know you hide a sweet loving guy beneath those layers of cold reason and rational analysis of yours."

Paul swallowed hard and bit his tongue when the back of John's fingers found the softness of his cheek and brushed against it. He concentrated hard not to move a single inch as his mind rushed insanely fast.

"John… are you high?"

The older man smiled.

"No. And I'm not drunk before you ask."

Paul was tense. He hated it when John was strange. Strange as in looking at him with those eyes, brushing his fingers against his face in the middle of the night while no one was around.

"Why did you come here anyway?"

Paul felt almost hurt at the question, and for a second the sensual haze went away.

"I thought you wanted to talk. You seemed distant all day."

"Aw, sweet, Paul…" – John smiled in that jeer voice of his.

"What?"

"Well, I don't think that's why you are here Mr. McCartney."

"Oh really? And why else would I be?" – he tried to control where this was going, not knowing he was unconsciously betraying himself.

"You are here because you want to be near me." – the bluntness of the answer almost brought tears of anguished nervousness to Paul's shy eyes. He didn't like it, no he didn't, why so cruel?

"What the bloody hell, John?" – but even to himself it sounded weak, and with no protests Paul saw his friend's face getting closer, and he shut his eyes unconsciously and inhaled John scent – cigars, alcohol, deodorant and something else that was simply John – as lips much softer than he had expected captured his own in a probing and wet experience. John moved slightly closer on the sofa, his naked chest brushing Paul's clothed body as he leaned in further and sucked on the younger man's bottom lip. Feeling no resistance John parted his lips and slipped his tongue between Paul's lips, but he barely had time to lick at the taste he found there when he was shoved off.

"What are you doing?" – Paul's voice was an urgent whisper. – "Are you out of your mind?"

"Why? Do you think someone might walk in on us?" – he was smiling.

"No, that's not… John…" – Paul didn't know what to say. His hands were sweating, his heart was beating in his throat and heat warmed up his cheeks. His tongue came and licked at his lips, as if tasting what wasn't there anymore. He felt hot and scared.

"Don't be…"

"What?..." – he whispered back.

"Scared. I know you are."

"John, this is crazy, this is…"

When that mouth that was hot and wet closed over his again he finished the thought to himself. 'This is purely you. Irrational, emotional, with a complete disregard to the concept of right or wrong…' whatever he would continue thinking it was lost in the spell. He'd never expected John's tongue to feel so soft and warm, and yet so bold as it licked and tangled with his own. Paul grew weak in his body's stiffness. He kissed back, not minding that somewhere nearby his brain screamed for him to fucking stop kissing that guy named John Lennon!

John pulled apart to breathe but remained still very close to Paul's face, whose eyes were huge and frightened, but also so full of desire they made John ache.

"What's wrong, luv…" – Lennon.

"I'm not… queer." – Paul knew how John was always making jokes about it, pretending to be queer and laughing it off. He knew his friend was open minded and had no problem with other people's sexuality, just as he knew – or thought he did – John was straight. He was married for crying out loud! And he himself, well, Paul never had feelings for another man and… Ok, so no man expect John. But John was different, he was – as he had said it himself – his best friend and bandmate. They composed great songs together and John did indeed inspire him. Could it mean something else? Had he been blind? Paul's heart was not beating, it was slamming against his chest with a rush of the crazy feelings he had been feeling lately. Of course he admired John and wanted to be near him and cared for him and… Oh, that kiss had felt great.

"Me neither. Don't try to rationalize this, hon."

For sure John had called him 'luv' and 'hon' before in his little playful moods, but now every time he did it it sent shock waves up and down his spine.

And then John was all over him, kissing his now plush lips and tasting him eagerly, moving down and nuzzling on a warm neck until Paul shivered with the goosebumps that broke on his skin, he shivered and bit back his lips not to moan.

"John… John…" – he pleaded, so scared and so hot that the older man wanted to attack him.

"What?"

"Why do you say that I'm here because… well, because…"

"I know you care about me. But you also have your own interests."

Paul's eyes rolled in the back of his head when John straddled him on the sofa, pressing his hips down on him.

"Bloody hell, John, you're hard!" – Paul sucked in his breath.

John grinned with joy.

"Of course I am. Haven't you noticed that I was watching porn?"

"You weren't really into it… it seemed."

"So… are you saying that this…" – and pressed himself onto Paul, making the younger man bit back another moan and almost unconsciously push back for greater contact. – "… accounts for you, luv?"

Paul's mind was completely clouded and he couldn't form coherent thoughts. His heart was exploding and he gave in to his urge. His arms wrapped around John's hot body and pulled him closer, his mouth searched for his and they kissed again. He finally understood it. He finally named what had been building up in his chest since the day they met. And it both elicited and terrified him.

"Tell me, Macca…" – John seemed to read his mind, the resistance slipping away, the passion building up unashamedly.

But Paul didn't, couldn't. Too many sensations… questions… fears…

"Please John, don't play with me." – he managed, and for a moment John Lennon's face was serious again.

It was like a shared memory of many moments on stage, playing their fingers off, sing face to face, writing words whispered to their minds…

"Never, dear."

Paul's eyelids were fluttering when John's hands started to undo the buttons on his shirt. Those hands were fast and knowing, bold and impatient. Paul moaned sheepishly when he felt John's warm hands splattered on his chest, touching and clutching as much skin as possible. Paul started to burn. He wanted to let it go but John's eyes deeply locked with his made him powerless. It was like he couldn't focus and feel at the same time, and for the time being he decided to feel. So he felt when John's hand found him through the pants and squeezed the clothed need throbbing underneath the garments.

"What you say about this? I thought you didn't approve of porn?"

Paul smiled naughtily at the feline smile on John's face. His mind was clouded with the most primal instinct of obtaining release. The strain in his body was evident, and he didn't remember being this hard. The feel of John's matching hardness rubbing against him through their clothing as their naked chests pressed together was deliriously erotic. A mingled feeling of trespass and sensuality that brought to life every fiber of muscle, every nerve in their bodies. It was completely new and they couldn't get enough of each other. Their hands were everywhere, their mouths engaged in a sloppy and wet kiss as their bodies picked up speed against one another, falling in a rhythm to which there was no coming back.

"Mmm." – John moaned into his ear and pushed down hard on his hips, his thighs adding more pressure, bringing them closer and closer to the edge.

"Oh… John…" – Paul swallowed hard, his hips now with a will of their own, buckling against John's in a perfect movement, the matching hardness of one finding increasing arousal in that of the other.

In that second of no coming back Paul held on to John's body atop of him and with his eyes tightly shut he moaned, buckling one last time into hips that came down hard onto his lap before they stopped all movement and he heard John's content sigh of pleasure and release joining his own.

The body against his relaxed, and Paul, whose cheeks were burning and heart still beating erratically, felt his own nervousness slip away, so when their eyes locked he smiled at John.

They breathed hard coming down from the needy and sloppy, hot and greedy climax. John's eyes were sweet. He looked beautiful in the dim light, and in his eyes Paul could read what he needed to allow it to let it go.

"Tell me." – John asked.

"I love you."

John smiled.

"I knew it."

Paul was too weak to protest when John led them to his bedroom and tucked them in. John only had his pants to remove, Paul got rid of pants and shoes. Their messy underwear was kept on when they quietly spooned in bed. John's arms wrapped around Paul's body and he kissed his earlobe.

"I guess I've found back my inspiration. I love you too."

Paul smiled at this.

A lot of conversation, discussions and heated arguments were waiting in the sunrise of their friendship, but that night, that moment… it was all that mattered and both Liverpool boys were smiling when sleep came upon them.

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