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“The producers were wondering whether you'd like to be Thisbe,” relayed Brian nervously.
Paul flicked the ash off his cigarette. “Me?”
“What, because of his plucked well-shaped eyebrows?” John quoted playfully one of the fans' comments.
Paul shoved him.
“Why don't you ask Ringo? He's good at acting and he'd make a nice enough lass,” offered Paul.
“I wouldn't mind. But I haven't got the cute title.” Ringo laughed.
Paul took another drag of the cig and looked longly at George who just sat with indifference, visibly upset at even having to appear in the play at all.
But when you get a chance to do a skit on TV, celebrating Shakespeare's 400th (not that it had anything to do with just filling the time for the special) you can't really deny, can you? Brian certainly couldn't, thought Paul and scoffed.
“Now, don't get yer knickers in a twist. I'll do it.” John patted Paul's leg and stood up, accentuating his words.
Paul smirked around his cig and put it out in the ashtray on Brian's desk. “Great. It's meant to be a skit anyway, y'know? We don't have to make anything look convincing."
John turned towards him and nodded. “Macca’s right. It's not supposed to be serious, but the audience might take it that way if we've got him as the bird.”
Paul side-glared at him but didn't protest.
Brian looked worried, but then again Paul supposed that was just his neutral face at this point.
“They've already marked the scripts for Paul as Thisbe.”
“Without bloody consulting me?” Paul laughed and reached out for another fag but was shot down by Brian's disapproving look. “Look, just tell ‘em to cross me off if the fools already got it printed.”
Brian scrunched his hand with his other one then nodded. “All right. Are you sure about this, John?”
“I don't mind a little bit of silly dress up. It will be a right laugh, I'm telling ya. The birds will like it.”
“Says the married man,” George commented with the first instance of a smile during the entire meeting.
“Oh I'm sorry Hazza, I forgot making a bird laugh is the same as shaggi–” John burst out.
“John.” Brian warned.
John raised his arms in defeat and sat back down. He leaned over to Paul's seat but looked at their manager.
“I'm just not sure they'll buy him as Pyramus,” he confessed with mock worry, cocking his head toward Paul.
“Better than they'd do you, Lennon,” Paul defended and swatted him.
“They'd do me, all right.” John swatted him back.
They went back and forth for a few seconds, shoving at each other playfully, before Brian cleared his throat.
“Thank you. Now that that's settled, you're free to go. I'll be in contact.”
“Yeah, we know,” John said and stood up with a huff, then they all walked out.
“Have you read what Alistair sent over?” John said when Paul emerged from his room. He was perched on the couch with his feet on the coffee table, holding a bunch of papers. The room was illuminated by the slowly peeking out from the horizon sun and a little lamp near the couch.
Paul yawned. “Why are you up already?”
John put down his legs back on the ground with a thump. “Have you?”
Paul grimaced. “Didn't the scripts arrive only today? How could I have read them?”
John patted the seat beside him. “Come and check them out, then.”
“Not before my cuppa,” grunted Paul, but John was already standing up and pulling at him to sit with him. Paul looked him over.
“Who are you and what have you done with the real John?”
John looked back at him, exasperated. “Just because I've woken up earlier than you, doesn't mean there's an alien invasion.”
Paul wrapped himself with his hands and rubbed his shoulders to get himself warmed up and woken up. It was a surprisingly cold early morning for April, but that was probably the ‘used to the New York apartment’ Paul's opinion. Their Mayfair abode wasn't so forgiving.
“No, it's the giddiness that's concerning, especially on a rare day off.” Paul yawned again. “You know we're not back at filming for a few days yet, right?”
John's expression turned colder. “I'm not giddy.”
Paul took the papers from John's hands and blinked a few times as he looked them over. John joined him shortly. Paul pointed at theirs and the characters names on the second page with a chuckle.
“They really did cross off our names.”
They continued flipping through the script.
Paul cleared his throat. “O thou, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall.” he said with a smile, reading the lines with drama. “Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne!”
John joined in with a gruff voice, intentionally making it even deeper than what his normal one sounded like. “O wall, full often has thy heard my moans, for parting my fair Pyramus and me!” He shook a fist in the air.
“That's good. Y'know, you're a natural John, at playing a girl that is.”
“Says you. When our film will come out, I bet the reviews will mostly mention your girly appeal,” sniped back John.
“As if they don't do that already. But at least I'm not the one of the two of us to actually play a girl.”
“You don't need to play, Macca, that's the thing.” John smirked.
Paul elbowed him and they both snickered, throwing the papers on the coffee table.
“When are the rehearsals?” John asked, while reaching out for his packet of cigarettes.
“Brian said on the 24th and 25th, then a dress rehearsal on the 27th, but you'd know that if you’d have listened for once in your life.” Paul reached out for one and brought it to his lips. John lit them up.
“What about A Hard Day's Night? We can't be both at rehearsals and filming. Are they tryna kill us?”
“Ringo's only got one final scene to do on the 24th, we don't even need to be there really.”
John took a drag. “How will we get through the scenes without the lion to assist us then?”
Paul smiled at him. He raised his chin with the cig still in his mouth. “O dear Thisbe, though the path be thorn’d, we shall not yield nor falter.”
On the second day of rehearsal, Paul was lying down on the floor, John crouching right next to him.
“Pyramus, arise, arise!” John said to him, looking down at him with a hint of a smile. “Speak! Speak!”
“Have you boys seen George?” Brian approached them, and Paul lifted his head, supporting himself on elbows.
“Dunno. Maybe the digestives really did what their name suggests,” John answered.
Brian sighed and rubbed his face.
“He's already got his part down, y'know,” supplied Paul. He cocked his head towards John. “It's just Johnny here that needs work.”
John gasped. “I was under the impression we're doing this because you needed help. Here's my generosity for you.” he rolled his eyes. Suddenly he collapsed on his arse, his calves getting cramps.
Paul laughed and John looked at him with a reserved grin. Then he broke himself.
“Think that's enough for today, Pyramus luv,” John admitted.
It all started when the next day they were all called to try on the costumes.
“What is this even supposed to resemble?” Paul asked as he flipped his helmet over, scrutinizing it with a grimace, almost finished with dressing up.
“I look like I just came in straight from bed and gained at least 40 years in age,” George complained.
“Cor, I'm gonna get so sweaty under this,” Ringo joined in, petting his costume's crown of hair.
“Oh don't you start. Look at me hair!” John exclaimed and Paul turned to look at him.
He felt a weird stutter in his heart as he looked his mate over. John had a white plain dress on, reaching up to his calves. It had a long ribbon sticking out from the front, right above it was a big ‘T’ in capital letters which matched his own “P’. He thought it was a bit of an useless design choice, since John was the only one who even remotely looked like a woman and he was the only one of the men in proper clothes. The dress at the bottom had some kind of symbolic or abstract shapes he couldn't quite place.
John's real hair was sticking out rather goofily from under the blonde wig. Its hair was tied to the sides with another bunch of ribbons.
It looked like a caricature. It should have looked ridiculous. The lads certainly found it sufficiently so, as they laughed when they saw John who struck a funny pose and twirled the dress, but Paul couldn't find a laugh in his throat to let out.
John laughed with them and showed off his teeth, which made Paul's heartbeat worse as he noticed the clearly drawn with a pen toothgap.
Was it premature show stress? He was usually great with that, consoling himself that once they start playing, it always disappears as the performing excitement takes over.
Maybe he was just worried that the costume was too silly, even for a satire like that.
John turned toward him. “Ridiculous, innit? The gap definitely sells it.” As he said it, he showed off his teeth again.
Paul approached him with the, he told himself, sole purpose of wanting to check the costume out for any errors. He reached out for the wig and touched it quietly, feeling the standoffish material between his fingertips. He then groped the dress’ ribbon.
John gave him a strange look.
Paul wretched his hand away and offered John a smirk. “Yea, ridiculous.” He rubbed his nose.
When they changed out of the costumes, Paul’s gaze lingered on John. This time he didn't feel odd. He glanced back with a weird sort of trepidation at Thisbe’s dress where it was hung up again on a hanger. Nothing wrong on that front either.
He shook his head. No, he mustn't let the nerves get the better of him. Maybe he just needs a drink at home.
When they were leaving the dressing room, Paul looked back one more time.
“Everything all right up in Maccaland? John poked at his forehead and sat down next to him on the couch where Paul was watching the telly and idly sipping on a beer.
It was already dark outside and the only lighting in the room was provided by the flickering screen. George and Ringo were out, so Paul was surprised to see John not with them.
Paul chewed on his lip. “Hm?” he hummed, letting John know he's got his attention, but refusing to meet his eyes.
“You're worried about something. Is there something not to our princess’s liking?” John leaned closer.
Paul slightly leaned away.
“Are you sick?” he asked, his voice betraying a hint of worry.
Maybe he was sick. Because what could explain the fact that every time he closed his eyes, he saw John in that ridiculous costume, spinning like a bird and flashing a warm smile that made him feel wrong. He knew it wasn't John's fault, but he felt looking at him would make it even worse.
He took a swig of the cold bottle.
“Is it me?”
Paul paled. “What?”
John shifted. “You’ve been looking at me weirdly ever since I dressed as Thisbe. Do I really look that bad in that costume?” He chuckled, but Paul could tell he was hurt.
He shook his head. “No! You look great. I'm just.. feeling a bit nervous and it's been, y'know, bothering me.”
John grinned. “Great?” The grin felt mocking, amused almost, but also betrayed a hint of something else.
Paul exhaled through his nose. “You know what I meant.” he fidgeted with the bottle in his hand. “I've just got this weird feeling and can't let it go. It feels like nerves but not really. Y'know, just, my heart races when I think of..” he chanced a glance at John who was quietly observing him. He looked back at the telly. “Uh, the play.”
John stayed unusually silent by his side. A hand landed on his shoulder.
“You should go to bed. Rest will do ya some good.”
John stood up and left the room. Paul timidly watched him leave. He felt the residual warmth on his shoulder all the way back to his room.
He doubted it was the nerves this time.
On the morning of the dress rehearsal, Paul was full of jittery energy. He'd say it resembled anticipation, but what could he possibly be excited about?
He didn't drink coffee this time, not even his tea, but had a wank in the shower, while thinking about nothing at all. He thought he was in the clear when it actually helped.
On the way there, he chewed on his nail as he looked out the window, desperately trying not to think about what could be happening to him.
The lads talked casually, at first trying to include him but ultimately letting him be, knowing that they too sometimes get in a specific mood that talking can't coerce them out of.
As they were guided into the building, Paul lit up a cigarette and tried to let himself relax.
John bumped his shoulder, probably figuring Paul must be out of his funky mood. He turned toward him.
“Hm?”
John snatched the fag from his mouth and brought it to his own lips. Paul’s eyes naturally followed the man's fingers.
“Do you really..” John slowed down in their path, letting the rest pass them by and he trailed off into a whisper. “It’s not so bad, then?”
Paul matched his pace and leaned in to hear him better. “What isn't?”
“The, uh,” John gestured at himself then made a pantomime of the twirling dress and sticking up wig. “Y'know.”
“I s’ppose not.” He shrugged.
“Hm,” John puffed and nodded a single curt, then sped up his stride, joining the rest.
In the dressing room, he focused on getting into his own clothes a little bit harder than usual, but when he turned, his breath caught.
Here he was again, John in a bird’s costume, currently struggling to put on the wig without it falling off. Ringo was standing in front of him, watching him thoughtfully. Shouldn't he also be getting ready? John surely could manage on his own, he didn't need a—
“Paul?” George asked and Paul jostled as he noticed the younger man standing closer to him than he was just a few seconds ago.
Paul looked at him and noticed George looking back with a scrutinizing look.
“You all ri–”
“Paul, do you think a ribbon could help keep it down properly?” Ringo asked.
The bassist looked at Ringo, then John. He smiled with a crooked mouth. “It's worth a try.” He went over to a box sitting under a bunch of other costumes lined up on a bunch of hangers, and shuffled through the contents.
“You should get dressed yourself, Ritchie. Let Lennon worry about himself,” he spoke over his shoulder with a forced smile.
Paul could hear a shuffle of feet behind him then two hushed voices. Aha!
He pulled out a red ribbon and smirked as he realized it was the perfect colour, as it matched all the other ribbons on John's clothing. Paul approached John and reached out his hands above the man's head, gathering a bunch of fake hair from the top of the wig and tying it with the ribbon. John grinned.
“What?” Paul asked.
“Someone's in a better mood.” John commented.
Paul realized he was still foolishly smiling and quickly wiped it off his face. With a raised eyebrow he looked John in the eye.
“Better?”
“I didn't say I minded it,” he reassured.
Paul kept the gaze. Surprisingly, John's eyes looked even darker in this light. They were just in bloody America and yet they still can't get properly lighted rooms back home. What a joke, he thought. He noted John's slightly dilated pupils. John's oval shaped eyes scrunched around the edges in that lovely way they always did when he tried to see something better. It couldn't possibly be good for his eyes, but the action was familiar enough that it made Paul's smile appear back on his face. John's eyes flicked down at his upturned lips then darted away.
Paul, with a quickened pulse, scrambled to finish tying the ribbon. He looped the material again around the messy tophead ponytail, then cupped John's cheeks with it and made a bow under his chin.
“Good?” Paul asked and placed his palms on his hips.
John moved his head from side to side, then thrashed around more aggressively, properly testing out the durability of the flimsy bit of silk. “Good.” John smiled at him.
Paul looked back to see George and Ringo already dressed up and leaning into each other as they chatted. He caught their eye and nodded.
His heart was speeding like a hatter’s, like he just ran a distance, and he took deep breaths trying to slow its work.
“Ready?” Ringo asked.
Something tugged at his sleeve and he was tugged along, stumbling a bit backwards.
“Still nervous?” John asked quietly in his ear, holding onto his elbow. The warm breath involuntarily caused a shiver and gooseflesh across his body. The warm touch.. was doing things to him.
He felt a bout of hotness come over him and he released a rugged exhale hoping to calm it. “I'm all right.” He chanced a look in John's direction and noticed his worried expression.
“I need to take a piss,” John announced and dragged Paul along with him out of the door.
“I too need assistance with peeing. Don't you, Rich?” George snarked, as he lit up a fag.
“Constantly.” Ringo laughed.
Paul took off the plumed helmet and frantically splashed his face with cold water from the sink. Then, he put his head under the running tap and submerged himself in it. He wiped the water from his eyes as he straightened out.
“What's wrong with you?” John asked from behind him with an alarmed tone. He was leaning against one of the stalls and looking Paul over in the mirror.
“Dunno. Nothing.” Paul shot with a too shaky voice for his liking.
John closed in on him and put a reassuring hand on his lower back. Paul flinched and moved away.
“The TV special is tomorrow,” stated John blankly.
“I know that!” He shouted out of nowhere. Paul cleared his throat in embarrassment. “I'm all right. I'll be fine. Let's go rehearse.”
During the rehearsal, Paul had a niggling sensation in the back of his head. He tried to keep the thoughts away, but it was becoming clear what the fuss was about. Or was it? He certainly didn't feel clear headed.
All throughout it, his eyes kept following John every step of the way.
After the dress rehearsal, Paul claimed he felt sick, but that he should recover by tomorrow. He decided that he couldn't spend the night at Mayfair.
“Hello Mrs. Asher, could I come over for the night?”
“What a stupid question. Of course, dear. You know you're always welcome at our house. I'm sure Janey will be pleased, she's missed you, what with you being all around the world these days.”
On the drive there, Paul cursed at himself.
It was obvious when he thought of it now. It all started when John dressed up as Thisbe, didn't it? He must have gone mad. Maybe the pressure was getting to him, maybe he's just been missing a good shag, but he couldn't deny the effect it had on him.
It… As if it wasn't his best mate he was thinking about. Maybe he's gone queer. Should he ask Brian for advice? No, that wouldn't do. He could just have a kink or something for men in women's clothes. What were they called? Drag.. something… transvestites? Fuck, he couldn't think properly. They've seen plenty of them in Hamburg though and it never did a thing for him. Maybe it was just the German ones that didn't do much for him, should he try looking for something over here?
No, he shouldn't. Shouldn't try, shouldn't look, shouldn't go that path at all. He had a girl, he had a good happy life and going by Brian's example, he shouldn't explore any quirks unless he wants all of that gone.
But he couldn't keep his eyes off John today. It was an irrefutable fact. John, his best mate of 7 years, his bandmate, his songwriting partner. John, with his broad manly shoulders, with his flat chest, with his big hands and hairy sturdy legs. John with a flashing smile and a bad temper and shiny brown, verging on red-ish, hair that was rapidly outgrowing their moptops and intense eyes that are in desperate need of glasses he refuses to wear.
A honk from behind startled him and he realized that the light had already turned green.
It was no good thinking it over, he'll just get himself more riled up.
When he entered the Asher property, he was quickly welcomed by a warm embrace. “Paul!” exclaimed Jane, taking his breath away as she practically jumped on him. “Haven't you got that play thing?”
He reciprocated the hug then drew back to see her face and smiled with hopefully enough excitement about seeing her to drown out any other possible emotion that could be visible on him. “Yeah, I've got the play thing. But I missed you, I've barely seen you since we came back.”
She quickly kissed him and he felt at ease, thinking that this is how it should be, that this is what life is all about. He surely can't be that messed up, then. It's a misunderstanding, surely, a misfiring of the neurons or something.
Jane dragged him inside and he was greeted by her parents, then led upstairs to his room in the attic.
Paul spent the entirety of the long long night with Jane curled up next to him and he didn't even spare a single second thinking about John in drag. His mind steered clear of the view of John's prominent leg hair underneath that flimsy fabric. It also steered clear of any other prominent things he'd find there.
In the morning, he woke up feeling randier than he's felt in years, like he's just gone back to his teenage years, and when Jane woke up, Paul made amends for all the time they spent apart.
He explicitly didn't connect the want with anything John related.
Paul ate breakfast in complete silence. Jane's parents at work and her going back to sleep left him sitting alone at the dinner table, a clock ticking steadily in the background and he was left with nothing to entertain him but his own thoughts he'd fought hard to avoid.
Should he tell John about it? They've shared enough in their lives with each other, they've connected on so many unimaginable levels, maybe somehow John would get it? But John wasn't a queer, how could he get it? Paul obviously wasn't one either, but this behaviour had to border on something.
Even with a shag, the thoughts wouldn't go away. He wouldn't entertain them, but he felt them around the corner, creeping up, just waiting for him to turn his head and forget for just a moment.
He decided to seal them away, as far as he could, until further notice, which meant hopefully never. He was supposedly good at it, wasn't he? Jane complained enough about it.
He hummed a tune all the way to the show, while trying to revise some of his lines, both for the songs and the play. It's not that they actually had to sing the songs, but it'd be nice to remember what he had to mime.
At 11am he met up with the lads at the back entrance of Wembley Studio, away from the fans.
They all looked at him with different hints of worry.
John came up to him. “You aight?” he whispered.
Paul felt a heat shoot up his spine but just firmly smiled. “Why wouldn't I be?” he responded loudly enough for George and Ringo to hear him.
The rest seemed satisfied with the answer, at least they pretended to be, but John still had a sour expression on him. Paul ignored it. “So, are we really having another final rehearsal today?”
“Ridiculous, innit?” George piped up. “It's like they don't trust us to do a simple play. We must be worse than elementary school kids.”
“Speak for yourself.” Ringo quipped.
“Beatles!” called a man's voice. He came up to them with a sure strut and led them to the stage.
Luckily this time they didn't have to dress up for the rehearsal, since it wouldn't be efficient to keep dressing up and down and up and… you get it.
On the way there, Paul kept feeling John's eyes burn into his skull.
Time passed relatively quickly, which Paul wasn't sure if he preferred it to time unnecessarily prolonging itself. They did the rehearsal one more time, then got a break that they spent wandering around the place, eating in the cafeteria, playing cards, talking about nothing in particular. Then they got interviewed for a Swedish radio program. As it neared 9pm, they got a chance to meet up with Cilla, which they also spent the entirety of just chatting, catching up with each other.
Turns out that the show consisted of their two segments, then there were people like Cilla Black, The Jets, Millie, The Vernon Girls and some other people performing after them.
Once finally on stage, most of the lights blacked out and they had to mime playing on trumpets while a fanfare played in the background. They were dressed in even sillier costumes than the ones they got for the play. Renaissance pageantry reminiscent, they were told, a courtly jester-like flair. The tights made Paul's legs itchy and crotch awfully uncomfortable already.
Afterwards, they slowly exited, then ran to the dressing room.
In the dressing room, Paul's gaze followed John's movements closely, seemingly on its own, which he didn't overthink. In a room full of people, he always looked for John anyway, since he's the best person he could think of to spend his time with.
When they were finishing up, John caught his gaze and beckoned him over.
“Tie me ribbon, will ye, good lad?” John said in a higher-pitched voice.
“Aye, aye.” Paul mock saluted and did the same thing he did last time, tying the ribbon around the bit of hair on top, then made a nice bow underneath John's chin.
“Yer no fun. Indulge a lady, will ye?” John moaned.
Paul smiled meekly, then turned back toward the mirror, fixing up his hair that was sticking out from the helmet.
Soon they were called out and before he knew it, his brain turned off and he became the Beatle Paul. The audience was filled with screaming boys and girls alike, though they weren't all positive screams they usually got.
Before he even got a chance to speak, someone shouted from the scaffolding: “Go back to Liverpool!” which quickly became a theme for the whole play. Various shouts, whistles and comments flew in their direction.
It didn't bother him, though. Not as much as it ordinarily would, not while John was standing right there in front of him, his ridiculous wig sticking out in three different directions, a secret smile dancing on the corners of his mouth, his clearly manly hands holding onto the Wall's chink, as he proclaimed with a comedically gruff voice “My love, my love..”
The same amount of patience and nonplussed attitude couldn't describe the other lads, though. George ended up threatening a member of the crowd, while John just blatantly shouted “Shut up!” when they interrupted.
It didn't deter from the fact that seconds prior to that, his heart was racing as John listed off his features as one would with a lover. The only way he could keep his composure was by doing the one thing John always excelled at – making goofy faces.
When they held hands in the death scene, Paul couldn't help but feel his own become clammy.
They quickly announced another act, then scrambled away back to the dressing room to get ready for their segment of pantomime. That is, lip syncing to recordings of songs they've done a few days before that.
This time when they entered the stage again, the cheers were more enthusiastic and as they started “Twist and Shout”, the world faded away as he tried to lose himself in something he detested doing. Why play for an audience, when you're not really playing nor singing? As an audience member, he'd be disappointed.
They played a few more covers, then their own Can't Buy Me Love, as well as a medley of their first hit singles, then another cover and finally the evening ended as they made their usual bows.
As they cooled off in the dressing room, John bargained with some staff member if he could keep his costume by saying that he wanted to show it to Cyn. For what reason, Paul couldn't understand it. Maybe she could use the dress’ material to sew something? Who knew? He was sure she wouldn't wear the thing.
When Paul took off to go to the bathroom, he quickly noticed an additional pair of footsteps right behind him, clicking on the floors. Suddenly, he was pulled back and pushed into a room to his right. Turns out it was a janitor's closet, though a much bigger one than he was usually used to seeing around. That's Wembley Studios for you, he supposed.
“All right, now will you tell me what's wrong with you?” John leaned against the door and crossed his arms. That's when Paul registered that John was back in his costume as the man's forearms were in clear view.
“There's nothing wrong with me. Everything went well today, I'm glad because of it, aren't you?”
“Don't turn this around to me. I know you, Paul, just spit out what your problem is,” John spat with an accusatory finger pointing at Paul.
“Drop it, John, I haven't got a problem.”
“Is this about the dress-up thing?”
Paul swallowed but didn't back down with his tone. “Why would I have a problem with it?” His irritation at answering the same question again made itself known. He had enough repetition with the press, he didn't need it in his personal relations too.
“You tell me!”
“Why do you care so much anyway?”
John flushed almost imperceptibly. "Because you've been off for a few days now and it's throwing the rest of us off too.”
“George and Ringo don't seem to have a problem with me. You're the only one staring at me like I'm a lunatic!”
“Only because you keep staring at me whenever I wear this fuckin’ dress, you bloody queer!”
“You– huh?” Paul stuttered, his heart missing a beat. John looked at him with his usual soul penetrating gaze. “That's not funny, John.”
“It wasn't meant to be funny.”
“How could you possibly think–?!” Paul startled.
“Well what am I supposed to think, Paul?” John leaned away from the door and took a step toward him. “If you won't tell me anything.”
John was standing now close enough for them to share the air flowing in-between them. Paul's eyes darted to the side. “It’s, it's not..” he uttered. “..like that.”
John's eyes went wide like a cat's. “How is it, then?”
Paul stepped away from John and bit on his nail in habit. He exhaled loudly then it was his turn to lean against the door. He slid down its frame and ended up on his bum on the floor. John joined him, and crossed his legs in front of him, causing one of his knees to nudge up against Paul's. The dress slipped up a bit in the process, revealing more of John's legs and thighs. Paul firmly kept his eyes on his cuticles.
“I just– I figured it'd go away after Jane...” sighed Paul into his palms, taking his head in his hands.
“I've never had a problem with whatever Brian's doing, y'know, but just the thought of me..” he continued.
“Paul.”
“But it couldn't possibly be it when it, y'know, never happened before..” Paul kept musing, almost to himself. “It surely doesn't count, right?”
He finally turned to John, looking him in the eyes and something clicked that he's managed to miss. His mouth parted slightly.
“What?” John inquired impatiently.
“You've been asking me about your Thisbe costume.”
John's face scrunched up in confusion.
“I think you look lovely, John.”
The man in question looked like a frame taken straight out of a film tape. Then, just like hitting the ‘play’ button, John's head whipped to the other side, barely managing to hide a creeping blush. His fists clenched for a few seconds. “Don’t go around telling people that, or they'll cripple you.” he finally said in a careful tone.
“You like the dress though, don't you Johnny?”
“Watch it, McCartney.”
“John.” Paul lightly tipped his knee and bumped it with John's. It caused John to look back at him with a clouded expression.
Paul breathed a shallow breath. “I think I've got a thing for you dressed as a bird.”
“You've got.. a thing.” John repeated blankly, possibly in the hope to clarify.
Paul just nodded slowly.
“Really?”
Paul scoffed. “Yeah, really – I wouldn't be admitting to such a thing for a gag, y'know.”
It was John's turn to nod along.
“So you like it?”
Paul huffed a laugh, but at the offended expression on John's face, he schooled himself. With a bite of a smile, he said “I do. God, you don't even know...” feeling a sudden weight lift.
“Prove it.” John deadpanned.
Before he could stop himself, Paul leaned in and let their lips lightly touch. John shoved a hand in his hair and smushed their faces together, turning the almost kiss into something heated.
Paul's hand automatically grasped onto John's dress and his fingers danced across John's torso, the fabric rustling with his administration. That caused John's breath to hitch and Paul used the opportunity to deepen the kiss.
They shifted around on the floor till Paul was halfway to straddling John, neither of them letting their mouths part.
After what felt like eternity, Paul parted in order to catch a breath, but when he got a glimpse of John – red-faced, swollen-lipped, hair sticking up, dazed looking John, he suddenly felt like breathing wasn't that important anyway, his heart clenching at the sight.
Paul leaned in, but a hand on his chest stopped him.
“We… are you.. y'know what now?”
“Are you?”
“I'm not.”
“Then neither am I,” Paul assured.
He connected their lips again. The hand returned back to his nape, the other finding purpose tracing his spine through his shirt. They spent a good while snogging, until Paul started fiddling with the ribbons on the dress. John barked a laugh.
“What?” Paul asked, pulling back a bit alarmed.
“I think you're right. I really might like this dress.”
