Dear Sean

Twelve

Unfortunately, at the party after the movie premiere, there was tea. And you know how Uncle Paul gets around tea.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

Each of my apologies was punctuated by a kiss to the sensitive hollow of Paul’s neck. He was beyond coherence now, just responding with animalistic sounds to my words. A few cocktails at the post-movie reception were all I needed to forgive and forget, and Paul seemed more than ready to accept my apologies.

Though the bathroom seemed hardly the most glamorous place to accept them, neither of us were complaining. I pulled Paul out of his Beatle suit, one arm at a time, whispering all the while in his ear that I was a shithead idiot who couldn’t be trusted with anything.

Paul nodded slightly. “I ‘gree with that one,” he managed.

“Shut up,” I said affectionately. “You know you love me.”

My fingers lingered around his belt, and I decided to push my luck and have fun with this one. “Say it,” I ordered, making my way up his neck and behind his ear with my lips. Paul rested his head against the wall behind him, his mouth dropping open slightly. I nibbled at his ear, and he whimpered.

“Shit, Johnny, I love you.”

He got a bit silly to say the least.

“John, John, John,” Paul muttered, his eyes fluttering closed.

I wondered how long until Brian had a panic attack, trying to find us at the reception, but worrying seemed so far away at the moment.

“J-John—please—oh, bloody hell—“

Two sharp knocks on the door burst our bubble.

A minute or so later, I went to open the door.

Brian had never looked so angry.

He looked past me to see McCartney, sitting, slumped on the floor, obviously still out of it, drunk and semi-comatose.

“This—is a one person restroom,” Brian ground out.

“Oops.”

I’d probably said the wrong thing. Brian looked like he was going to start breathing fire.

“This is the most important gathering of your career so far. You two are going to be out and presentable in less than five minutes, or, mark my words, you’ll regret it.”

I saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Paul—“ Brian called softly before leaving. “Your fly’s undone.”

That event wasn’t the last of the mania. We went on tours after that, going from hotel to hotel, not knowing anymore which city we were in, trying to sing over the shouting.

This had to qualify as torture.

I missed another chord as I looked again in his direction. Fuck, I cursed internally, paying more mind to what my fingers were doing on my guitar.

I made the mistake of thinking of Paul and his fingers, gliding down the strings, strumming, plucking, touching—

I imagined something else, like old Jim McCartney in a bathrobe. That somewhat repulsive image calmed my frazzled mind slightly. That only lasted about until we had to sign the next song in two-part harmony. Whose fucking idea was it to make it a two-part harmony?
            Paul sidled over to me and I could see the sweat dripping down from his plastered-down hair, dripping down his neck and disappearing under his shirt, and he grabbed the microphone to start the song off by himself, practically wrapping his lips around it.

God fucking damn.

It was a crazy schedule to be on, all this touring and singing, so when we got back to our hotel rooms, all I wanted to do was settle down and relax.

I pulled Paul down onto the bed somewhat abruptly, making the bed squeak and bend under the impact, only barely registering Paul’s surprised face. I’m sure he would have wanted to ask a million questions, but fortunately his pretty gob was silenced by my own, for a while at least.

“John, can I change from my concert clothes?” Paul said, breathing heavily

“No,” I said flatly, reaching for him again. I had a ton of pent-up energy from suffering through every minute of that tantalizing concert, and I couldn’t wait another second without exploding, or breaking the walls, or something.

Paul frowned the next time we broke for air.

“John—“

“I love you Paul, don’t ever leave me,” I said pitifully, looking into his eyes

He looked at me with growing confusion. “What did you smoke?”

“Nothing,” I said. I don’t know whether he believed me, but he dropped the subject and lowered his lips onto mine, more gently and meaningfully than my desperate ravishing of his mouth.

I relaxed into him, and he slipped his hands behind my neck and head. Tender moments like these were becoming rare; all we had time for now were quick, desperate nights together, with no time and a growing anxiety of getting caught, just enough to release the tension and hold us until the next time.

I peppered hungry, open-mouthed kisses down Paul’s collarbone as I unbuttoned his shirt. Back to desperation.

The mania was bad enough, but being on tour was even worse. The fans were getting more deranged, louder and louder than before, and it seemed we were getting more popular, like letting them see our faces every once in a while made them like us more.

So it seemed like it was time for a second movie.