Category: **SLASH** Angst, Smut
Pairing: Beatles - John/Paul
Rating: NC-17 (sexual situations & bad language)
Disclaimer: As far as I know this never happened except in
my imagination.

Title: I WANT TO TELL YOU
Author: mako

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Spring, 1967

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It was a bright spring afternoon when I knocked on John's
front door lightly, not wanting to wake him if he was still
asleep on the couch, even if it was four in the afternoon.

We were night workers, our schedule was backwards and
besides, from what I saw last of him in the recording studio
the night before, he needed his rest. Our latest album was
draining him emotionally, frustrating him, making him do more
acid, booze, and pot than was his wont. He'd seemed woozy,
disoriented and after sending him home, I figured a night of
sleep was in order, followed by a check-in the next day.

As his partner, his best friend ... and his lover, it was my
duty to make sure he was okay.

It made me want to smile every time I thought about us
as lovers -- I wanted to smile every time I saw him actually.
Being together made me want to shout from the studio roof, write
songs for him, just laugh out loud from the sheer joy of it all.

For joy it certainly was.

Once we became free from the road, once John and I had
finally relaxed into something that resembled a normal life,
we both breathed more easily while together. For the first
time ever things were coasting by for us and it was wonderful.

Until we started on this album. Maybe it was before that,
maybe when he started taking more acid that the cracks
started showing through. I hated the drug myself, losing
control wasn't one of my favorite pastimes, but for John it
worked miracles.

His roaring anger disappeared, replaced by a calm Zen-like
attitude. Gone was the cruelty, back was the whimsy and the
kindness that only sometimes peeked through the rage. He was
like a kid again and our relationship went from good to
something fantastic, a loving spiritual journey taken
together on a wavelength perfectly shared by us two alone.

And though we never talked about eternal love and commitment
and all that, it was understood. From the first night we
slept together, it was me and John, Lennon & McCartney, and
no one else need apply. We'd had our fill of one-night
stands, of sloppy birds and lads groped in our dressing
rooms, of fucks that lasted about ten seconds longer than the
memory.

What we had was so much better, why settle for anything less?

We stayed careful, even after the touring was over for good.
We knew that getting caught would be a scandal of
international proportions so we made sure that we only spent
time together when we normally would -- working nights in the
studio, finishing up sound boards and writing songs in bed,
where we tackled the intricacies of middle bridges right after
we tackled each other the moment we were alone.

Listening to tracks once included having a quickie in the
engineer's booth, with the door locked, in almost complete
silence.

That particular time had been incredible. I'd cried out while
he brought me off and he was forced to put his hand over my
mouth as I got closer, which turned me on even more. And him,
pressing his face against my neck, coming with a shudder.

It was bloody fantastic. I don't remember ever being so
happy, and so satisfied. I was aroused, inspired,
energetic ... alive.

Life with John was as good as it was going to get.

I slung a guitar case further back over my shoulder while
fishing for keys on John's front doorstep. We always had the
keys to each other's homes, formerly for emergencies, then
just for convenience.

Sometimes John liked to slip into my house late at night and
crawl into bed with me, sleeping like a baby until the
sun came up. Other times we'd make love, shower together,
then head to the studio, separately, to throw off the trail
of any tabloid press that might actually be taking notice.

I opened John's door and snuck in quietly. Cynthia was gone
again, to Greece for holiday taking Jules with her so I
jogged up the stairs freely, balancing the guitar on my back.

"Hey John," I called out, stepping into his front parlour,
then froze, my wonderful life falling back to Earth with a
resounding crash.

John wasn't sleeping, he was wide awake, with a guy I knew
from Brian's crowd, one of his pretty boys that he sometimes
used as an escort, more often used as something else. He was
over John, but the thing that really caught my eye was the sight
of his mouth locked on John's -- kissing him.

John's hands were wrapped in his hair, as if either fighting to
get away ... or unable to stop himself from enjoying the kiss.

A wrenching spasm tore through my gut and the guitar slid off
my shoulder landing on the floor with a loud "clang!"

John jumped up, and the man tumbled backwards from his
push to get away. "Jesus, Macca," he said, his eyes huge
behind his tiny glasses. "This ... this isn't ..."

I could hear hot blood rushing through my ears, my heart was
pounding and I realized I was shaking all over. "Well,
Johnny," I choked out, wondering how I was able to manage
that much.

I waited and he said nothing. I saw the coffee table was
littered with a pot pipe and the remains of a bottle of wine,
and two glasses, both empty. No accident there, they'd spent
the afternoon together, while I was working in the studio,
working on OUR songs, putting the finishing touches on work
that he was too sick or stoned to finish, as I was driving
over to comfort him and make sure he was okay.

All the while he was having a good time with whatever his
name was.

John had never sat me down and opened a bottle of wine for us
to share on his couch. We'd never gone to a movie alone
together, or for a walk in the park, or a special dinner or
anything else a normal couple might do.

We'd just been fucking each other, period.

Is that what I was to him? Another easy screw, another notch
in his belt, something to have a giggle over later when I'd
gone home for the night? What was all that shit he'd told
me, about me being the other half of his soul, his strength
and his inspiration? Was that all bullshit?

John's "friend" didn't say anything, he just stood there,
staring at the floor while John and I glared at each other.
I tried not to think what might have happened if I hadn't
interrupted, tried to understand why John wasn't saying a
single, fucking word.

I assumed we had an agreement about trust, a partnership and
once that was gone, there was no going back. We'd made no
promises, sure, but I thought all that was understood. That
there was no need to say what I knew all along. I suddenly
realized that wasn't the case at all.

Finally I gathered myself as best I could, and wiped away
tears I hadn't realized were slipping down my cheeks. I bent
to pick up the guitar and it felt like it weighed a hundred
stone, as heavy as my heart.

"Paulie," he said softly, using the name he usually reserved
for when we were together, in bed. "Come on ..."

"Piss off, John," I said thickly. "I knew this, our
partnership, couldn't last forever." I kept it vague, I
didn't want his little "friend" spreading the word to the
press about the two Boyfriend Beatles having a lover's spat.

John's face dropped. "Paul, you can't just walk away
like this." He sounded desperate, but angry as well. "You
can't."

"Yeah, I can, John. And don't bother coming after me." Hard
words, hard to say and I realized slowly exactly what they
meant.

That he and I, that *we* were over.

He must have realized it too because the pleading stepped up
a notch. "I'm sorry, Paul. Stay, please ... don't go."

I shook my head, everything becoming oddly clear, as if I
were standing outside of myself, far away from the pain.
"You don't have to apologize, John. You don't mean it, so
there's no need to bother."

"I *do* mean it!" he shouted.

"No," I said calmly, wondering if I were losing my mind.

"All right," he said, breathing heavily. "We'll talk later,
tomorrow. You'll have calmed down ..." Grasping at straws,
and his hands raked shakily through his hair.

"I don't think so." My own anger started to flare and I had
to get out of there, before I lost it completely. In my
mind, I could still see John kissing him and the fact that he
hadn't even bothered to tell me what was going on still
stung. "Good-bye, John."

I fled down the stairs, stopping at the bottom, and tried to
catch my breath. I wasn't going to cry, I swore it, but my
knees were shaking so badly I wondered if I'd have the
strength to walk out the door.

John's footsteps thumped down behind me and his hand touched
my shoulder, burning my skin straight through the cloth.
"Come on, Paul. Come back and talk to me. Please."

I shook off his hand and walked out the door without a
backwards glance.

<><><><><>

I took some time off from the album, surprising George Martin
and the rest of the band. It had been my baby all along, I
was the one who'd pushed for a "concept" album, and was the
most enthusiastic out of all of them about it.

Or was, until I caught John kissing another man right in
front of me.

He called my house for a few days before I left London and I
let my brand new state-of-the-art phone recorder, the one
with the volume control I could turn down and easily ignore,
take care of it. I could also erase the recordings, and did
just that so I wouldn't have to hear his voice.

So I wouldn't have to hear any more of his lies.

I spent a lot of time at my father's house, not talking much,
playing with my stepsister, letting Dad's new wife bring me
tea and butties. I didn't say anything, they didn't ask and
it was soothing, up to a point.

I tried playing music, it went nowhere and only brought back
memories I'd much rather had forgotten. After a few days, I
went up to Scotland, to a friend's farm, the one he never
used and I spent day after day walking through the heather
with a notebook, drawing and writing long letters.

Letters about how angry I was at John, longer letters about
how much I loved him and all the things we shared for so many
years. I wrote some more about pain, betrayal and loss and
how he'd let me down so badly, bastard that he was.

I wasn't myself, and with nothing to do I started to fall
apart. Hardly eating, sleeping all day, wandering around in
the same clothes for days on end, deciding if I should even
bother to shower or shave.

My energy was gone and I knew things were going from bad to
worse. I called George and he listened as I gave him some
rambling instructions about the album which he agreed to, but
we both knew couldn't be done without me and John there.

He slowly asked if there was anything else he could do, or
maybe if I'd like to come stay with him and Patti for a
while. I had to bite my lip hard not to cry at the sound of
honest concern in his voice. We were never close, George
and I, but his heart was good and I suddenly wondered
what other relationships I'd ignored all for the sake of John
and our "partnership."

But, no, I just thanked him, hung up and went back to my
notebook which was turning into a ragged, ink-soaked mess.
The anger was no longer dripping from its pages, the odes to
how much I loved and missed John turned longer instead. I
tried to remind myself of what I'd seen, of John and ... and
*him* together and yet, of how there were no words from my
lover, no explanations, not even any blame.

All he offered was an apology and a pretty weak one at that.

After a few more days it became obvious that I had to go back
to work or lose it altogether. Reluctantly, I returned to
London and the studio, losing myself in the music, the
monotony of four-track mixing nowhere near as exciting as
creating with John, but I no longer cared. I wanted boredom,
it equaled peace as far as I was concerned, even though
inside my soul, there was no peace anywhere to be found.

But it kept me busy, kept my mind from turning into mud, and
that was enough. It had to be.

None of the others said a word about my strange obsession
with coming in to work after hours, making sure that John was
nowhere to be found. George mentioned quietly that we'd have
to start laying tracks for new songs, but I put him off,
saying we should work with we have first. It was a lie, he
knew it and I knew it, but he didn't push the issue. Ritchie
was glad to have more time off for snooker and Martin knew
better than to argue with me.

I *was* Paul McCartney, after all.

One morning, I actually contemplated going to the studio when
I knew John was there, putting down the keyboards for a song
we'd worked on before *it* happened. I got up, showered and
dressed, picked up my car keys, made it all the way to the
front door then turned around and went straight back to bed.

It was turning hopeless. I missed him. Constantly. All I
could hear were the words he whispered to me while we made
love, the little songs he'd jokingly sing in my ear when pressed
close up behind me, his heart beating against my chest.

We even made a tape of it one night, singing together, as we
always did when times were good.

Stupid song, pointless pathetic piece of drivel, how could we
have even bothered to have written something so meaningless
and why did it hurt so badly when I listened to it that I
thought my soul was going to tear in half? Why did everything
revolve around him? Why did it hurt so bloody much?

I wanted to forget him, I wanted him to go away.

I wanted, wanted, wanted him ...

That was the problem. I always wanted him. More than life,
more than air, and yet I just couldn't make my way back to
him. It hurt too much, to see the trust, the bond, the love
we'd shared for years crumble like dust at our feet.

But I still loved him, and damnit all to hell, it was going
to have to end. No matter what, I thought angrily one rainy
morning, throwing on my jacket and heading toward my car. I
was just going to do what had to be done and deal with the
consequences later.

And sever what was left between me and John for good.

The studio was quiet when I entered and I turned on the
lights ... only to see John sitting in the middle of the room
looking as miserable as I'd felt for the past two weeks,
maybe even worse.

"Paul," he said, his voice thick with grief.

"No," I breathed, stumbling back a step. "Jesus." The walls
I'd erected crashed down and my self-control was fading fast.
I couldn't do it anymore, there was nowhere left to hide and
I started to panic, breathing hard, looking for a way out.

"I know you're surprised to see me ..." he started, then
stopped, probably at the expression on my face.

I'm not sure what he saw there, but it was enough to scare
him into silence. "Don't," I stuttered, barely able to form
the word.

He got up quietly, and continued to look at me.

"I said DON'T," I snarled, my hands curling into fists.

"Paulie." That name again and he walked over to me, reaching
out to touch my cheek. God, he was beautiful, hazel eyes
looking into mine and how much I'd missed him, his face, his
voice. I wanted to touch him, to kiss him, to scream at him
until I couldn't scream anymore.

A caress against my cheek and another smile followed. "There,
that's better now, isn't it?" he whispered.

My rage suddenly flared up and for the first time in my life,
I did something completely and utterly irrational. I hauled
out and hit him, hard, right in the jaw.

He stumbled back, stunned, then slowly wiped away a thin
trickle of blood from his lip as I gaped at him, horrified at
what I'd done.

The surprise on his face melted into a wry smile and he
nodded. "Guess I deserved that."

I shook my head. "No, I'm sorry. John ..." And suddenly I
was pleading, explaining, hoping and praying he'd listen to
me. "I'm angry and ... and ..."

He touched me again, his fingers warm against my skin. "Oh
Jesus," I cried and found myself in his arms, unable to fight
any longer.

I buried my face in his neck and my defenses dropped. He
could do anything he wanted, I was going to love him no
matter what, I thought frantically as I wrapped my arms
around him and pulled him close, crushing him to me, tight,
not willing to let go, ever again.

"It's all right," he whispered again and again, tearfully.
"Just hold me. God, you feel good. I love you, don't you
know that? Don't you realize that?"

"John ..."

"I was just doing Brian a favor, Paul. This kid was stealing
money, fucking around on Bri and I wanted to prove that he
was up to no good. I didn't want Brian to get fucked over
again with some other loser and I swear, it wasn't anything.
I just wanted to prove a point to Brian, it had nothing to do
with us. I swear it."

I pulled back and examined his face, searchingly. "Are you
serious?"

"I swear it," he insisted. "Ask Bri, he'll tell you. I love
you ... you're it for me, I swear it." He pulled me closer
and crushed his mouth against mine and I didn't fight.

I just gave in and we kissed as if we were
starving, perhaps we were, and I felt his tongue tracing my
lips, seeking admittance. I let him in, feeling him, his
heat and his hands roaming through my hair, threading through
the strands and pulling me closer still.

His hips rotated against mine and I groaned into his mouth,
his name on my tongue. It had been so long, too damned long
and I wanted him even more than before. His hard-on pressed
against my thigh and it make me shiver, as did his voice,
heavy with passion.

"I want you, you have no idea how much. God, I missed you."

My head was spinning and of course, I knew.

I wanted, and missed him, even more.

Our fingers fumbling, we undid each others pants and at the
first touch of his hand against my cock, I had to bite my lip
to keep from crying out. So good, so sweet and hot and I
reached for him, running my thumb along his cock's wet tip,
relishing the moan that followed.

One hand slid to my ass, cupping it, smoothing over the sides
of my still-clothed thighs. It was strange how naked I felt,
being for the most part fully dressed. But I was in his
hands and they worked me, like an instrument, making music
perfect and sweet.

Another slide along my cock and I wanted to go somewhere with
him, somewhere dark and quiet where we could make love all
night long.

"Come on, John," I said between kisses. "Come back to my
house."

He shook his head and pressed up against me. "Can't wait that
long. Want you," he whispered. "Need you ... love you."

Strokes from base to tip, more urgent, and he moved with me,
hot and silky and I couldn't help but gasp with joy, the room
around us disappearing in a fog of pleasure.

Our movements were faster and my hips arched forward to meet
his. I urged him on, knowing I'd be sore later but I didn't
care. I just wanted to be with him, to let him see my face
when I came, to let him feel my release.

So close, and it was so good and my mouth curved into a smile
as he chanted my name, again and again, like a mantra of
desire.

"Come on, come for me," I muttered, my mouth at his ear, my
hand wrapped tightly around him. "Come for me, luv."

With that he slammed forward once and came, hot and wet in my
hands. That was enough for me and I followed him over the
abyss, release shuddering through me, crying out against his
neck.

Silence then, and our eyes met, the love, the trust back in
place ... and everything in our universe was good again.

"Home, James?" he joked lightly and I smiled in reply.

"Yeah, home," I said, before kissing him for all we were
worth and getting ready to make that night together a
reality.

For that night, and always.

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end
  
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