A/N: Because I've started some new courses at uni, I have decided to start posting this fics on Mondays from now on. Like a little reward for you all for starting the new week and getting through the first day. I also hope updates will be more regular now, but I cannot promise. I hope so, though.
Waking up that Friday morning, the sun itself having only just risen above the numerous rooftops that made up the view from the bedroom window of the McCartney's Parisian apartment, Paul felt a strange sense of unease in his stomach, though he could not think of anything that could be the cause. Sitting up, he looked out of the window as he took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. It was looking to be another good day with warm weather and a soft breeze to make it more temperate and, in his opinion, more pleasant, the lace curtains swaying in the gentle wind, giving him glimpses of the clear blue sky that was hidden behind them, still coloured golden from the light of the morning sun. Beside him, John still lay vast asleep, his lips slightly parted as he slept, his breathing slow and gentle, and his eyelids twitching as he dreamed of what Paul hoped were pleasant and fantastical things. One of his arms lay slung across Paul's lap with his fingers tangled into the rough material of his sleeping shirt to keep him close. Paul smiled down at him as he ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it aside, while being careful not to awaken him, before he lay back down and rolled onto his side to face him.
Sighing, he put the unpleasant feeling down to a dream he had most likely forgotten, and gently traced the older man's features with his fingertips, feeling the slight scrape of a stubble on his jaw as he traced his jawline. John's hand, triggered by the feeling of someone else's touch on his skin, untangled itself from his shirt and grabbed at Paul's hip, pulling him closer until they were touching as he mumbled something incomprehensible in his sleep, causing Paul to snicker as he gave into him and placed a gentle kiss on the man's nose, before laying his head back down on his pillow. Closing his eyes, he listened to the soothing sound of the other's breathing and relished the feeling of his warm body against his own, his fingers moving on their own accord, reluctant to stop touching him and let him rest.
The last couple of days with John had been pure joy for the both of them, and Paul regretted the day they would need to put an end to it and go on with their usual, ordinary lives, pretending to be nothing more but acquaintances while John would finish his portrait - which Paul suspected could not take much longer - until their meetings would stop and they would most likely never see each other again, separated by society's norms and expectations - his father's expectations. Sighing, he drew closer to the man beside him, nudging his forehead with his own and wishing, though he knew it was in vain, that for once he would not need to.
The body beside him stirred. Paul refused to open his eyes as he heard him groan and murmur to himself, his body turning and twisting as he awoke, wanting to remain the way they were a little while longer in the hope he could, even for a moment, stop time. John rubbed his forehead against his and his fingers tightened their hold on his hips, his nails digging into his skin through the thin material of his sleeping attire. His voice, too, became more substantial, the incomprehensible sounds transforming into babbles and finally into words as he opened his eyes, muttering something about walking and pretty fingers before he said Paul's name, which made the owner of that name smile. Feeling the other's gaze upon him, Paul opened his eyes as well and smiled as he looked directly into those dark amber crystals that were focused upon him.
"Good morning to you," John muttered, his voice rough and hoarse with sleep, which caused the little hairs on Paul's arms to stand up straight.
"Good morning," he answered. For a moment they did not speak and only looked at each other, John still recovering from his sleep as he drew circles on his lover's hip with his thumb, while Paul felt little for breaking a peaceful moment like this now he had it, those moments having become rarer and rarer as he had grown with age. After a few moments, John released his hip and reached for his hand instead, grasping it tightly and clutching it against his chest before turning and rolling over onto his other side, dragging said hand with him as he did so, which left Paul with no other choice but to curl himself up around John's back, slotting himself against him perfectly as he caught onto the hint. He smiled as he snuggled up to him and buried his nose in his hair, feeling perfectly content.
Although he had not expected it at first from the man's rougher and more hardened exterior, John had proved to be very fond of cuddling, or even just touching in general, and it had only been on the rare occasion that Paul had not found himself curled up with him in bed, both at sunset and at dawn, with a smile on his lips. It had been a pleasant surprise and he was more than happy to oblige him like now. After a while, however, when the sleep had left him completely, he began to grow restless and nosed his way to the crook of the other man's neck to suckle at his skin to tempt his interest.
"John?" he whispered, chuckling as he let out a soft grumble in reply, still drowsy with sleep and feeling little to change their situation. Paul repeated his name, not being one to give up so easily, and rolled his hips against John's backside to show his intentions. "John, love?"
"Hmm... you are insatiable," John murmured in return, keeping his eyes closed, but Paul sensed a smile as he started dragging his lips up to kiss along the man's jawline, feeling how his lips got caught on the roughness of his two days' worth of stubble. Paul was aware he had not shaved himself yesterday when they had opted to remain in bed for the entirety of the morning before going out for luncheon and to visit an art gallery, though he couldn't say he necessarily disliked it, the scrape of a beard reminding him that he lay in bed with a man, not a boy or a woman, but a man, which he hadn't felt as clearly since his short-lived affair with his father's acquaintance. It was a turn on.
"Is that a complaint?" he crooned, his lips lingering at said stubble, and smirking as John let out a huff in frustration, being well-aware he was unable to agree with such a question in fear of bereaving himself of the pleasurable activity that was being offered to him now, remembering last time when he had answered a likewise question with a teasing positive only to have his partner mutter an apology as he stood up from where he had been sat in the other's lap, after which he had refused to come back to him for a whole hour, saying he would not want to pressure him into doing anything he did not want to do. It had been amusing to Paul at the time, who had taken pleasure in seeing him worked up and frustrated, but the humour had - quite understandably - been lost on John.
"Merely an observation," he said in the end, and Paul chuckled as he suckled at his jaw, working his way further up towards his mouth for a morning kiss, to which John replied with a pleased hum to encourage him on. "Didn't we have somewhere to be this morning?"
"Yes, but we still have time," Paul said, closing his eyes as he kissed the side of John's mouth, and he cried out when he felt John grab a hold of him and roll them over so he had him on his back. John himself was hovering above him and had one of his knees firmly planted onto the bed between Paul's legs, keeping them apart as he stared down at him, watching him with an eager twinkle in his eye as the man beneath him continued to laugh.
"In that case," John said, shooting the other a wink, and before Paul had even had time to calm down or wonder what he was going to do next, he bent down to kiss him, finding the other's lips eager and responsive to his own as he captured them and kissed them tenderly, his touches calm and teasing, which coaxed a weak moan from his lips. Paul, happy with the result of his endeavours and eager for more, smiled against John's mouth and tried to ignore the unpleasant taste of John's morning breath as he reached up to tangle his fingers into his hair, giving it a little pull in encouragement, before he let out another soft moan as one of John's hands, rough and calloused from his craft, travelled down his chest and stomach and came to rest on his crotch, feeling the shape of his growing erection beneath the material of his underwear with curious fingers as they followed the outline of it, stimulating it and urging it on with light, barely-there touches that seemed to be twice as effective, causing the young man to squirm under his touch.
Before it could grow into anything more, however, they were rudely interrupted by someone knocking on the bedroom door, causing both men to jerk up, their heated thoughts, touches and passions quickly being lost as they stared at the door, waiting for the other to react.
"Mr. McCartney, sir?" an unfamiliar voice called as they tapped once more at the door. "Mr. McCartney, a letter has arrived for you. Presumably, from your father."
Paul, sighing at the interruption, began to sit up and John followed his movements, kneeling over him and sliding down his body as Paul began to untangle himself from him and got out of bed, grabbing one of the robes that he had hung over the back of a nearby chair that previous evening, which he pulled on and tied securely around his waist before padding over to the door to open it, looking unashamed as the door was opened and the eye of the man behind the door caught sight of John who still lay on the bed, his cheeks slightly flushed with what anyone could guess was arousal, making the nature of their relationship more than clear. The unknown man blinked a few times at the sight, before pulling himself back together and turning to Paul to offer him the aforementioned letter without making a single comment on it.
"This arrived for you with the post today, Mr. McCartney. From your father. We thought you might appreciate it if we handed it to you as soon as possible."
"Yes, thank you, Mr...?"
"It was no trouble, sir," the man replied and with one last nod at Paul, he turned around and disappeared again, leaving the two men alone once more. Closing the door behind him, Paul remained lingering by the door as he studied the letter curiously before opening it with trembling fingers, fearing what his father might want to contact him for. His father never wrote him or Mike when they were away from home, especially not when he knew they were to return home within a few weeks - if not days - and Paul could barely remember the last time his father had written him anything. Of course, he had his suspicions on what the subject of the letter might be, but those thoughts did little to assuage Paul's worries. If anything, they heightened them, for he doubted it could be anything good if he could not wait a few days longer to tell him. He took a deep breath before he unfolded it and began to read.
"What does it say?" John asked after Paul had read the letter over twice, but he was unable to look away from it, feeling how his throat constricted at the words of his father.
"He wants me to return home as soon as possible," he finally managed to say.
"Why?"
"He doesn't specify," Paul lied, swallowing thickly as he folded the letter up and placed it inside the envelope safely in the inside breast-pocket of his coat which hung on a hanger in front of the mirror, away from view. "We will leave this afternoon."
"This afternoon?! I thought we wouldn't leave until tomorrow evening at the earliest," John objected, sitting up on the bed, feeling little for returning to England, and Paul found himself smiling at the thought.
"And now we will leave one day earlier," he said and sighed as he walked back to the bed and sat down besides the older man, reaching out for his hand, which John abruptly pulled away from him. Looking up in surprise, he found John looking at him in disbelieve. "What?"
"You are seriously going to leave one day early because your father asked you to do so in a letter?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow, and scoffed when Paul nodded in response.
"John, my father-" Paul started, but John did not let him continue.
"Your father does not even know you have received this letter today, so why not wait until tomorrow? One more day wouldn't matter, would it?"
"It is not so simple, John."
"Isn't it?" John asked, looking at the young gentleman with a intense gaze, but Paul did not give into it, and sighed once more as he got off from the bed and started gathering his clothes, before making his way towards the bathroom, refusing to look or speak with John, who remained confused on the bed. "Paul?"
"I don't want to leave either, John, but we have to and therefore we will this afternoon. Now, get dressed. Mr. Arpin is expecting us for tea. It would be rude to be late."
***
Neither of them mentioned the letter again after their conversation, both men knowing it wouldn't do either of them any good, seeing as Paul, being stubborn as he was, would get his way no matter what John would say in the attempt to change his mind; once Paul had gotten an idea in his head, it was no use trying to get it out of him again, as the young gentleman would simply ignore every word that was in disagreement with his own thoughts and ideas. This, combined with John's temper, would only lead to a heated argument, which neither of them wanted to happen. So, neither said a word about it as they drove across the city to their last appointment before they would travel back to England and leave the blissful freedom of Paris far behind them.
To pass the time, John had taking out his notebook again and was sketching in silence while Paul hummed a soft tune to himself as he watched him, intrigued to see him work on something he wasn't the subject of. Once the carriage came to a halt, Paul got out first, carrying a leather satchel with John's best work, and offered John his hand to help him step outside as well, which John gladly took. Paul then handed John his satchel back and went to pay the driver, before they approached the Parisian townhouse on the left side of the street that bore number eleven. They had barely rung the bell or the door was pulled wide open, revealing an older man in his fifties, with greying hair and a sunken in face that made him appear even skinnier than he already was. He had a wide smile on his face, a flush on his cheeks, and a pair of shiny spectacles on his nose; John could hardly recognise him as the same man he had met at The Salon during their first night in the city.
"Mr. McCartney, Mr. Lennon, come in sirs, come in," he said, his voice surprisingly youthful for a man of his age, and stepped aside to let the two young men into his home with a polite nod. As soon as they were inside, he closed the door behind them, reached out to shake their hands and kissed Paul on the cheek, engulfing him in the potent smell of alcohol. "I am so pleased you two have taken me up on my invitation. After what had happened at The Salon, I would not have blamed either of you if you hadn't. Come in, please. I have asked my maid to put on some tea for us," Mr. Arpin continued, urging them to take off their coats, which they swiftly did, allowing Mr. Arpin to hang them from a peg as they had a look around their environment.
Mr. Arpin's apartment was small, consisting of two small drawing rooms on either side of the hallway, one of which was used as a permanent atelier on the walls of which hung numerous paintings from many different artists. At the back, there was a dining room and a kitchen, and upstairs there were two bedrooms and a bathroom, one of which was currently used as a study. Paul groaned as he noticed said maid coming out of the atelier carrying two empty bottles of wine.
"Are you not married, Mr. Arpin?" he heard John ask beside him, but the man seemed not to take offence at the question and merely laughed as he nodded and guided them further into the house and through a large archway, which lead into one of the drawing rooms where he offered them both a seat.
"My wife prefers the countryside, I am afraid, so she'd much rather stay there than come to London with me. I move between the two as much as I can," he explained and smiled at them both as he clasped his hands together, "Now, if you two would excuse me, I will see how the tea is coming along."
"He is a cheery fellow, isn't he?" John asked as soon as the man had left them alone, turning to Paul, who was biting his nail with a worried expression on his face.
"He is a nice man, generally," he said as he glanced at John, pausing for a moment to consider if and how to continue, "the relationship with his wife, however, is not as happy as he lets on. But if I had known how bad his drinking habits had become..."
"He is not one of your old lovers, then, is he?" John inquired, smirking as Paul burst out laughing as he shook his head, the idea alone being far too absurd to even take seriously.
"Mr. Arpin is a good man, John, but I have my types and he is not one of them, not to mention that he is ever so slightly too old for me, even by my standards. And besides, he likes his women," he said, still chuckling, and the emphasis he deliberately put on the last of sentences told John more than he needed to know about their host and possibly about the nature of his disagreements with his wife, which John knew for certain were not just about London. A twinkle in his eye, however, told Paul that was not the thing that interested him.
"I didn't know you even had a type, Paul, not to mention standards," he taunted and Paul gasped at the insinuation, shaking his head and playfully hitting John, before turning away with a pout.
"How dare you say such a thing!" he said, but he could not help but smile when John leaned in to kiss his cheek as a silent apology, which Paul opted to accept by turning his head to kiss him properly, to which John responded with a little smirk of his own and a pleased hum. They had barely separated when Mr. Arpin joined them again, followed closely behind by his maid, carrying a tray with three tea cups, a teapot, and a saucer with some biscuits, which she put down onto the coffee table between the two couches and poured it out for them, as Mr. Arpin sat himself down on the couch opposite the two young men. As soon as the maid had finished, she left them with a polite nod, leaving the three men alone to their business.
"Now, Mr. Lennon," Mr. Arpin spoke as he took one of the cups and blew lightly into it to cool its contents, an example which the other two men quickly followed, "I hope you don't mind it if I skip the pleasantries. You have brought your work with you, I take it?" John glanced nervously at Paul, who nodded encouragingly at him as he noticed their nervous look on his face. In truth, he had not expected any differently: from the moment they had received Mr. Arpin's invitation for tea two days ago, John had shown a great reluctance to go, not wanting to be disparaged once more by the same person as the last time he had shown his work to anyone who was supposedly an expert, and even when Paul had assured him Mr. Arpin wouldn't waste his time on someone who he didn't think had potential, he had initially refused to come with him. Sex, however, Paul had soon found, was a great instrument of persuasion, especially when combined with some light teasing about him being a coward, which, of course, he had not meant. Not terribly, at least. Still, he could understand his lover's nervousness and had tried his best to make John feel better about his art, but, as he could see now, the rejection at The Salon had left a lasting impression on him.
"Yes, I made sure to also bring some other works than those you had already seen at the gallery last Monday," John finally spoke as he placed his tea back down onto the coffee table and reached down to pick up his satchel, which he opened in a hurry in the hope neither Paul nor Mr. Arpin would see the trembling of his fingers, and produced a couples of sketches and finished works, which he handed to Mr. Arpin with a weak smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Lennon. And my apologies for my behaviour then. Or rather, that of my colleagues. Mr. Deniau can be rather rash in his judgements. He certainly did not speak upon my behalf, I would have you know," Mr. Arpin said as he put his tea down as well and slowly went through the stack of art works, going over them one by one and taking his time. Paul nudged John's side at the man's words and offered him a wide smile as John looked at him, feeling rather taken aback by the nervousness that was written all over his face. He wished he could do something for him, but he knew nothing would put him at ease until he had heard some form of praise fall from the lips of Mr. Arpin. Paul thought it was rather cute in a sense.
He wished, though, that Mr. Arpin would not take as long with examining John's work as he was, as he could see the anxiety on John's face grow with every minute that passed by without any kind of opinion being uttered by the older man. He himself wasn't feeling much better, hoping for John's sake, as well as that of his own reputation as art lover and collector, that his work would be better received than last time, and he listened attentively as John answered all of Mr. Arpin's questions on his works, his techniques, his use of colour and light, and style, as well as what his intentions were with his works. Finally, after much longer than Paul's nerves had been able to properly endure, Mr. Arpin cleared his throat and handed John his work back.
"So," Paul asked, ignoring the dryness of his throat, "what do you think?"
"The boy," Mr. Arpin started, pausing to take a sip from his tea that had nearly gone cold in the course of his conversation with John, which Paul supposed he did on purpose to add to the already present tension in the room, "the boy certainly has potential. If he can prove himself and make a name for himself in the art world, that is up to him, but he has enough talent and skill to have a likely chance. I am glad you brought some of your other works as well, though, Mr. Lennon, because I can see now Mr. Deniau had been terribly wrong about you."
"You genuinely like it?" John inquired, hardly believing his ears, and reached besides him to take Paul's hand, which Paul was swift to pull away.
"Oh yes! Your style is something I have not seen often before, and I think that is what made Mr. Deniau dislike your work as much as he did, but I like it. It is... different, daring, honest. I would love to take you on and see what I can do for you, if Mr. McCartney would let me, of course. After all, he is the one who brought you to my attention." At this, both men turned to Paul with eager faces, and Paul, smiling at the eagerness in John's expression that he had not seen there before, waved carelessly with his hand as he gave into them, in response to which Mr. Arpin clasped his hands together again in youthful excitement.
"How wonderful. Now, Mr. Lennon, if you would be so kind to leave some of your works with me, I will stay in touch with you through Mr. McCartney and inform you if anything happens that you need to know about. What do you gentlemen say?"
"John would be more than happy to leave you with some of his work, Mr. Arpin. And we are both very thankful to you for this," Paul said, and finished his tea, before nudging John to do the same, which he did.
"Fantastic. And I should be thanking you. Now, how about we celebrate with a glass of wine? I am sure I have some lying around here somewhere," he said, but Paul was quick to refuse, shaking his head and offering their host a polite smile as he got up from the couch.
"No, thank you, Mr. Arpin. John and I have to leave for England I'm afraid. But thank you for the kind offer," he said and Mr. Arpin stared up at him for a short while, clearly disappointed, before he nodded and got up as well, offering first Paul and then John his hand.
"Of course, I understand. It was good to see you both. And Mr. Lennon, if there is anything I need you to know, I will contact you through Mr. McCartney, as I have said," he said and John and Paul thanked him once more, before they started to make their way into the hallway, where they pulled on their coats and said goodbye, and not five minutes later they were once again outside, John's satchel considerably lighter.
***
John and Paul spoke eagerly as they made their way back to the apartment, discussing what had transpired at Mr. Arpin's and what this meant for John's potential future career with a mixed sense of excitement and nervousness, especially on John's side. They would be picked up at the apartment at three by Paul's driver, which only left them with an hour to pack and eat a quick lunch if they hurried, but neither felt much for getting a cab to drive them, preferring to take their time and walk, relishing the Parisian sun and air one last time before they would have to leave for England, where they knew the weather wouldn't be as good. Paul knew, however, he didn't have a choice, and tried not to think about it by focusing on his conversation with John as much as he could.
"I cannot believe he actually approved of my work," John muttered seemingly out of nowhere after they had discussed when and where his first exhibition needed to be - hypothetically, of course - as they came near to the Seine, which meant they were getting close. Instead of walking along it, however, Paul guided John into a quiet backstreet where they could talk in relative silence.
"Of course, he did. I told you, you have talent! I don't say that about simply anyone, John."
"But what if he changes his mind? Or if everyone else disagrees with him?" John pressed on, his pace slowing as worry began to take over his mind. Attempting to soothe his fears, Paul took a hold of his hand and squeezed it reassuringly before bringing it up to his lips to kiss.
"You will be fine, John. I know it," he said, kissing his hand again and John smiled at that as he nodded and forced himself to relax by taking a deep breath. They walked on for a little while longer, mostly in silence as John contemplated his future and how he was going to tell his aunt when they would be back in England in a few days, while Paul's mind was inevitably drawn back to his father's letter. He had been so deep in thought that he had barely noticed it when John suddenly stopped, his hand falling from Paul's grip as Paul went on a few more paces before stopping as well.
"John?" he asked, turning around to see him staring at him with a calculating gaze, seeming deep in contemplation, "John, are you alright?"
"What are we, Paul?" John merely asked, his voice suddenly dull and tight, as he remained where he was. Paul chuckled at the man's odd behaviour, unsure what to reply to his question.
"We will be late if we keep stalling," he joked, but John did not laugh and shook his head as he walked over to Paul, moving slowly, step after step, and stopping right in front of him.
"No, I mean..." he started, but paused a while as he bit his lip, thinking of how to continue, "what are we? Once we are back in England, what is going to happen to us?"
"John-"
"I know we will have to end this eventually, seeing as you're going to get married sooner rather than later, but I though..." he fell silent again at the last, his sentence broken, and Paul considered at him for a moment. He had given this exact issue more thought than he was willing to admit, and yet he did not know the answer to John's question. At first he hadn't even meant to start this affair and after that, he had quickly decided it would end once they would return to England, but now it was finally happening....
"Maybe we don't need to end this now, John," he said and John looked up at him in surprise, for which Paul could not blame him as he was rather surprised with what he was saying as well, "maybe we could continue this, while it lasts. I am not to marry yet, and we will see each other for the portrait anyway, so perhaps we could... If that is what you would want, of course. I mean, it is just sex, right? No harm done?"
"Right," John agreed, furrowing his brown, "just sex." He forced a smile and nodded his agreement, which Paul answered with a smile of his own.
"Come on," he said, reaching out his hand for John to take, "we'd better hurry or we'll be late."
"God forbid that we would make Mr. McCartney senior wait one minute longer than absolutely necessary," John muttered, but he took his hand anyway, so Paul didn't say anything of it, secretly finding it rather funny.