Writing Partners

Part 1

1962: John is 21 and Paul is 20.

The pair are writing songs in a side room at Paul's house. McCartney is lying on the floor while Lennon sits in a chair a few feet away.

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"Paul! We can't say that!" John said as he laughed. "Eppy'd never allow it, anyway."

Paul chuckled at himself as he scribbled over the last line of lyrics he had just read aloud. He dropped his face down into his notebook and inhaled the musky smell of the pages.

"What's the matter with you today?" John said as he looked at Paul, still smiling. The question was mostly rhetorical, but curiosity pushed him to dig at the subject.

It honestly wasn't Paul's fault, the dull burn tickling his groin had lit by its own accord, and John had been watching him squirm helplessly now for half an hour as a result. Paul lifted his head and shook it back and forth a couple of times in a lame attempt to shake his state of mind. His thick, brown hair zigzagged across his forehead.

Paul let out one more chuckle as he said "Sorry," with blushed cheeks on display.

John found it endlessly amusing and didn't ever need it to stop.

"Well no one else will enjoy that lyric, but at least I got to," John said while looking down at the guitar in his lap. A satisfied smirk flashed across Paul's face as he lifted his head to look at John, who kept tinkering with his guitar.

Paul's head dipped back down till his eyes landed on John's shoes, before slowly lifting back up so his gaze could float up John's body. The slight upturn of Paul's lips fell flat, along with the rest of his face. His gaze darkened slightly as his attention shifted fully to John. He had thought before, only to himself, that John was handsome. But that was when he was done up, hair mopped, shirt tucked, tie straight, and a black suit jacket wrapped around him. That's the whole point, Paul thought then. They were supposed to look attractive, they were trying to attract. It was a good thing John had looked so alluring- It's good for the band, he rationalized. But now, John was as un-done up as he could be. Lounge pants and a t-shirt, his hair flopped on his head more lazily than Paul thought possible. And yet, he maybe looked more handsome? No, not quite that... more.... Fuck. Sexy? Than he ever had.

Meanwhile, Paul had the slightest suspicion John might think something similar of him. Paul had seen the look in John's eye when he found a bird attractive enough to fuck her, and he wasn't sure if he was crazy, or if it was actually true, but he thought he'd seen John's eyes turn in that same way when looking at him. Plus, the one-off remarks and cheeky smiles add up throughout the years. And they had added up, to nothing concrete, but it still felt like something.

Paul flipped over onto his back and held his notebook above his face to read what he had so far. He laid with the top of his head a couple of feet from where John sat, as his legs sprawled over the rug. Paul wasn't sure whether John's eyes were on him or not, as his hand crept down to slightly adjust himself in his pants. It wasn't until then, that he realized there was a bit more blood in his prick than there should be. His body almost rolled back over on instinct, and he actually did start to just slightly, until he stopped himself and rested fully onto his back again. He slowly stretched out his legs and took a purposeful breath.

John had been glaring at him ever since he'd flipped onto his back. In fact, John had noticed the bulge in Paul's pants before he himself did. John's grip on his pencil tightened as his eyes followed the long, thin lines of Paul's body. Frustrated, his jaw clenched as he turned to look out the window to his right, trying to stop the warm knot in his stomach from growing too warm. After a moment, proud of how he was able to suppress himself, John went back to writing, but his focus was interrupted by a rustle of fabric that made him lift his head to follow the sound. Paul was wiggling his hips around like an uncomfortable child, attempting yet again to adjust what's in his pants. Fucking Paul. John grumbled in his mind, now truly annoyed at the way he lay there, so effortlessly appealing. John believed Paul was unaware of what he was doing, and what it did to him.