Of Warm and Cool Chills (Part III)
Title: "Of Warm and Cool Chills (Part III)"
Author: bello_romantico, Kathryn, Kat, or just me! :)
Rating: M
Warnings: Language, kissing and thrusting hips.
Summary: A set of swings at two o'clock in the morning on a cold winter's night brings two best friends closer than ever expected.
Of Warm and Cool Chills
Part III
Paul stands sullenly at Ivan Vaughan’s kitchen counter, elbows leaning onto the tiled surface, shoulders hunched and eyes dark. Around him, people flit about - laughing, talking, drinking - but at this point, he doesn’t even care enough to look up anymore - John isn’t here.
Ivan had told him he’d invited John and so Paul had spent the first two hours of the party waiting at the door. He’d taken up residence in the chair of purple velour in the main hall - his heart jumping at every bloody knock at the door - and had felt the weight of one crushing disappointment after another as the minutes dragged on and John still didn’t show. As the house filled up, Paul’s felt emptier and emptier and once the clock struck ten (the party had started at eight), he knew John wasn’t coming. He just knew. After his fruitless stint in the hallway, Paul had migrated to the kitchen and had been there ever since.
Paul hasn’t spoken with anyone tonight. Come to think of it, he can’t remember if he’s spoken to anyone at all these past few days… Oh, yes he has - he told his brother to leave him alone the other day and viciously, too. Mike had asked him why John hadn’t come around lately and Paul had snapped at him to get out of his room. To get the fuck out of his room, had been the exact wording, actually. Paul had gotten a reprimand from his father later that evening for language.
Sighing, Paul can’t seem to chase the fluttering of nerves in his chest that have caused him an annoying shortness of breath all evening. His fingertips are tingling a tad uncomfortably - making him feel restless, like he should be moving or something - and his palms are cool and moist. He feels like shit - he’s wearing the sweater his father gave him to wear on Sundays that reminds Paul of oatmeal and he knows he’s sporting great purple stains beneath his eyes for lack of sleep. He’s been so damn nervous all night that his stomach has been flip-flopping queasily for hours now. He’d been planning on talking to John at the party tonight - Paul had even written out a speech that’s now in the pocket of his trousers should he forget anything important - but that had all gone to Hell since John hadn’t bothered showing up.
Paul pushes away the plate of food he’d taken out of politeness - he hasn’t touched a thing. Someone bumps into him and murmurs and excuse me to which Paul lifts tired eyes and says that it’s fine. It’s hot in Ivan’s house and the amounts of people crowded around are making Paul feel slightly more ill. Truth be told, he’d come here tonight only to see John. A girl laughs shrilly off to Paul’s right and the sound grates on every last nerve he has - he thinks she’s actually set off a migraine. Not being able to take anymore, Paul hurriedly pushes through the throng of people and is out the back door in seconds, gulping in the frosty air with relish.
The cold air stings his lungs, but Paul welcomes the jolt - it makes him feel more awake. The insufferable, suffocating heat in the house had been making him feel fuzzy and heavy, as if he were on the brink of fainting. All is silent outside - just the dim roar of the noise from the party can be heard behind him - and Paul heaves a great breath that makes a lovely plume of fog. He watches with a tinge of sadness as it drifts up and melts into the inky black sky. He’d really been counting on John coming tonight…
Looking up at the twinkling stars high above him, Paul can’t help but think of that night - that perfect, perfect night - that he hasn’t been able to get out of his head.
Face screwing up in frustration, Paul lowers his gaze to the snowy ground ahead of him and he shuffles his feet on Ivan’s icy porch. He slips his hands into his pockets and feels the bit of paper on which he’d hurriedly written his little speech before coming. A pang rips through his heart and his features wince fleetingly in emotion - Paul just doesn’t know what to do.
For the past few days, he’s done nothing but wonder if his head’s screwed on right because ever since John kissed him, he’s been so dazed and confused. It’s as if John stole a piece of his sanity that night - kissed it away, more like - and subsequently left Paul to contemplate things he’d never contemplated before. Paul would never have thought of unbuttoning John’s shirt before that incident nor would his mind have ever strayed to kissing the hollow at the base of his best friend’s throat, but now he just can’t help but imagine… Thoughts like these have surfaced at the most inopportune times for the past few days - at school, at breakfast, in the bath - and Paul highly suspects that it had been John’s secret intention to unhinge his mind for a laugh - one of his stupid jokes - but…
The kiss hadn’t seemed funny - not one little bit. It seems even less funny now.
Whenever Paul remembers the way John kissed him and the look on his face when their hips touched - so lost in pleasure, so open and honest - it makes his heart beat faster and a place low in his belly ache. He shouldn’t shiver when he pictures his best friend moaning his name and he shouldn’t feel heat in his blood when he remembers the gentleness of John’s sighs, but now, Paul does.
Mouth a line of thought, dimples dotting his cheeks, Paul paces cautiously on the ice - the winter chill going unnoticed. What the Hell should he-?
The whoosh of the sliding door slices through the silence and a voice says, “Paul!”
The noise from the party spilling from the open door disturbs the dark, winter silence and Paul can’t help but feel a little irritated by the interruption. Turning around, the boy in question answers without much interest, his mind still fixated on John. “Yeah?”
“It’s a half hour ‘till midnight,” Ivan informs him, a flush across his face and a redness in his eyes that indicates he’s been drinking. “I think the girls are organizing some kind of game that’ll pass the time ‘till then… You wanna come in?”
Midnight… the New Year, thinks Paul in a flash. Dumbly, he stares at the intoxicated Ivan and, in that moment, Paul realizes that this isn’t right. No, this isn’t right at all - he’s with the wrong friend, in the wrong house and on the wrong street to celebrate the end of 1958. In that moment of sheer clarity that sheds a blinding light on what Paul wants - damn all the complications to Hell - a sparkle of life creeps back into his wide, brown eyes.
Paul doesn’t want his year to finish here while playing some stupid game with girls he doesn’t know and he doesn’t want a new year to begin here with a drunken Ivan the only friend at his side.
Paul wants this year to end and the new one to begin with John.
A wondrous smile splits across his boyish face, illuminating his features for the first time in days and Paul strides toward Ivan, responding brightly as he slips past his friend, “I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be!” Re-entering the kitchen with an energy he didn’t have before as he leaves Ivan dumbfounded by the back door, Paul gives into a little chuckle before beginning his struggle through the crowd. He weaves his way through all the people with a detached look in his eyes because in his mind, Paul is already sprinting down Menlove Avenue, toward house number 251. Once he reaches the front hall, Paul grabs his coat from the closet and hurriedly slips it on before wrenching open the door.
Tearing down the front walkway, Paul barrels down the streets of Liverpool at a breakneck pace, snow kicked up by his feet clad in trainers flying behind him. On the way to Mendips, Paul grabs the speech in his pocket and flings the crumpled bit of paper away - he won’t be needing that.
John fixes himself a cup of tea at quarter to twelve on New Year’s Eve.
Dressed in a white t-shirt with a hole near the neck and jeans he knows that Mimi hates - which is the very reason why he wears them - John takes a sip of his tea and shuffles into the living room, bored gaze lost in the liquid depths of his cup. Oh, it’s been quite the exciting evening indeed - full to the brim with plucking at his guitar and eating leftover fruitcake. Fuck, he doesn’t even like fruitcake, but John is in one of his moods - has been ever since that snowy Sunday. He doesn’t even have the distraction of tormenting his aunt tonight because even she has somewhere to be on New Year’s Eve… He can’t remember who she said she was going out with… Probably a bunch of old cat ladies who’ll ring in the New Year with shots of prune juice.
Flinging himself onto couch, John heaves a heavy sigh, setting down his tea on the table in front of him. It’s not like there isn’t somewhere he could be… He just chose not to go.
Nose wrinkling momentarily as he inhales deeply, John knows he made the right decision in not going to Ivan’s party tonight - Paul would have been there. His friend had made it a point to avoid him for the past five days and hadn’t even shown up to band practice yesterday - if that wasn’t clear enough, then John didn’t know what was.
Letting his head fall into his hands with a groan that tears from the depths of his throat, John rubs exhaustedly at his eyes. He’s dead tired and doesn’t know why on Earth he’s making himself stay up until midnight… It just… seems like the thing to do. It is New Year’s, for Christ’s sake! Even though he's not doing anything doesn't mean-
Bang, bang, bang!
Head glancing up sharply in the direction of the door, John fixes it with a curious stare. Who the Hell is that?
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
The knocking grows more insistent and it sounds like a fist is being pounded onto the wood with a surprising passion. For a few more seconds, John simply stares at the door - as if he’s never seen one before - and slowly, when the knocks grow progressively louder and more desperate, he rises and walks over to answer it, a sickeningly strong sensation of hope mounting in his chest.
With a deft turn of the lock and then the brass handle, the front door to 251 Menlove Avenue is thrown open and there, standing on John’s doorstep, all windblown with his coat half hanging off, is Paul McCartney.
“Paul?” says John, voice a bit strangled due to the fact that his heart is now beating wildly in his throat.
“John!” gasps Paul, breaths coming in short gasps. He doubles over for a minute; hands on his knees while he pants hungrily for air.
“Where did you come from?” asks John with an immediate defensiveness - he hasn’t seen his friend since…
Well, since he kissed him.
“Ivan’s,” mutters Paul hoarsely, straightening somewhat and running a trembling hand through his dark hair, his breaths coming in foggy puffs.
“Ivan’s…” mutters John thoughtfully with a crease between his brows. “Christ, Paul!” he exclaims, “That’s a thirty minute walk!”
“Is it?” asks Paul, his lungs filling with more and more air as the seconds tick by. “What time is it now?”
John casts a glance at the clock in the hall. “It’s ten to twelve.”
“Made it here in about twenty,” comments Paul thoughtfully as he collects himself and finally looks his friend straight in the eye. It’s been exactly five days since their gazes have connected and all falls silent on John’s front porch, the two boys suddenly at a loss for words. Paul had thought he’d caught his breath, but with John looking at him with that indescribable glint in his eyes, the air in his lungs seems to have thinned all over again. John abruptly feels all of the fruitcake he’s eaten in the course of the past hour heavy in his stomach and wishes he’d chosen a shirt that didn’t have a hole in it - he’s not usually this much of a bloody slob.
Both search for the right words to say - John is wary with his eyebrows low on his face and Paul keeps opening and closing his mouth, about to say something, but rethinking it at the last possible moment. They’ve never felt an awkwardness this palpable between the two of them and that fact alone seems to increase the fear tightening in their chests - perhaps everything is ruined.
A surge of courage mounts suddenly in Paul and makes a stream of words rise in his throat. “Were you just joking, John?” he asks breathlessly, his sentence a nearly incomprehensible blur . The unexpectedness of his question makes John focus again on the boy before him and finds Paul searching his eyes with frightened ones. “Tell me if you were just joking or if you were serious,” he nearly pleads.
John simply stands stock still for a few moments that feel like hours, expression utterly flabbergasted. Is Paul…?
“About…” begins the older boy with a knot in his throat, “what happened Sunday?” His voice sounds faint and, under normal circumstances, he’d be horrified with how pitiful he sounds, but his heart is hammering so hard that he can’t concentrate on anything else.
“Yes,” answers Paul roughly, trembling from head to foot at this point - he has no idea what’s going to happen, scarcely daring to hope. Paul doesn’t exactly know what he’s hoping for, but somewhere deep, deep down, he knows it has everything to do with John.
“I want to know,” enunciates Paul clearly, but softly, “if it was all some joke, or if you were serious.”
John steels his expression and sets his jaw in case this doesn’t turn out the way he hopes it does - the way he’s been dreaming it will for the past five nights in a row.
“Depends,” he responds with a forced nonchalant tone.
“On…?”
“Whether you want it to be a joke or not,” John fires back, arms crossed in a protective stance as he leans on the doorframe. There - it’s out now - and the older boy waits with baited breath for the response that will change everything. John’s every nerve is on edge - as if every fiber of his being is perched on the tip on a great precipice - and he swears his heart stops beating as he waits - Hell, he thinks even the clock’s stopped ticking.
Paul averts his gaze for a few seconds full of crushing silence and his little hands fidget with the sleeve of his coat before he draws a shaky breath to answers, “I was hoping that… it wasn’t a joke - that you were being serious. I was hoping…” At this point, he looks up and with that simple look, John feels as if he’s been hit upside the head with a sharp blow that goes straight to the heart - he’s in love with Paul fucking McCartney!
“What were you hoping?” prompts John a tad breathlessly - the hope in his eyes at its brightest; shining like the millions of stars high above their heads.
“I was hoping I could… ring in the New Year with you,” says Paul with a quiet fire burning in his wide eyes as he looks up at John in a way that sends tremors of desire through the older boy’s veins, his blood thrumming expectantly.
As they stare at each other in the cold night air of December 31st, they both see the realization of what is really happening seep into the other’s gaze (and Paul sees that John has a clear understanding of what he’d meant by ‘ring in’).
With great effort, John tears his gaze away from Paul to check the clock hanging off to his right and grins to himself when he sees the time. Turning back to the boy on his doorstep, John addresses him a piercing look as a wave of relief washes over him - he’d been so fucking afraid these past five days that he’d lost Paul… So afraid that things would never be the same. Now, as he soaks in the perfect face looking up at him, John knows that things won’t be the same, but it doesn’t matter - they’ll be better. He's sure of it.
A small smile curves John’s mouth - a tender, almost nervous expression on his face. “One minute to midnight,” he comments, jerking his head to indicate that his guest should come in - as if this was just like every other afternoon where he’d answered the door for Paul to come in and practice the guitar. “Cutting it close, aren’t you?”
Paul crosses the threshold in a flash. Once the door is shut, the younger boy has John pinned against it in seconds, hands trembling against the wood and nose mere inches away from his best friend’s. His face is serious and John’s smile dies slowly on his lips as he and Paul simply look at each other - chests heaving in desire they aren’t giving into just yet. The silence in the house makes their heavy breaths sound louder and the fact that their breathing is all they can hear is strangely erotic. The clock off to their right chimes suddenly and it’s finally midnight - a brand new year.
“Couldn’t find you the perfect something in time for Christmas,” mutters Paul with a hint of a laugh in his voice just before touching his lips to John’s, “Can we just call it a New Year’s gift?”
“Fuck it, Paul,” whispers John, his lips brushing Paul’s. “Kiss me.”
Paul chuckles weakly - a smile flitting across his mouth - but he swallows his grin and, in an instant, has his mouth fit perfectly over John’s.
They kiss - they kiss passionately with lips moving over each other at a furious pace with sighs and moans closely interwoven. John’s hands slip under Paul’s unbuttoned coat with fingers splayed and he runs his firm touch over the other boy’s chest. The contact makes Paul emit a pleading, breathy sound that hitches in his throat - he can feel the heat of John’s palms through his thin sweater - and before he knows it, his coat has been slipped down his arms and lands on the floor with a soft thud.
His torso suddenly cooler without his coat, Paul presses himself even closer to John - their bodies now flush with one another. Their lips clash in desperate, needy kisses - teeth grazing occasionally and noses bumping frequently - and tongues slide across lower lips, deliciously suggestive. Paul’s hands are pressed flat against the door, but they curl into fists when John’s lips stray from his mouth to his neck.
Paul’s head falls back to give John full access to the vulnerable, alabaster flesh of his throat and his still-moist lips part to let pass a sigh. The warm, wet feeling of John’s hot mouth traveling down his neck sends white-hot ribbons of desire spiraling through his blood, down to his groin. A small cry tears from his mouth, but Paul is too lost in pleasure to feel embarrassed - John’s lips feel heavenly on his skin.
When the tip of the older boy’s tongue darts out to taste the sheen of sweat pearling on Paul’s skin, the sensation makes the younger boy’s back arch, his hips thrusting into John’s which causes a moan to replace the tongue. Paul dazedly brings his head back up and the sight of his best friend’s eyes hooded with those black lashes makes John crush his lips against Paul’s with a renewed passion.
The older boy’s hands flit from Paul’s face, to his hair, to the valley between his shoulder blades, to small of his back - holding, touching, feeling. Finally, they come to rest on the younger boy’s hips, thumbs settling comfortably in the juncture of the bone and skin, fingers curling around, just brushing the swell of Paul’s backside. One of Paul’s hands comes away from the door to slide beneath the bottom of John’s t-shirt and the sudden feeling of skin on skin makes both boys hiss in acute pleasure. One-handedly, Paul pulls John’s shirt halfway up his torso - fingers grazing the exposed flesh as he pulls - and once it reaches the top level of his ribs, the younger boy stops the kiss to draw back and simply look.
John watches Paul with guarded eyes as the other boy simply looks with an expression of curiosity and genuine wonder on his face. It’s a quiet moment - all sexual tension suspended momentarily - and when Paul has looked his fill, he raises his gaze to meet John’s and they both lean in again to continue kissing.
This little moment has somehow increased their hunger for the other and, soon, Paul’s sweater is over his head and on the floor with his coat - the younger boy left in the collared, button up shirt he’d worn underneath. Temperatures are running high - feverishly so - and they can both feel the heat searing off the other’s skin, through their clothing.
Their bodies fitted neatly against one another with one of John’s legs between Paul’s and vice-versa, the older boy suddenly presses himself against his friend with a wild buck of his hips that makes both of their knees go weak and stars dance in front of their eyes. Breathless, John tears his lips from Paul’s and, with his hands firm on the other boy’s hips, he rubs the bulge in his trousers down and then up against his friend - taking pains to make the movement slow and full of delicious friction. The reaction this produces is almost as sensual as the act itself for Paul’s hand on the door slips and he staggers against his friend, a ragged cry of, “John!” issuing from his red lips.
Wanting nothing more than to make Paul say his name like that again, John repeats his previous action and when his best friend’s head falls onto his shoulder, pleading for more, he obliges without a second thought. They grind their hips into one another - swiveling and thrusting in a tangled mess of legs and accelerating rhythm. Pants and groans of sheer ecstasy cloud the air full of sweat and heat and both of them are so close that their bodies are trembling in anticipation. So lost, so caught up in the moment, Paul and John feels their heads spin with the speed of things, unable to stop whispers of the other’s name falling from the lips.
"Paul…”
“Oh… John!”
Paul’s hand holding John’s shirt aloft falls away to brace itself against the door as he drags his hips up and down, up and down against John’s - faster and faster. Both boys move against each other - pushing into one another with moans of increasing urgency - and John’s hands on Paul’s hips are powerful and controlling, guiding the younger boy’s body in exactly the right way to produce as much friction and contact as possible. Paul’s body arches as a particularly intense jolt of pleasure sweeps over him and he gasps for air.
Continuing the savage, primal thrusting of their hips, John’s touch climbs to Paul’s face and brings his lips to his - kissing the younger boy violently.
“John…” murmurs Paul into the kiss, “Please…” A faint whine comes from the back of his throat and breaks when he voices it. The sound - pure, unabashed pleasure in it - makes John groan, a white wave of ecstasy washing over him.
"Paul,” he whispers, hips crashing against the younger boy’s at a frenzied pace. “Fuck, Paul…”
A liquid warmth begins to spread through Paul’s veins and he feels his knees give out momentarily - so close, so close… “John,” he whimpers against his friend’s lips, “John, John, John, John, John!” A blinding burst of unadulterated, sheer bliss spreads like wildfire through Paul’s body and his forehead drops onto John’s shoulder, panting for air.
As the younger boy’s body convulses in its final spasm of pleasure, John feels himself fall over the edge, shouting Paul’s name in a cry that echoes through the empty house. The older boy’s head falls back against the door as a paralyzing, tingling ecstasy courses through his blood, his skin abuzz and his muscles weak. They stay entangled for a few, long minutes, shivering as the intensity of their releases slowly fades away, leaving behind a warm, lethargic afterglow that hums pleasantly in their bones.
They both draw deep, shuddering breaths, collecting themselves as their minds spin gradually to a stop. Eventually, Paul raises his head from John’s shoulder - his forehead and hairline damp with perspiration - and John raises his head from the door - eyes once glazed over with pleasure, now alert and wary. They can both feel the embarrassing, now cool stickiness of their release on the front of their trousers and it is John who breaks the silence.
"Not going to run away this time are you?” he asks, chest still flush against his friends, the weight of reality threatening to crush the magic of what has just happened.
Perhaps it is both of their imaginations, but the clocks seems to only resume its ticking now - as if it’s hands had stopped just for them. Obviously, something monumental has just happened since even time stopped to watch.
Paul smiles and leans in to administer a soft kiss with smiling lips to John’s mouth; this simple touch cementing the silent decision they have just made.
“No,” he breathes, “No, I don’t think I will.”
Author: bello_romantico, Kathryn, Kat, or just me! :)
Rating: M
Warnings: Language, kissing and thrusting hips.
Summary: A set of swings at two o'clock in the morning on a cold winter's night brings two best friends closer than ever expected.
Of Warm and Cool Chills
Part III
Paul stands sullenly at Ivan Vaughan’s kitchen counter, elbows leaning onto the tiled surface, shoulders hunched and eyes dark. Around him, people flit about - laughing, talking, drinking - but at this point, he doesn’t even care enough to look up anymore - John isn’t here.
Ivan had told him he’d invited John and so Paul had spent the first two hours of the party waiting at the door. He’d taken up residence in the chair of purple velour in the main hall - his heart jumping at every bloody knock at the door - and had felt the weight of one crushing disappointment after another as the minutes dragged on and John still didn’t show. As the house filled up, Paul’s felt emptier and emptier and once the clock struck ten (the party had started at eight), he knew John wasn’t coming. He just knew. After his fruitless stint in the hallway, Paul had migrated to the kitchen and had been there ever since.
Paul hasn’t spoken with anyone tonight. Come to think of it, he can’t remember if he’s spoken to anyone at all these past few days… Oh, yes he has - he told his brother to leave him alone the other day and viciously, too. Mike had asked him why John hadn’t come around lately and Paul had snapped at him to get out of his room. To get the fuck out of his room, had been the exact wording, actually. Paul had gotten a reprimand from his father later that evening for language.
Sighing, Paul can’t seem to chase the fluttering of nerves in his chest that have caused him an annoying shortness of breath all evening. His fingertips are tingling a tad uncomfortably - making him feel restless, like he should be moving or something - and his palms are cool and moist. He feels like shit - he’s wearing the sweater his father gave him to wear on Sundays that reminds Paul of oatmeal and he knows he’s sporting great purple stains beneath his eyes for lack of sleep. He’s been so damn nervous all night that his stomach has been flip-flopping queasily for hours now. He’d been planning on talking to John at the party tonight - Paul had even written out a speech that’s now in the pocket of his trousers should he forget anything important - but that had all gone to Hell since John hadn’t bothered showing up.
Paul pushes away the plate of food he’d taken out of politeness - he hasn’t touched a thing. Someone bumps into him and murmurs and excuse me to which Paul lifts tired eyes and says that it’s fine. It’s hot in Ivan’s house and the amounts of people crowded around are making Paul feel slightly more ill. Truth be told, he’d come here tonight only to see John. A girl laughs shrilly off to Paul’s right and the sound grates on every last nerve he has - he thinks she’s actually set off a migraine. Not being able to take anymore, Paul hurriedly pushes through the throng of people and is out the back door in seconds, gulping in the frosty air with relish.
The cold air stings his lungs, but Paul welcomes the jolt - it makes him feel more awake. The insufferable, suffocating heat in the house had been making him feel fuzzy and heavy, as if he were on the brink of fainting. All is silent outside - just the dim roar of the noise from the party can be heard behind him - and Paul heaves a great breath that makes a lovely plume of fog. He watches with a tinge of sadness as it drifts up and melts into the inky black sky. He’d really been counting on John coming tonight…
Looking up at the twinkling stars high above him, Paul can’t help but think of that night - that perfect, perfect night - that he hasn’t been able to get out of his head.
Face screwing up in frustration, Paul lowers his gaze to the snowy ground ahead of him and he shuffles his feet on Ivan’s icy porch. He slips his hands into his pockets and feels the bit of paper on which he’d hurriedly written his little speech before coming. A pang rips through his heart and his features wince fleetingly in emotion - Paul just doesn’t know what to do.
For the past few days, he’s done nothing but wonder if his head’s screwed on right because ever since John kissed him, he’s been so dazed and confused. It’s as if John stole a piece of his sanity that night - kissed it away, more like - and subsequently left Paul to contemplate things he’d never contemplated before. Paul would never have thought of unbuttoning John’s shirt before that incident nor would his mind have ever strayed to kissing the hollow at the base of his best friend’s throat, but now he just can’t help but imagine… Thoughts like these have surfaced at the most inopportune times for the past few days - at school, at breakfast, in the bath - and Paul highly suspects that it had been John’s secret intention to unhinge his mind for a laugh - one of his stupid jokes - but…
The kiss hadn’t seemed funny - not one little bit. It seems even less funny now.
Whenever Paul remembers the way John kissed him and the look on his face when their hips touched - so lost in pleasure, so open and honest - it makes his heart beat faster and a place low in his belly ache. He shouldn’t shiver when he pictures his best friend moaning his name and he shouldn’t feel heat in his blood when he remembers the gentleness of John’s sighs, but now, Paul does.
Mouth a line of thought, dimples dotting his cheeks, Paul paces cautiously on the ice - the winter chill going unnoticed. What the Hell should he-?
The whoosh of the sliding door slices through the silence and a voice says, “Paul!”
The noise from the party spilling from the open door disturbs the dark, winter silence and Paul can’t help but feel a little irritated by the interruption. Turning around, the boy in question answers without much interest, his mind still fixated on John. “Yeah?”
“It’s a half hour ‘till midnight,” Ivan informs him, a flush across his face and a redness in his eyes that indicates he’s been drinking. “I think the girls are organizing some kind of game that’ll pass the time ‘till then… You wanna come in?”
Midnight… the New Year, thinks Paul in a flash. Dumbly, he stares at the intoxicated Ivan and, in that moment, Paul realizes that this isn’t right. No, this isn’t right at all - he’s with the wrong friend, in the wrong house and on the wrong street to celebrate the end of 1958. In that moment of sheer clarity that sheds a blinding light on what Paul wants - damn all the complications to Hell - a sparkle of life creeps back into his wide, brown eyes.
Paul doesn’t want his year to finish here while playing some stupid game with girls he doesn’t know and he doesn’t want a new year to begin here with a drunken Ivan the only friend at his side.
Paul wants this year to end and the new one to begin with John.
A wondrous smile splits across his boyish face, illuminating his features for the first time in days and Paul strides toward Ivan, responding brightly as he slips past his friend, “I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be!” Re-entering the kitchen with an energy he didn’t have before as he leaves Ivan dumbfounded by the back door, Paul gives into a little chuckle before beginning his struggle through the crowd. He weaves his way through all the people with a detached look in his eyes because in his mind, Paul is already sprinting down Menlove Avenue, toward house number 251. Once he reaches the front hall, Paul grabs his coat from the closet and hurriedly slips it on before wrenching open the door.
Tearing down the front walkway, Paul barrels down the streets of Liverpool at a breakneck pace, snow kicked up by his feet clad in trainers flying behind him. On the way to Mendips, Paul grabs the speech in his pocket and flings the crumpled bit of paper away - he won’t be needing that.
John fixes himself a cup of tea at quarter to twelve on New Year’s Eve.
Dressed in a white t-shirt with a hole near the neck and jeans he knows that Mimi hates - which is the very reason why he wears them - John takes a sip of his tea and shuffles into the living room, bored gaze lost in the liquid depths of his cup. Oh, it’s been quite the exciting evening indeed - full to the brim with plucking at his guitar and eating leftover fruitcake. Fuck, he doesn’t even like fruitcake, but John is in one of his moods - has been ever since that snowy Sunday. He doesn’t even have the distraction of tormenting his aunt tonight because even she has somewhere to be on New Year’s Eve… He can’t remember who she said she was going out with… Probably a bunch of old cat ladies who’ll ring in the New Year with shots of prune juice.
Flinging himself onto couch, John heaves a heavy sigh, setting down his tea on the table in front of him. It’s not like there isn’t somewhere he could be… He just chose not to go.
Nose wrinkling momentarily as he inhales deeply, John knows he made the right decision in not going to Ivan’s party tonight - Paul would have been there. His friend had made it a point to avoid him for the past five days and hadn’t even shown up to band practice yesterday - if that wasn’t clear enough, then John didn’t know what was.
Letting his head fall into his hands with a groan that tears from the depths of his throat, John rubs exhaustedly at his eyes. He’s dead tired and doesn’t know why on Earth he’s making himself stay up until midnight… It just… seems like the thing to do. It is New Year’s, for Christ’s sake! Even though he's not doing anything doesn't mean-
Bang, bang, bang!
Head glancing up sharply in the direction of the door, John fixes it with a curious stare. Who the Hell is that?
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
The knocking grows more insistent and it sounds like a fist is being pounded onto the wood with a surprising passion. For a few more seconds, John simply stares at the door - as if he’s never seen one before - and slowly, when the knocks grow progressively louder and more desperate, he rises and walks over to answer it, a sickeningly strong sensation of hope mounting in his chest.
With a deft turn of the lock and then the brass handle, the front door to 251 Menlove Avenue is thrown open and there, standing on John’s doorstep, all windblown with his coat half hanging off, is Paul McCartney.
“Paul?” says John, voice a bit strangled due to the fact that his heart is now beating wildly in his throat.
“John!” gasps Paul, breaths coming in short gasps. He doubles over for a minute; hands on his knees while he pants hungrily for air.
“Where did you come from?” asks John with an immediate defensiveness - he hasn’t seen his friend since…
Well, since he kissed him.
“Ivan’s,” mutters Paul hoarsely, straightening somewhat and running a trembling hand through his dark hair, his breaths coming in foggy puffs.
“Ivan’s…” mutters John thoughtfully with a crease between his brows. “Christ, Paul!” he exclaims, “That’s a thirty minute walk!”
“Is it?” asks Paul, his lungs filling with more and more air as the seconds tick by. “What time is it now?”
John casts a glance at the clock in the hall. “It’s ten to twelve.”
“Made it here in about twenty,” comments Paul thoughtfully as he collects himself and finally looks his friend straight in the eye. It’s been exactly five days since their gazes have connected and all falls silent on John’s front porch, the two boys suddenly at a loss for words. Paul had thought he’d caught his breath, but with John looking at him with that indescribable glint in his eyes, the air in his lungs seems to have thinned all over again. John abruptly feels all of the fruitcake he’s eaten in the course of the past hour heavy in his stomach and wishes he’d chosen a shirt that didn’t have a hole in it - he’s not usually this much of a bloody slob.
Both search for the right words to say - John is wary with his eyebrows low on his face and Paul keeps opening and closing his mouth, about to say something, but rethinking it at the last possible moment. They’ve never felt an awkwardness this palpable between the two of them and that fact alone seems to increase the fear tightening in their chests - perhaps everything is ruined.
A surge of courage mounts suddenly in Paul and makes a stream of words rise in his throat. “Were you just joking, John?” he asks breathlessly, his sentence a nearly incomprehensible blur . The unexpectedness of his question makes John focus again on the boy before him and finds Paul searching his eyes with frightened ones. “Tell me if you were just joking or if you were serious,” he nearly pleads.
John simply stands stock still for a few moments that feel like hours, expression utterly flabbergasted. Is Paul…?
“About…” begins the older boy with a knot in his throat, “what happened Sunday?” His voice sounds faint and, under normal circumstances, he’d be horrified with how pitiful he sounds, but his heart is hammering so hard that he can’t concentrate on anything else.
“Yes,” answers Paul roughly, trembling from head to foot at this point - he has no idea what’s going to happen, scarcely daring to hope. Paul doesn’t exactly know what he’s hoping for, but somewhere deep, deep down, he knows it has everything to do with John.
“I want to know,” enunciates Paul clearly, but softly, “if it was all some joke, or if you were serious.”
John steels his expression and sets his jaw in case this doesn’t turn out the way he hopes it does - the way he’s been dreaming it will for the past five nights in a row.
“Depends,” he responds with a forced nonchalant tone.
“On…?”
“Whether you want it to be a joke or not,” John fires back, arms crossed in a protective stance as he leans on the doorframe. There - it’s out now - and the older boy waits with baited breath for the response that will change everything. John’s every nerve is on edge - as if every fiber of his being is perched on the tip on a great precipice - and he swears his heart stops beating as he waits - Hell, he thinks even the clock’s stopped ticking.
Paul averts his gaze for a few seconds full of crushing silence and his little hands fidget with the sleeve of his coat before he draws a shaky breath to answers, “I was hoping that… it wasn’t a joke - that you were being serious. I was hoping…” At this point, he looks up and with that simple look, John feels as if he’s been hit upside the head with a sharp blow that goes straight to the heart - he’s in love with Paul fucking McCartney!
“What were you hoping?” prompts John a tad breathlessly - the hope in his eyes at its brightest; shining like the millions of stars high above their heads.
“I was hoping I could… ring in the New Year with you,” says Paul with a quiet fire burning in his wide eyes as he looks up at John in a way that sends tremors of desire through the older boy’s veins, his blood thrumming expectantly.
As they stare at each other in the cold night air of December 31st, they both see the realization of what is really happening seep into the other’s gaze (and Paul sees that John has a clear understanding of what he’d meant by ‘ring in’).
With great effort, John tears his gaze away from Paul to check the clock hanging off to his right and grins to himself when he sees the time. Turning back to the boy on his doorstep, John addresses him a piercing look as a wave of relief washes over him - he’d been so fucking afraid these past five days that he’d lost Paul… So afraid that things would never be the same. Now, as he soaks in the perfect face looking up at him, John knows that things won’t be the same, but it doesn’t matter - they’ll be better. He's sure of it.
A small smile curves John’s mouth - a tender, almost nervous expression on his face. “One minute to midnight,” he comments, jerking his head to indicate that his guest should come in - as if this was just like every other afternoon where he’d answered the door for Paul to come in and practice the guitar. “Cutting it close, aren’t you?”
Paul crosses the threshold in a flash. Once the door is shut, the younger boy has John pinned against it in seconds, hands trembling against the wood and nose mere inches away from his best friend’s. His face is serious and John’s smile dies slowly on his lips as he and Paul simply look at each other - chests heaving in desire they aren’t giving into just yet. The silence in the house makes their heavy breaths sound louder and the fact that their breathing is all they can hear is strangely erotic. The clock off to their right chimes suddenly and it’s finally midnight - a brand new year.
“Couldn’t find you the perfect something in time for Christmas,” mutters Paul with a hint of a laugh in his voice just before touching his lips to John’s, “Can we just call it a New Year’s gift?”
“Fuck it, Paul,” whispers John, his lips brushing Paul’s. “Kiss me.”
Paul chuckles weakly - a smile flitting across his mouth - but he swallows his grin and, in an instant, has his mouth fit perfectly over John’s.
They kiss - they kiss passionately with lips moving over each other at a furious pace with sighs and moans closely interwoven. John’s hands slip under Paul’s unbuttoned coat with fingers splayed and he runs his firm touch over the other boy’s chest. The contact makes Paul emit a pleading, breathy sound that hitches in his throat - he can feel the heat of John’s palms through his thin sweater - and before he knows it, his coat has been slipped down his arms and lands on the floor with a soft thud.
His torso suddenly cooler without his coat, Paul presses himself even closer to John - their bodies now flush with one another. Their lips clash in desperate, needy kisses - teeth grazing occasionally and noses bumping frequently - and tongues slide across lower lips, deliciously suggestive. Paul’s hands are pressed flat against the door, but they curl into fists when John’s lips stray from his mouth to his neck.
Paul’s head falls back to give John full access to the vulnerable, alabaster flesh of his throat and his still-moist lips part to let pass a sigh. The warm, wet feeling of John’s hot mouth traveling down his neck sends white-hot ribbons of desire spiraling through his blood, down to his groin. A small cry tears from his mouth, but Paul is too lost in pleasure to feel embarrassed - John’s lips feel heavenly on his skin.
When the tip of the older boy’s tongue darts out to taste the sheen of sweat pearling on Paul’s skin, the sensation makes the younger boy’s back arch, his hips thrusting into John’s which causes a moan to replace the tongue. Paul dazedly brings his head back up and the sight of his best friend’s eyes hooded with those black lashes makes John crush his lips against Paul’s with a renewed passion.
The older boy’s hands flit from Paul’s face, to his hair, to the valley between his shoulder blades, to small of his back - holding, touching, feeling. Finally, they come to rest on the younger boy’s hips, thumbs settling comfortably in the juncture of the bone and skin, fingers curling around, just brushing the swell of Paul’s backside. One of Paul’s hands comes away from the door to slide beneath the bottom of John’s t-shirt and the sudden feeling of skin on skin makes both boys hiss in acute pleasure. One-handedly, Paul pulls John’s shirt halfway up his torso - fingers grazing the exposed flesh as he pulls - and once it reaches the top level of his ribs, the younger boy stops the kiss to draw back and simply look.
John watches Paul with guarded eyes as the other boy simply looks with an expression of curiosity and genuine wonder on his face. It’s a quiet moment - all sexual tension suspended momentarily - and when Paul has looked his fill, he raises his gaze to meet John’s and they both lean in again to continue kissing.
This little moment has somehow increased their hunger for the other and, soon, Paul’s sweater is over his head and on the floor with his coat - the younger boy left in the collared, button up shirt he’d worn underneath. Temperatures are running high - feverishly so - and they can both feel the heat searing off the other’s skin, through their clothing.
Their bodies fitted neatly against one another with one of John’s legs between Paul’s and vice-versa, the older boy suddenly presses himself against his friend with a wild buck of his hips that makes both of their knees go weak and stars dance in front of their eyes. Breathless, John tears his lips from Paul’s and, with his hands firm on the other boy’s hips, he rubs the bulge in his trousers down and then up against his friend - taking pains to make the movement slow and full of delicious friction. The reaction this produces is almost as sensual as the act itself for Paul’s hand on the door slips and he staggers against his friend, a ragged cry of, “John!” issuing from his red lips.
Wanting nothing more than to make Paul say his name like that again, John repeats his previous action and when his best friend’s head falls onto his shoulder, pleading for more, he obliges without a second thought. They grind their hips into one another - swiveling and thrusting in a tangled mess of legs and accelerating rhythm. Pants and groans of sheer ecstasy cloud the air full of sweat and heat and both of them are so close that their bodies are trembling in anticipation. So lost, so caught up in the moment, Paul and John feels their heads spin with the speed of things, unable to stop whispers of the other’s name falling from the lips.
"Paul…”
“Oh… John!”
Paul’s hand holding John’s shirt aloft falls away to brace itself against the door as he drags his hips up and down, up and down against John’s - faster and faster. Both boys move against each other - pushing into one another with moans of increasing urgency - and John’s hands on Paul’s hips are powerful and controlling, guiding the younger boy’s body in exactly the right way to produce as much friction and contact as possible. Paul’s body arches as a particularly intense jolt of pleasure sweeps over him and he gasps for air.
Continuing the savage, primal thrusting of their hips, John’s touch climbs to Paul’s face and brings his lips to his - kissing the younger boy violently.
“John…” murmurs Paul into the kiss, “Please…” A faint whine comes from the back of his throat and breaks when he voices it. The sound - pure, unabashed pleasure in it - makes John groan, a white wave of ecstasy washing over him.
"Paul,” he whispers, hips crashing against the younger boy’s at a frenzied pace. “Fuck, Paul…”
A liquid warmth begins to spread through Paul’s veins and he feels his knees give out momentarily - so close, so close… “John,” he whimpers against his friend’s lips, “John, John, John, John, John!” A blinding burst of unadulterated, sheer bliss spreads like wildfire through Paul’s body and his forehead drops onto John’s shoulder, panting for air.
As the younger boy’s body convulses in its final spasm of pleasure, John feels himself fall over the edge, shouting Paul’s name in a cry that echoes through the empty house. The older boy’s head falls back against the door as a paralyzing, tingling ecstasy courses through his blood, his skin abuzz and his muscles weak. They stay entangled for a few, long minutes, shivering as the intensity of their releases slowly fades away, leaving behind a warm, lethargic afterglow that hums pleasantly in their bones.
They both draw deep, shuddering breaths, collecting themselves as their minds spin gradually to a stop. Eventually, Paul raises his head from John’s shoulder - his forehead and hairline damp with perspiration - and John raises his head from the door - eyes once glazed over with pleasure, now alert and wary. They can both feel the embarrassing, now cool stickiness of their release on the front of their trousers and it is John who breaks the silence.
"Not going to run away this time are you?” he asks, chest still flush against his friends, the weight of reality threatening to crush the magic of what has just happened.
Perhaps it is both of their imaginations, but the clocks seems to only resume its ticking now - as if it’s hands had stopped just for them. Obviously, something monumental has just happened since even time stopped to watch.
Paul smiles and leans in to administer a soft kiss with smiling lips to John’s mouth; this simple touch cementing the silent decision they have just made.
“No,” he breathes, “No, I don’t think I will.”