prompt: paris, john wakes up to paul taking pictures of him sleeping
When John opened his eyes, Paul was leaning over him, camera in hand. There was something about Paul’s posture that betrayed him. Astrid had once told him when you take a photograph you aren’t just snapping a shot. You’re looking past the physical into your subject. You’re showing what they don’t want anyone to see.
She said something else, Astrid did. She said people take photographs of the things they’re afraid of losing.
He wasn’t certain if any if that applied to what he’d caught Paul doing but there was no denying the guilty expression on his face.
“What are you doing?” he asked sitting up in bed.
A strange expression crossed Paul’s face as though he were about to cry.
“Just… documenting our trip. For when we’re famous,” he said with an awkward laugh. “These will be worth a bundle.” His timing was off and his cheeks were flushed.
It was chilly in the room and John pulled the covers up to his chin, wrapped his arms about his legs.
“What were you really doing?”
Paul set the camera down and backed against the wall. His stance was defensive. He looked so young then, all angles and eyes. All at once John was painfully aware of the difference in their ages.
Paul shrugged. “Just wanted a photo of you like that,” he said at last.
“What for?” As soon as he asked the question he had an image in his mind of Paul with opening his trousers and pulling out his stiff cock, photograph clenched in his right hand. His mouth went bone dry. Underneath the blanket his own cock quickened.
It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of Paul like that. But it was the first time he allowed himself to wonder if Paul might think of him in that manner.
“What for?” he repeated. The question came out gruff when he meant to sound gentle.
“I don’t know. Just to have it.”
John clenched his knees together, narrowed his eyes. “But why?”
Paul hesitated. He looked at John, eyes wide, lip trembling as though it was a struggle to get the words out.
“Because… you’re beautiful,” he blurted out at last. He was blushing to the roots of his dark, dark hair. He looked at the floor. Shuffled his feet. “Fuck,” Paul breathed.
John couldn’t think for a moment. His mind went perfectly blank. “You really think so?” he whispered.
The very idea of someone like Paul thinking he was beautiful was laughable. John Lennon with his squinty eyes, too small mouth and rounded shoulders.
“All the girls are mad about you,” Paul mumbled miserably. He was still staring at the floor.
“Bollocks to them. But you think so?”
Paul shrugged.
“Come over here I can’t hear you from all the way by the door,” John said. He would have stood if he could, grabbed hold of the boy’s chin so he could say it again while he looked him in the eye. But he didn’t dare in this state.
Paul didn’t budge from the spot.
“Come here, Paul. I’m not going to bite you.”
Paul tripped over to the bed, sat on the edge gingerly. “Suppose you think the worst now… about sharing a bed with me.”
Paul still wasn’t looking at John, he was looking down at his own hands. John attacked the knot of Paul’s fingers, clawing at them playfully.
“If you get caught in a gust of wind they’ll get stuck that way. And I need a bass player.”
“I’m not in a laughing mood, John,” Paul said, rolling his eyes.
“It’s not a joke. I really need you,” John laughed. “I wouldn’t be caught dead playing the bass.”
Paul let out a short miserable sound like a stifled sob.
“Hey now, I wasn’t joking. I need you,” John said. He grabbed hold of Paul’s clenched fists and blew on them gently.
“It’s not… I know how it must seem to you now but I’m not a… a… I’m not a… I’m not. And I know you need me for the band…”
John grabbed hold of Paul’s chin. “You’re not a… what? Aren’t you?”
Paul didn’t struggle instead he went very still like a frightened animal.
“Aren’t you, Paul?” he asked again. They were so close now, John could smell the strong French cigarette Paul had just smoked, the grease from the pommes frites he’d had for supper.
Paul shook his head quickly.
“Shame,” John breathed. “Because I really wanted to…” he paused, tilted Paul’s face even closer to his.
“What? What did you want?” Paul whispered. “Do it.”
But John didn’t have time to do it because Paul was already kissing him, his hands clenched in the collar of John’s T-shirt.
When they broke apart Paul started at him with those big eyes. Every muscle in his face was tense.
“What did you stop for?” John asked breathlessly.
“I just… fuck… I thought… I thought…” Paul stammered.
“Thinking is bad for you, son. Come on. Shall I switch that mind off for you?”
He pulled him down to the mattress and into his arms. He never heard Paul’s reply, he swallowed it down eagerly.
