Impossible Germany (a NSFW birthday fic for Sarahfeena)
Warning: This fic includes RPS (Real Person Slash) and explicit m/m content. If you don't like homoeroticism or reading fanfic about real people, you probably won't like this story.
Summary: Set while The Beatles are in Hamburg. Paul hates Stuart and loves John with equal intensity. Something's gotta give.
The fist came out of nowhere and connected squarely with Paul’s jaw. He didn’t even feel it, and may not have noticed it at all, except the force knocked him back several feet and made him misplay his chord. He reacted on instinct, trained in too many late night drunken brawls—mostly instigated by John—to simply stand there and take a punch to the face, unexpected as it was. He balled his fist up the proper way, the way John had shown him, and punched his assailant in the eye, shattering the lens in his dark glasses.
“Fucker!”
Paul was so surprised by the profanity, he looked around to see if there was somebody standing behind him. There was no point in shouting, “You hit me first!” Everybody knew who hit who first. There was no question about who had started the fight. But now Paul was going to end it, because he had about as much as he could take of Stu’s shit. Hell, he had reached his personal Stuart Sutcliffe limit about five minutes after John and convinced the other man to buy a bass and join the band.
Stu, apparently, intended to avenge his broken glasses. The second punch was to Paul’s midsection, and it very narrowly avoided his guitar. George and John were still playing, but Paul wasn’t sure if that was because they didn’t want to fight, or because they simply hadn’t noticed the absence of the guitar and bass-line. Not that Stu ever did much with the bass.
“You twat!” Paul tossed the guitar to the side of the stage, too enraged by the way Stu narrowly missed hitting the instrument to be careful, and popped Stu in the other eye. He stumbled back, black glass clinging to his face, and blood dribbling down his face. His elbow hit the drum kit, and Pete stopped.
Unfortunately for Stu, his other elbow hit the small of John’s back. John reacted on instinct—later that’s what he would claim and Stu would nod and believe him—and smashed his elbow into Stu’s head. It didn’t slow Stu down a bit. He found his feet and charged forward. Paul’s eyes widened, and he tried to brace himself, but Stu had enough momentum to nearly knock them both off the stage. Paul caught himself, but their amp wasn’t so lucky.
“Take it back!”
Paul landed two quick blows to Stu’s midsection, then leveled another at his face. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and his jaw was finally starting to throb. He thought a bruise might be forming on his chest, and if his amp was broken, he was going to kill one Stuart Sutcliffe.
“Take it back!”
John caught Stu and pulled him back. Paul might have taken advantage of the fact Stu couldn’t move, but George grabbed him by the arm and tugged him to the corner of the stage. Pete didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. Paul wanted to punch him in the face, too. The band was fucking imploding in the middle of a fucking gig, and Pete couldn’t even look interested. He was too cool for that. Too above them.
“Let me go.”
“No.” John’s voice was surprisingly firm, and when he fixed his brown eyes on Paul, he felt the fight drain out of him. “Not right now.”
Paul spit on the ground near Stu’s feet. “Ahh, he started it.”
“You fuckin’ started it.”
John tugged on Stu’s arm. “We’re not getting paid to fight, boys.”
Paul looked out over the club, noticing the dozens of eyes trained on them for the first time. Including the eyes of the club’s manager. He’d just as soon toss them out on their asses, and then where would they be? His hand itched to close into another fist and finish what he had started, but common sense prevailed. For now. Paul relaxed, but he could still sense the tension in Stu’s body, like he hadn’t heard a fucking word John had said.
Because whatever slight Paul had committed, real or imagined, was apparently more important than the band. Paul shrugged away from George and bent to straighten his amp and pick up his guitar. His jaw was hurting more by the second, and he wasn’t sure he could sing, but he’d be damned before he said as much. He’d figure out a way to sing even if they had to wire his jaw shut.
“He started it, Johnny,” Stu repeated.
John wiped the sweat off his brow and nodded at Paul. “Some Little Richard, then?”
Stu took his broken glasses off and tucked them in his shirt pocket. He picked up his bass and Paul couldn’t keep the sneer off his face. Stu ignored him, or pretended to ignore him, and returned to his normal spot on the stage—against the wall, obscured by shadows. Pete twirled his drumsticks calmly. He didn’t even the decency to be impatient about it.
“Count us off,” George said, and Paul didn’t miss the way both he and John were careful to put themselves between Paul and Stu.
“Right. One, two three, four!”
Once the music started again, it was easy to lose himself in it. The beer and the pills and the adrenalin helped. He was actually a little glad they’d be there until around dawn, because he was far too wired to sleep. His fingers found the chords automatically, and when he opened his mouth, the song poured out of him like the music couldn’t be contained for another second. He shouted into the microphone, unmindful of how it might tear up his throat. The energy thrumming through him had to go somewhere.
Paul was glad they had a set playlist for Thursday nights, and it only varied slightly from the Friday night playlist. He knew the playlist like he knew his own name, and he moved from song to song, from tempo to tempo, without missing a beat. Soon, the pain in his chest and jaw faded. Soon after that, the memory of the fight followed suit. Occasionally, he glanced over to John, and a part of his mind would notice the way his shirt clung to his back, and the way his damp skin reflected the lights overhead, and the way it sounded like he was tearing up his throat, as well.
George smiled at him once in awhile. Paul smiled back, but only because he knew George had his back. Stuart might jump him after the show, and if he did, John would probably be on Stu’s side, just out of habit, and then Paul would either get the shit kicked out of him, or he’d have to run. But George was always surprisingly handy in a fight, and he didn’t like Stu either, so that was something.
After they finally played the last song of their last set, the manager started shouting at them in German. Paul pretended he didn’t understand, though he knew enough German to get by comfortably. Paul might have said something to John about the fucking Nazis, pretending that the manager’s English wasn’t as good as Paul’s German. They were still laughing when they stepped out of the club, and into gray, flannel light.
This time, Paul saw the fist coming, and he ducked out of the way, unapologetically using John as a shield. He’d fight Stu, but he did want to know why they were going to pummel each other. Generally, he needed a pretty good reason before he was willing to start bleeding.
“What the fuck is going on, Stu?”
“Get out of my way, John.”
“I’ll lay you flat myself if you don’t tell me what’s gotten into you.”
Stu curled his fists in his impotence and took a step back. Dark blood stained his face, not quite washed away by his sweat. “You heard what he said. About Astrid.”
John looked over his shoulder. “Did you say something about Astrid?”
Paul licked his lips. “Might have.” George was standing behind Stu, and he smirked. Paul almost grinned in return, but he managed to keep himself in check. “I don’t remember.”
“You fucking well do remember.”
“Go home, Paul.”
“You can’t just send me home.”
“Well, I did it.”
Paul looked from John to Stu and back again. “What are you going to do, Johnny? Tuck him in? Assure him that he’s not the biggest fucking wanker in all of Hamburg?”
“Just go on.”
Paul squared his shoulders and took an aggressive step forward, though a part of him knew he probably couldn’t take John in a fight if things escalated. “Why doesn’t he just admit what this really about? He’s pissed at me because he plays like shit and I’m tired of it.”
“This isn’t about the fucking band. Sod your band.”
Paul leapt forward, but John put two hands against Paul’s chest and pushed him back. That wasn’t enough to stop Paul from trying again. “Why won’t you just leave already then? What’s keeping you here?”
“I want him here.”
Now the smirk was gone from George’s face, and he took Paul’s arm once again. George was always handy in a fight. Sometimes it was because he knew when to stop one from starting.
“Let’s just go, Paulie.”
Paul never looked away from John’s face, and this time, it wasn’t just the fight that drained out of him. The energy seeped from his limbs. Like he was finally crashing from the pills. He let George drag him down the nearly deserted road. This was the only time of the day the Reeperbahn wasn’t completely packed with milling tourists and strippers and whores and dealers and pimps.
“You know he didn’t really mean anything by that.”
Paul adjusted the guitar strap on his shoulder. “Yes, he did.”
“Stu’s just been his friend for a long time.”
Paul snorted. “I know how long they’ve been friends.”
“It’s John’s band and…”
Paul reacted without thinking, his fingers closing around George’s wet shirt, and he pushed him back to the nearby wall. “It’s not John’s bloody band.”
“All right, Paul. You’re right. It’s not.”
Paul shook his head and released George. “Sorry. I just…it’s been a long night.”
“I know. Look, between you and me, I doubt Stu is going to stick around for much longer anyway.”
“Why shouldn’t he? It’s a nice gig for him, isn’t it? Gets all the free beer and pills he wants, and he gets paid to stand around do shit.”
“He’d rather be keeping time with Astrid.”
“Yeah. But John wants him here.”
Paul lapsed into silence then, and George tried to talk about the show, but Paul ignored him. He wasn’t in a chatty mood and his jaw fucking hurt. What was Stu thinking, hitting him like that? He had to sing. Just because Stu didn’t have to play or sing to be in the band didn’t mean they all had the same luxury. He knew he needed to get some ice on it, but he forgot at the club, and where the fuck were they going to find ice.
“I’m hungry.”
George rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a few crumpled Deutche Marks. “I’ve got enough for breakfast.”
“Think you can find some ice?”
George shrugged. “Do you need it?”
Paul turned his head. “Does it look like it?”
George grimaced. “That’s going to be one hell of a bruise. I’ll find you some ice.”
“You’re a good mate.”
“He shouldn’t have hit you like that.”
Paul touched his jaw gingerly. “Yeah, but I got a few good blows in.”
“I thought he was going to cry when you broke his glasses.” They both chuckled darkly at that, and George hit him on the shoulder. “You go on ahead. I’ll bring you some food back.”
By the time Paul made it to the Bambi Kino, he was feeling the fight more thoroughly. His fists hurt. His arms hurt. His chest hurt. His head was fucking killing him, though he didn’t blame Stu’s fists for that. He blamed John for that. John and his fucking devotion to a piker who didn’t even deserve it. As much as Paul tried, he could never figure out what was so special about Stuart Sutcliffe. He was a talented artist, but John was more talented. He was funny, but John had a better sense of humor. He was handsome, Paul supposed, but hardly remarkable. Not remarkable enough to keep around for years, that was for damned sure.
I want him here.
Paul slammed his fist into a pillow, but that didn’t do anything except make his hand hurt more. And also make him wish he had a better pillow. Paul stood in the middle of the tiny room he shared with John and for a moment, that tiny room was all he could see. All he could see. There was no moving up. There was no toppermost. There was nothing except an endless string of tiny, freezing rooms, and John, and Stuart Fucking Sutcliffe.
Paul collapsed on his cot and pushed his shoes off. His clothes were sticky and itchy, and he wanted nothing more than to peel them off. His knuckles were bruised. That rekindled the anger in his chest, but he was too tired to do anything about it. He tugged the shirt overhead, then pushed the tight pants down his narrow hips. Was the girl who did the laundry coming by that day? Paul couldn’t remember, but he had a bit of money, and he hoped she was.
He stretched out on his narrow bed and pulled the Union Jack up over his hips. The hollow pit in his stomach seemed to grow with each passing second. Paul always hated that the most—the hunger that gnawed at him every morning. Coming down from the alcohol and drugs and adrenalin wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t feel like he was being turned inside out.
Paul didn’t look up when his door opened. “ ‘bout bloody time.”
“I didn’t know you were waiting for me.”
Paul lifted his head long enough to eye John. “I wasn’t. I thought you were George.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Buying breakfast. And getting some ice.”
“For your jaw? Let me see.”
“Why?”
“Damnit, Paul. Just let me have a look.”
Paul obediently turned his head, letting the light catch the bruise on his jaw. John studied it for a moment, then stepped back. “Stu’s got a couple of shiners.”
“He had them coming. He started it.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Fuck you. He sucker punched me.”
“I’m not talking about tonight.” John sat down on his cot, but the room was narrow enough, Paul could touch his knee. If he wanted. “I mean, this tension between you two. It’s been going on for awhile. Stu knows how you feel about him.”
“Well, yeah. I tell him to his face every bloody night. I thought he’d get the point by now.”
“Maybe you should get over it.”
“Maybe you should blow it out your ass, John. I’m not going to get over the fact that he’s fucking ruining the band. What does he contribute? What? You can’t name one fucking thing. Except maybe blowjobs.”
“Careful, Paulie.”
Paul tried to brace himself for the blow that didn’t come. John wasn’t above punching a guy in the ribs, even if the guy was technically already down.
“He’s in love with Astrid, you know.”
Paul eyed John carefully, but he didn’t move, so Paul relaxed again. “Good for him.”
“He’s not a threat to you.”
“He’s a threat as long as he’s destroying the band. I don’t give a fuck if he’s your best fucking mate on the planet. He’s destroying the band.”
“And you’re jealous.”
“Oh sod off, John.” But there wasn’t much bite behind his voice, and they both knew why. He was jealous of Stu. A little. A lot. And they both knew why, so it seemed rather stupid to even talk about it. Paul didn’t actually know just what was going on between John and Stu, but it didn’t matter. He knew enough.
John moved so fast, he expected a strike. He was still braced for a punch when John’s mouth pressed against his. It wasn’t the first time John had kissed him, though it was the first time John had done it with an intent other than cutting Paul off mid-sentence. Usually, when John kissed him, it was to shut him up or prove a point. John was a physical person, and he’d resort to any form of violence to make an impression. Regardless of the motive, it was always hard and demanding, and might as well be a punch to the mouth. But this time was different. Paul wasn’t sure how, or why, but it was. Entirely different. And he responded differently, too.
After a few moments, he understood. It was soothing, somehow. The muted anger he could still taste on the back of his tongue began to fade, and the ache in his body eased. He forgot about the bruises on his jaw, and his chest, and his knuckles. It was reassuring, too, because John was there. Touching him, and overwhelming him, and there. Not out doing God knew what with Stu.
When the kiss broke, John didn’t pull away. He rested his brow against Paul’s, and he smelled of sweat and beer and music. His clothes were filthy. His hair was filthy, too. They both needed to shower, but Paul didn’t mind. In a lot of ways, John smelled like home to him. It already felt like he belonged wherever John was, and probably always would. So when John overwhelmed his senses, Paul didn’t resist.
“He doesn’t have to say in the band. He wants out.”
“And you’re going to let him?”
John cupped the back of his head, his strong fingers pressing into Paul’s scalp. “I’d rather you were in the band.”
“Because I actually know how to play? Or because I actually want to be there?”
John only grinned and kissed him again. Paul gripped the back of John’s neck, and let his tongue fill his mouth. They remained locked like that, unmoving except for their tongue, and silent except for tiny, soft moans, until a knock on the door interrupted them.
“There’s your food,” John said.
“Tell him to go away.”
“He’ll want to know why.”
“Not if you say it.”
John cocked an eyebrow skeptically, but he still shouted, “Oy, George, leave it by the door.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Paul smirked. “Told ya.”
“He doesn’t do everything I say.”
Paul didn’t bother correcting him, just cupped the back of his head and brought their mouths together again. John stretched out more fully over his body, pinning him to the bed with narrow hips and bony knees. The kiss deepened and grew hungrier with every sweep of their tongues. When Paul realized that John wasn’t holding anything back, he let go of the shields he always kept so carefully in place and responded in kind.
Paul pawed at John’s shirt, pulling it up until most of his back was exposed to Paul’s fingers. He skimmed his palms over the smooth skin, pausing each time he reached the small ridge or dip of a scar. John’s bodies were covered in them. Paul knew the origins of some, but not of others. He’d ask if he thought John would tell him, but John never gave details. Maybe he couldn’t remember them. Maybe a part of him was ashamed of them. It didn’t matter either way. Paul loved every single mark on John’s body. They shaped him.
John sat up long enough to yank the T-shirt over his head, and then their mouths were fused together again. Their bodies moved and slid together and their breaths came in sharper gasps. John’s weight on his bruises should have been uncomfortable, but Paul welcomed the texture of his skin, the heat of his flesh, the angular shape of his frame fitting so perfectly against his own body.
John reached between them and pushed the Union Jack out of the way, and the smooth leather of his pants slid against Paul’s aching prick. He moaned and jerked his hips, grinding his erection against John’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that hard. Maybe the last time John had kissed him. He cupped John’s ass with both hands, holding him closer and increasing the pressure on his groin. John gasped against his mouth, and that little hint of his arousal made Paul’s head spin. He had no power over John, and he knew it. Except for the times he did. Like at that moment.
Paul’s fingers were slick and desperate as he tugged at John’s zipper. The leather always looked great, but it could be a real pain in the ass. John helped him, pulling at the material until it was past his hips and he could kick the pants off. Once they were both naked, they both froze, their chests rising and falling with harsh breaths. John’s skin was wet with sweat and when he lifted his head, his hair was stuck to his brow. He stared at Paul for a long beat and Paul heard cymbals crashing, echoing in his ears. He always heard music.
John touched the bruise on the side of Paul’s cheek with the callused tip of his finger. He couldn’t read John’s eyes. He had no idea what was going on in his head, if he was thinking about the fight, or if he was thinking about Stu, or something else entirely. He wasn’t going to make Stu leave the band. Paul understood that. He accepted it. What else could he do? Push John away? That was never an option. That never would be an option.
Pushing Stu out of his mind, Paul lifted his head and caught John’s bottom lip with his mouth. He sucked on it gently before fully capturing John’s mouth, their tongues sliding together once again. He ran his fingers through John’s hair, pushing the damp strands away from his face, before trailing his fingers down John’s neck and along his spine. John deepened the kiss until once again they were swept away by hunger and mutual need. Paul’s hips started moving again, his cock dragging against John’s stomach, leaving a trail of pre-come to mingle with the sweat.
“Wait a second,” John said, pulling away from the kiss.
“What?” Paul gasped. “Where are you going?”
John didn’t answer, but he wasn’t going far. He leaned off the edge of the cot and reached for his pillow, long fingers fumbling with the dirty linen until he grunted in triumph and held up his closed fist. “Found it.”
“Found what?”
“This,” John said holding up a small bottle. “Lube.”
Paul’s eyes widened. He didn’t bother asking where John had found it or why he had it—he could imagine about two dozen equally plausible reasons—but he did want to know just what John thought he was going to do with it. John poured it over his palms and along his cock, then slicked his palm up and down his length.
“What are you doin’?” Paul asked as John kneeled on the cot, his knees pressing against Paul’s hips.
John answered by wrapping his fingers around Paul’s prick. He jerked like John’s fingers were hotwires, his muscles in his thighs and ass clenching. Heat engulfed him and his balls tightened. It didn’t matter what John wanted to do. It didn’t matter what John said or didn’t say. It didn’t even matter how they got there. All thoughts of Stu and the fight broke away. They drifted farther and farther away while his entire world focused on John and the desire coiling around both of them.
There were reasons to stop John. Good ones. Ones that he had considered over and over, increasingly desperate to create barriers between himself and his own lust. But he couldn’t remember any of them now. His brain was a sea of images and music, waves breaking until everything was broken and muddled together. He wanted to be with John. Every decision he ever made in his life came down to that fact. No sense in pretending otherwise.
It hurt like he knew it would. But it was like the fights John always dragged him into. At first the fists and blows stung and his body shouted in protest, but then there was that rush of energy and adrenaline. That heady sense that they were invulnerable and the pain just meant they were alive. Nothing could touch them when they were like that. Not when they were fighting together and not when they were playing together. He hooked his legs and arms around John, holding him tightly as he pushed deeper into Paul’s body. The sun shining through the union jack hanging over the window cast John’s skin in blue and red. Paul followed the line of one of the shadows along John’s face with his tongue until he reached John’s mouth. Their lips crashed together, and he felt John’s moan vibrate through his lips.
Paul picked up John’s lead as easily as when they jammed together. There was no question of what he was doing, of how he was moving. No question of the rhythm or the tempo. He rose to meet each thrust forward, matching John for each roll of his hips. Everything throbbed. He felt his heart pounding in his groin and behind his eyes. Each brush of contact sensitized his skin until he couldn’t stand the friction.
When he was really flying, he lost all sense of time. That was why they could play for three hours solid without taking a break. When you don’t feel the passage of time, it couldn’t harm you. He didn’t have as many pills in his system now, but he had something even better, and the elasticity returned. Paul clung to John as the only real thing in his world, and they might have been locked together like that for the entire day.
Paul lost control first, pleasure rushing through him until he reached a high he’d never experienced before. When John followed, he shuddered and sighed Paul’s name, his cock pulsing in Paul’s tight body. They collapsed together, John resting his head on Paul’s shoulder. Paul closed his eyes and turned his head slight, pressing his mouth to John’s damp hair. Everything felt like it might be alright. Stuart Sutcliffe might be a thorn in his side, but Stu had already fallen in love and made his choice. And so had Paul.
