Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1238833.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Beatles, Music_RPF, Rock_Music_RPF, 1960s_Music_Scene_RPF, British
      Singers_RPF
  Relationship:
      John/Paul, John_Lennon/Paul_McCartney, John_Lennon_&_Paul_McCartney
  Character:
      John_Lennon, Paul_McCartney
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-26 Words: 3697
****** “Sessions” ******
by AhmedA01
Summary
     A songwriting session at John’s place takes an unexpected turn. One
     of my earliest stories.
Notes
     Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously. Unfortunately.
My room was located at the top of the stairs, a comfortably furnished bedroom
on the first floor of Mendips, at 251 Menlove Avenue, a fruity little middle-
class neighbourhood with tree-lined walks and noisy children playing under the
watchful eye of plump middle-aged housewives. It was a bright and airy room;
small gusts of wind dancing in from the outside, filtered sunlight streaming
through a spotless window encircled by heavy drapes, a low hanging Oak lightly
brushing against the windowpane. Mimi had a habit of coming in every morning;
her light footfalls moving towards the window, each tread sounding like the
blast of cannons in the early light. Then, accompanied by the imaginary fanfare
of golden trumpets, her hands swept the curtains aside, the sudden glare of
brightness shocking me into consciousness. She never could understand my
penchant for sleeping in late, saying that I was dreaming the day and me life
away. I never saw how any bloody harm could come from it. After all, I was only
sleeping.
In a corner of the room, a tall wardrobe, made of deep dark wood, stood, the
once rich colour of the timber dulled through years of use, giving of an aged
warmth. Its top was littered with crumpled sheets of paper, guitar picks, my
much-used tube of Brylcreem, and small-teethed combs. A mirror stood tall atop
the wardrobe as well; its back up against the wall, my pin-ups of a scantily
clad Brigitte Bardot and pictures of Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Lonnie Donnegan
taped haphazardly in the corners. Good times were had with that Brigitte Bardot
picture, many good times, if you know what I mean. A small wooden desk
fashioned from the same rich lumber as the wardrobe took up the wall beside the
window; worn, dog-eared books and notebooks covering its surface, the odd pen
or pencil strewn across, their ends marred with the deep bites made through
intense concentration. Tattered paper peeked through the edges of hastily
closed drawers; a desk chair pushed unceremoniously to the side, black leather
jackets draped over its high back. A large bed sat majestically in the middle
of the room, a stout nightstand by its side, its surface home to cups of tepid
tea and the slightly glowing ends of cigarette butts left forgotten. The
typical room of a teenage boy, I suppose.
Mimi was out that day, visiting one of me aunties, which made it easier for
Paul to come over for a writing session. His Da was getting a bit suspicious
from the mysterious disappearances of his eggs and Typhoo Tea, the eggs that
Paul and I consumed and the tea that we smoked in Paul’s dad’s pipe the
afternoons that we sagged off from school. So, instead of telling his dad to
piss off like I told him to often enough, Paul suggested that we meet at my
house for a change, but only for that day of course. After all, Mimi would
undoubtedly throw a fit if Paul ever tried to come over a bit too often, her
nose turning up at the sight of that “Doe-eyed common boy,” as she liked to
call him. So we sat, uninterrupted for once, the soft strumming of twin guitars
filling the room, in tandem with the sounds from the turntable, a slightly
battered Elvis record playing in the background, his croons filling the room.
Paul and I sat on the bed, guitars on hand, our heads held close together, two
pairs of eyes focused on a small notebook, the first page headed with the
title, “Another Lennon/McCartney original” written in Paul’s slanted
handwriting. Uncapped pens of blue and black lay nearby, slowly increasing
spots of ink appearing on the coverlet.
“All right,” Paul said, his fingers poised above his upside down acoustic
guitar, pick at hand, eyes trained on the frets as he anticipated the first
chord. “What have we got so far?”
“Here we go,” I replied, as I moved to lean my back against the cherry
headboard, legs encased in too tight black denim stretched out in front of me,
dark eyes squinting at the notebook held loosely in me hands. The words were
without a doubt, blurry in front of me eyes, an absence of glasses making it
nearly impossible to read the damn page. I knew that I should wear me glasses,
but they made me look like such a fuckin’ queer, so, I tried to avoid it as
much as possible. For most of my life, I had bluffed my way through anything
that required good eyesight, though trying to bluff my way through the scene
that was to unfold that day I knew would be a bit difficult, since Paul knew
how desperately I needed to wear the dreaded specs.
After a few minutes of silence had passed, Paul looked up in exasperation.
“Well, fucking get on with it then,” he exclaimed, an unruly strand of dark
hair escaping his “DA” and falling into his eyes, his hand coming up to brush
the fallen locks of hair away.
“Piss off,” I retorted angrily, holding the notebook a few centimeters in front
of my face. With exaggerated slowness, I turned the book slowly, scrunching up
my eyes as I attempted to read the words from all angles. “I’m trying to make
out this damn writing of yours. Can’t you write any bigger? Your fuckin’
handwriting is giving me a bleedin’ headache.”
“My handwriting is giving you a headache?” Paul sneered slightly, his eyes
trained unflinchingly on me. “If you’d just wear your bloody glasses like
you’re supposed to instead of squinting at every little thing, you wouldn’t be
getting any headaches. Now be a good lad and put those glasses on.”
“Shurrup, Macca.” I warned, my arms crossing in front of my chest, eyes daring
him to push the subject. “I am not putting those fuckin’ glasses on.”
“John love, I don’t have all day. Just put them on,” Paul began
condescendingly, placing his guitar on the bed. And then, with that annoying
little smirk of his, he continued, “Is poor Johnny afraid, that his tough Teddy
boy image will be sullied if word got out that the mighty John Winston Lennon
needs glasses otherwise he’d be as blind as a bat?”
Prick. Aloud, I responded testily “Afraid? Who says I’m afraid?”
Well, put the fuckin’ glasses on then,” Paul said smugly, a smile curling his
lips, the sod probably happy to have won this installment of our ongoing
battle.
"Fuckin’ prat,” I muttered under my breath, as I leaned towards the nightstand,
hands rummaging through the top drawer, as books and other odds and ends flew
out and hit the floor with loud thuds. Before long, I found a pair of those
dreaded glasses, gritty and smudged square lenses rimmed with a thick black.
With a look of utter disgust, I placed the glasses on my nose before turning to
look at Paul, the makings of a mocking smile apparent on his face. If I had
just raised my hand the slightest bit, and moved it forward fast and hard, I
could have wiped that smirk off in a mere second
“There you go, look how pretty you look,” he exclaimed, pretending to swoon,
his long eyelashes batting feverishly.
With a growl, I almost threw the bloody glasses at him, but since injuring your
best friend and the guitarist of your band wouldn’t be the best way to proceed,
I settled for throwing him a menacing look instead. Regrettably, the bleedin’
thing did not look too threatening with said monstrosity taking up half of me
face.
“Me? Pretty?” I snorted in response. ” I wouldn’t talk, Macca dear. I’m not the
one with the baby face, looking so pretty and sweet. A veritable fresh faced
babe.”
Scowling, Paul picked his guitar up again. “Shurrup Lennon,” he grumbled his
eyes boring into me as his fingers fiddled with the strings of his guitar.
Smiling fiendishly, I continued. “Ooh, did I touch a nerve there? Come on
Paulie, don’t pout,” I said mockingly, as I leaned towards him, my hand gently
patting his knee. “It’s okay. That sweet face of yours is bound to be a big hit
with the toddlers.”
“Piss off John,” he growled, rising to leave but seeming to change his mind
almost instantaneously for he sat back down again immediately. Instead, in a
tight voice he continued, “Where did we leave off?”
“All right, all right,” I replied, my hands raised in mock surrender. “Bloody
hell, someone is in a bad mood today. “
He simply glowered in response.
Sighing, I adjusted the glasses on my face before turning to the notebook that
had fallen to the bed sometime in the midst of that small altercation. “Okay,
this is what we have, ‘Each time I look into your eyes, I see that there a
heaven lies, and as I look I see the love of the loved. Someday they’ll see
that from the start, my place has been deep in your heart. And in your heart, I
see the love of the loved. Though I said it all before, I will say it more and
more, now that I’m really sure you love me.‘
As I half-sang the lyrics, Paul played the chords back, the soft lilting
acoustic guitar complementing my voice. After I was done, Paul continued to
play the same chords repeatedly, a light haunting thing.
“Is that it?” Paul asked as he looked up, his fingers slowly coming to a stop
as he rested his guitar on the bed, looking at me with those large, dark eyes
of his. I suppose they did look slightly like those of a doe
“Yeah, I believe so,” I replied, shaking me head as I placed the notebook on
the nightstand, the slight motion jarring the teacups, cold, dark liquid
splashing into the saucer. As Paul looked towards his watch, I leaned over
quickly, plucking his fallen guitar pick from the bed. Languidly, I played with
the small piece of plastic; my guitar roughened fingers running along the
smooth edges as my partner started to pat the bed around him, his neck craning
as he looked around in slight confusion.
“Johnny, you see my pick anywhere?” he asked, as he peered into the wrinkles of
my bedspread, hands lifting the guitar off the bed. “I could’ve sworn that the
bloody thing was here just a minute ago.”
Smirking, I flipped the pick in my hands, the light disk rising above my hand,
moving soundlessly through the air.
“Pick? What pick?” I asked innocently, placing the small guitar pick between my
teeth, biting down on it ever so slightly, the end protruding from between my
lips, watching Paul as he kneeled beside the bed.
“The pick that I was just using” he mumbled, his head underneath my bed as he
looked on the freshly swept floor below. Raising his body, Paul shook the
covers slightly as he rose to his feet, dusting the dirt from his knees. “I
know it’s here somewhere,” he exclaimed. “I was just using it. It couldn’t have
disappeared into” he trailed off as he lifted his head, his eyes boring into me
as he caught sight of the pick in my mouth. “Johnny, is that my fucking guitar
pick?”
With a look of feigned innocence, I took the pick out of my mouth, my eyes wide
with wonder, as I looked the small piece of plastic over. ‘This little thing,
eh? Fucking hell, I wonder how it got in my mouth.”
“Don’t fuck with me Lennon,” Paul practically growled, his outstretched palm in
front of me. “Give it back.”
Tempting fate, I leaned back against the headboard, my lips curled into a smirk
as I popped the pick back into my mouth, letting it dangle from between my
lips. “How can I be sure that it’s yours? It could be anyone’s.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Paul simply sighed, his never-ending supply of
patience finally wearing thin. I always seemed to have that effect on him,
though me being the oldest, you would think that it would have been the other
way around. “John,” he began in a tightly controlled voice, “I’m not in the
mood for your antics right now. Just give me the damn guitar pick.”
In a swift move, Paul reached towards me, his fingers lightly grazing my lips
as he attempted to snatch the much sought after object away. However, I was
much too quick for him, as I deftly plucked the plastic from the edge of my
mouth and hid the disk behind me back, clenched tightly in a closed fist, his
muttered “Fuck” inciting a small chuckle from me. With a snigger, I looked up
at him, my laughing eyes in contrast to his stormy ones, my dark-haired partner
not amused by my childishness.
“Lighten up, Macca. I’m just fucking with you. If you want it back so badly,
here, come and get it,” I coaxed, my face a picture of innocence as I stretched
my hand out in front of me, the guitar pick resting silently in the middle of
my palm.
With a look of distrust, Paul reached towards me, his hand hovering over mine
as he moved to confiscate his property, but as soon as he moved closer, I
quickly closed my hand into a tight grip, moving it behind my back once again.
With a growl, Paul reached towards me, his arms seeking to grab me by the arm,
as I, giggling like mad, dove from the bed and backed away from my disgruntled
friend quickly.
“Come on, love,” I taunted, dangling it in front of his face face. “Don’t you
want your guitar pick back?”
Slowly I moved along the side of the bed, my back to the wall, my legs hitting
the front of the nightstand with a small thud. My gaze remained fixed on Paul
as he advanced towards me, his steady gait moving him to the center of the
room. The expression etched on his face was one of slowly diminishing anger,
his full lips twitching slightly as he tried to hold back a small smile, as he
continued towards me.
“Lennon,” he muttered with a half-smile, “You will be the death of me.” With
every word that fell from his lips, Paul was brought closer and closer until he
was standing at the end of the bed, his body blocking one of my means of
escape, the door to my room positioned squarely behind him. With a chuckle, he
shot me a look of pleased triumph; “Yer trapped Lennon. Nowhere to go. Come
‘head Johnny, be a good lad and give me back what is mine.”
With a look of mock defeat, I shuffled towards him, my head hung low, my
shoulders slouched as he eagerly reached out for his pick. When I stood a meter
or so away from him, I made a big show of bringing forth my tightly coiled
hand, dusting the guitar pick off with infinite care, preparing to hand it
over. But of course, as unpredictability dictates, I quickly gave trusting
Paulie a quick shove, as I, without so much as a backwards glance, leapt on the
bed again, my feet bouncing on the tightly coiled springs, as I cried over my
shoulder “I’m not giving up yet Macca!”
I steadied myself by placing one hand on the headboard, poised for the jump
that would take me across the room when suddenly, my legs were pulled out from
under me as I fell backwards onto the bed, the feel of the soft mattress
against my back as big a surprise as the feel of a solid body landing atop my
legs, succeeding in pinning me forcibly to the bed, my legs and body trapped as
my arms lay free at my sides.
Paul laughed with fiendish glee, his body shaking as he continued to sit on top
of me, the vibrations of his lithe frame felt throughout my entire body. His
hazel eyes crinkled at the edges as he looked down on me, as I, with genuine
defeat, pounded the back of my head against the mattress.
“Well, well, Johnny,” Paul laughed, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “Looks
like you won’t be getting up anytime soon. Now how could you possible think
that you’d escape? After all, haven’t I foiled your bloody little childish
pranks before?” He rested his elbows on my chest, as he brought his face down
close to mine, his warm breath washing over my face as he continued to observe
smugly. “How could you possibly think that it wouldn’t happen again? Now your
pride has been bruised, your ego shattered, just because you wanted to fuck
around by taking my guitar pick. Was it all worth it? And then”
And so, Paul continued to gloat, that lovely voice of his beginning to grate on
me nerves as the prick went on and on and on about how he had bested me again,
something that never happened all that often, no matter what he liked to think.
I closed my eyes, trying to tune the voice out, but it was to no avail. The
voice continued, every word that fell from his lips succeeding in annoying me
to even greater heights, almost like the endless tapping of rain flowing
steadily into a paper cup.
“…but no, you just had to…”
Suddenly I couldn’t take it any longer, my need to shut him up overpowering
everything else, even my modicum of common sense. So, without thinking, I
raised my hands and placed them on the back of Paul’s head, my fingers
threading through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. The words slowly
seemed to fade away as I, in one smooth movement, pulled his face close to
mine, craning my own neck upwards, as my lips captured his open mouth in an
almost, but not quite, chaste kiss, finally succeeding in completely shutting
up my gloating friend. However, the method that I used left quickly ignored
questions flying through my own head.
The minute my lips caressed Paul’s softly, a light and simple touch, a faint
sigh got caught in my throat, a sound somewhere between slight satisfaction and
fearfulness. I could feel his body become rigid, in surprise or disgust, I did
not know, and somewhere at the back of my head the thought that disgust might
be running through Paul gave birth to a feeling of dejection in me. His mouth
was soft under my own, closed loosely as I gently pressed my lips to his, the
meeting of skin against skin, touching for the briefest moment. A small voice
in the back of my head dared me to slightly part my lips, to trace the outline
of his mouth with my tongue, gently seeking entrance. Since I was never one to
back down when faced with a dare, I did just that. I flicked my tongue at the
ends of his mouth, parting it ever so slightly, my tongue slowly encased
within. Gently, I caressed the roof of his mouth, my tongue sweeping back and
forth, massaging his tongue with my own. The tang of tobacco assaulted my
senses, an intoxicating mix of the delicate tint of nicotine mixed with the
more prominent taste of sugary sweet tea. The muscles in his neck almost
imperceptibly softened, as my fingers, of their own violation, drew small
circles on the soft skin, my fingertips lightly grazing the hairline. I lightly
pulled him forward, his hands still resting on my chest, trapped between our
bodies.
The feeling was indescribable, unlike anything I had ever felt before. Panting
slightly, I slowly moved my lips away from his mouth, my eyes closed as a small
moan came forth unbidden from between my parted lips, a low groan of need that
sounded especially loud in the near quiet of the room. However, that was all it
took, the sudden sound penetrating my hazy senses, followed by a shock that hit
me like a double-decker bus, stunning me into a painful awareness. Frantically,
I moved my face away, and the kiss was over, my head, dejectedly, falling back
onto the bed. A quick, heavy-lidded glance gave me an eyeful of a pale, shaken
face and wide hazel eyes, my eyes closed tightly in a mere second to block the
sight. In the seconds that passed, an awkward and oppressive silence descended
upon us.
Time slowly ticked by, and what felt like hours was probably nothing more than
a few intensely uncomfortable minutes. It was an utter stillness, our bodies
fixedly held in the same position, almost as if we were set in stone.
Disjointed thoughts in the form of questions ran through my head. “What just
happened? Why did I kiss Paul? Why did I enjoy it so much? What’s going to
happen now?” My head moved from side to side on the bed, rolling across the
mattress, taking on a mind of its own. I just did not know what had gotten into
me. Why the fuck would I kiss Paul like that? I am not a fucking queer, I know
that. I mean, I never had been, had I?
After what seemed like an eternity, Macca silently got off me, the comfortable
weight of his body no longer pressing me into the bed, allowing me to curl onto
my side, my eyes still tightly closed, not willing and not able to face the
loathing that would be present on Paul’s face. What a laugh, the mighty John
Lennon afraid. I felt the bed shift slightly underneath me, the erratic
creaking of springs followed by the steady sound of footsteps. I resisted the
urge to look back at Paul, my body tense as a pair of feet encased in winkle
pickers moved away from the bed, directly followed by the hollow slam of my
bedroom door. My body still curled on its side, my back to the door, my eyes
still shut, that battered old Elvis LP still playing in the background.
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