Hamburg Days

“Oops?” Paul offered, his voice just a squeak, under the heavy weight that was John Lennon. On top of him. In his bed.

            “Yeah, oops,” John said, still not moving. He was sloshed; Paul could tell by the scent on his breath, and it panicked him to think that he was so close to John he could practically taste the cheap German beer.

            Other than panic there was that other feeling beginning to creep in, one that made Paul’s heart speed up just that much and his breath shorten; and he worried that John would notice these.

            John Lennon was just too close for comfort. But when had he ever given a damn about personal space in the past?

            Paul squirmed uncomfortably underneath John, hoping he wasn’t feeling everything that was going on in his body to betray his attraction—no, no, Paul hadn’t meant that, he said in his mind, correcting words he hadn’t even spoken out loud yet.

            “Always in denial,” John said softly.

            Then again maybe he had. Paul wasn’t completely sober either.

            He swallowed thickly. He could just push John off him and he’d probably pass out on the floor, and forget this had ever happened in the morning. But, Paul started to think, if John wouldn’t remember in the morning, why push him off? Paul was the innocent victim, while John was the one who wouldn’t get off.

            “Jo-ohn,” Paul protested weakly.

            The person in question flashed a drunken smile at Paul, one that he couldn’t see too well; John was so close he had to look at him cross-eyed.

            Pete Best was the only other identifiable person in the room with them, and he was snoring away. No evidence. Paul could have some fun with this one.

            Trusting that John was too inebriated to make sense of the night, if he did remember any of it, Paul snaked a hand into John’s hair, trailing a finger down his left sideburn.

            He’d always wanted to feel his auburn hair and now Paul tugged on it to his heart’s content, twisting the thick, curled locks of his quiff between his fingers. John smirked slightly but Paul thoroughly ignored him, transfixed with his hair.

            Paul reached back completely behind his head and inadvertently pulled John closer. Paul could feel his stubble as he pulled his arms away. They were, if that was even possible, closer now, and Paul was breathing John’s breath and vice versa, and their lips would surely touch if one of them so much as hiccupped.

            Paul took a chance and lightly pushed John’s head all the way down. John captured Paul’s bottom lip between his, probably hallucinating one of the barmaids by now, and nipped slightly at it.

            Paul parted his mouth slightly, John taking control of the kiss as he took control of fucking everything, and Paul felt their teeth scrape. He bucked into John and now the older man was the one raking his hands through Paul’s hair, pulling and twisting as he practically drove Paul to delirium; not that it took much to do that when it was John Lennon in question.

            Paul pulled John to him and kept him there, none too delicately, but with a surprisingly strong grip, so that when John broke away he could only move back an inch or two.

            He dived back down a few frenzied heartbeats of Paul’s later, but missed his lips entirely, instead coming to whisper something in Paul’s ear.

            “I’m not drunk.”