The phone was ringing. Cursing, Sir Paul McCartney rose heavily from the armchair he had collapsed in. He felt much older than a man reaching his 60’s. More like if he reached his 200’s, to keep it reasonable. Sinking back in another chair, he picked up the reciever.This had better be important.
« Yes ? »
« Hello. May I speak to Sir McCartney please ? » A male voice, steady and calm, said.
« That’s me. »
« Oh, very well, Sir. I’m Mr. George Harrison’s solicitor. »
« Solicitor. » Paul sighed. George had been gone for two months now and he was just beginning to learn how to live without him. « I thought all the testimony business had already been done. »
« Well, we fulfilled all of Mr.Harrison’s last wills exept a special list related to some matters and objects he especially cared for. »
Paul said nothing. That feeling of emptiness started burning again in his chest.
« In this list, Mr. Harrison has bequeathed you his Rickenbacker guitar. »
« What ? » Paul exclaimed.
« Yes. Everybody was quite surprised he wished you to have it. Do you want it ? »
Paul’s mind went blank. This could not be…
« Mr. McCartney ? » The notary said softly. « Do you wish to have it ? »
« Yeah. » He answered with a shaky voice.
What was all that bullshit about nature matching someone’s inner thoughts again ? Sir McCartney could remember reading about this in numerous poems. It never seemed to work for him. His chest was aching, his stomach threatened to turn and his eyes were burning with held back tears and there he sat, on the deep and soft grass of his garden, with the sun gleaming above him, a ridiculously blue sky and annoyingly merry birds singing. Bloody birds. Sighting, he leaned against a tree and remembered.
Had it all began in Hamburg? No. Not Hamburg. It was in Paris. When they had all went there in the early 60’s. Back then, when they were fab. John and Ringo had wanted to be tourists for the night, trying to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower.
George and Paul had been more down-to-earth. They didn’t gave a shit about the Eiffel tower. They wanted to get drunk and, above all, to get in touch with the legendary hot French birds.
The evening had been disappointing. French girls were sensibly the same than English ones, only more difficult to pull. The fact that they didn’t speak a word of their language didn’t help, either. So they had drunk. The beer was cheap and the wine awesome and they found themselves thrown out of the pub, swaying on the pavement, completely plastered. Leaning on each other and slurring drunkenly, they somehow managed to get back to the hotel, under the eyes of a group of French policemen talking in low voices.
Once on the staircase, they heard shouting male voices coming from behind them and Paul suddenly grabbed the arm of George who had dangerously began to climb the stairs.
“George!” He whispered, panic soaking though the amount of alcohol coursing though his veins.
“The cops!” Paul looked terrified. “I’ve heard that French cops put you in prison if they catch you drunk in the streets at night!” He looked feverously into the direction of the approaching voices.
“We must hide! Quick! I don’t wanna go to jail!”
If he had been sober, George would never have fell for it. He would have reasonably thought that it was very unlikely that the French police take such drastic –and expensive- measure. If he had been sober he would have realized that the voices weren’t even coming in their direction, that they couldn’t belong to the policemen and that Paul was just having another alcohol-driven paranoid trip.
But George was far from sober. He was, in fact, completely plastered. And so, when Paul spot a little broom-cupboard under the stairs, he followed him inside hurriedly. The place was rather wide but not very high, and already half filled with several cleaning devices. George got into it first, swaying hazardously and finally stumbling on a Hoover and crashing on the floor when Paul pushed him in a bit violently.
Paul closed the door, setting them into darkness and tried to sit, his feet rolling clumsily on various brooms. “George?” He called in a hushed voice. Still laying on the floor where he found himself quite cosy and unlikely to move, George held his hand up for him.
Paul reached it and ended up half sitting, half laying on him.
“Ouch! Your elbow is in my groin, mate.”
“It’s to help you sing high tunes!” Paul chuckled drunkenly, trying to find a better position. Laying full on top of George seemed to be a good option.
“Comfy?” The younger man asked.
“Quite. Am I hurting you?”
Sighing, Paul tried to raise himself, triggering a rain of falling brooms, sticks and even a few wet umbrellas.
“Ow.” George took a mop out of his face. “Don’t you move. That’s alright. I don’t wanna die buried under cleaning tools.”
« Do you think the policemen are gone ? »
« Dunno. »
« Let’s not take any risks, then. » And Paul settled against him, resting his head on George’s soft chest.
After a few minutes of laying there in silence, breaths mingling, George was suddenly hit by a disturbing thought. He realised though he was in an intoxicated state that this was not awkward. It could have been, a man was laying on top of him, after all. But, maybe because he was drunk, or maybe because this was Paul, one of his best mates, it wasn’t.
“I’ve just realised that it’s the first time I’ve actually lay on top of man. You’re a lucky boy, Georgie…”
Lifting his brows, George tried to catch a glimpse of his friend’s eyes in the surrounding dimness. He could see them glisten in the light that came under the door.
“Well, in fact” Paul carried on, “it’s not that different from laying on a girl. Hey!” Paul let out a drunken snort when George poked him in the ribs. “What was that for?” I was just pointing out that you felt quite comfy to lay on, that’s all!” He pouted, sighing. “And for you?”
“How does that feels likes, laying under a guy?” George could hear Paul smirk as he spoke.
“Dunno. It’s not that bad I s’pose, since it’s you.”
He felt Paul shift against him and, suddenly, a hand was in his hair.
The man didn’t answer at once.
“You really could be a girl.”, He whispered.
“I beg your pardon?!”
“Your hair is soft.” The hand stroked his cheek. “Your skin is warm. And if I closed my eyes, I’m sure I could almost pretend that…”
“Paul…” George warned.
“May I kiss you?”
The younger man froze. He could feel the weight of his friend pinning him to the floor and his hot breath on his lips.
« You know I’m not that way. » He stated, trying to convince himself as much as Paul.
« It’s not a question of being queer. You’re only queer when you wanna do things with boys. If I kiss you pretending that you’re a girl, it’s not being queer. Just adapting myself to the situation. »
George pursed his lips. Though the drunken torpor he was in, Paul’s statement seemed perfectly logical. But something still didn’t fit in.
« And me ? If I let you kiss me, knowing that it’s ya ? That’s being queer. »
« You could picture that I’m a bird, too. Come on. John is always taking the shit out of me saying that I’m too cute to be a man. »
« True. » George slurred. « But no girl has ever laid on top of me, pinning me to the floor to kiss me. »
« You’ve never met whipping Winnie, then… » Paul whispered against his neck, making him shiver uncontrollably.
« Uh ? You’ve been through John’s porn collection again, son ? »
« Yes, I confess it father Harrison. »
George smirked. « I don’t think I can picture that, though. » He said after a few seconds of reflection. « Whipping Sally isn’t a fantasy at all for me. »
« Winnie. Not Sally. Well I could picture it. »
« Oh, well, let’s just swap then. » Harrison said casually, as if he didn’t care.
He was genuinely surprised when he felt Paul move against him, rolling to put his mate on top of him. The last broom that had remained standing fell behind them.
George stared at Paul in wonder. Though the dim light he could see his brown hair, gracefully falling on his forehead, his soft lips, so delicately rimmed and his perfect eyebrows above his fragilely closed eyes trimmed with thick lashes.
“Now… Winnie…” Paul muttered, keeping his eyes closed, “Would ya kiss me please? I’ve been a good boy today!”
“It doesn’t make you queer if you think about a girl.” George silently repeated to himself. “Well then, think about a girl, you cunt!” Closing his eyes, he pictured a gorgeous blonde with doe eyes, waiting for him. A doe-eyed girl who smelled very much like…
And suddenly, the lips were on his. They were dry but soft, and moved willingly against his own, in a moist and warm embrace. Arms circled his shoulders as he stroke silky strands of hair. George was not completely managing to convince himself that this body flushed against his was actually the one of a girl. So he settled for not thinking at all, and had almost succeeded, lost in the rapture of the full lips on his, the warm tongue gently prodding and the hands caressing his neck and sending shivers down his spine, yes he had almost succeeded when Paul let out a wanton grunt.
George froze, fully aware of who he was kissing. He had expected to be shocked. Disgusted. He wasn’t. He went a bit limp against Paul but his mate kept on kissing him. And, little by little, he became aware of the maddening scent of the other guy, smoke and alcohol, mixed with something unique and musky, of the hot body, definitely masculine, against his, of the strong guitarist hands on his back…
Warmth started spreading in his groin and he found himself moaning into Paul’s mouth, grabbing his hair to kiss him fiercely. Ending the rough kiss, he trailed a path of bruising bites all along McCartney’s jaw, nibbling the crook of his neck, nuzzling the soft skin and licking the salty sweat that pooled there.
George couldn’t think anymore. He couldn’t stop himself anymore. The feeling of a willing body under him, the heat between them and, above all, the knowledge that this was Paul almost drove him mad. He bit again on a shivering shoulder, relishing the taste of it.
“George…”Paul let out a shaky moan.
He licked the bruised skin and suddenly looked up, searching for McCartney’s eyes. They were wide and frightened.
“Oh shit!” The man moved against him, trying to conceal his arousal. “George… I’m sorry. I mean, I was picturing a girl, you know, but…” Paul looked afraid and uneasy. Of what? His rejection? George smirked at the thought, making him cringe unintentionally.
“That’s alright.” He soothed him. “That’s alright Paulie.”
Paul shot him a tentative glance. “Maybe we should get outta here? “
And Paul stood, keeping his back bent against the low ceiling. He pushed George who sat unsteadily, helping him to look for the door knob in the surrounding half-darkness. Spinning slightly, Paul finally found it, reached to open it and thus made contact between his thigh and George’s face. They froze.
Nose against the tensed muscle, he could feel the heat of the hard bulge somewhere near his ear. Time stilled as Paul stayed bent, unmoving while George breathed slowly against his thigh.
“I’m sorry, mate.”
“That’s alright.” He said, patting Paul’s ankle. He looked up. The ray of light coming from the door headed straight on Paul’s lips, letting the rest of his face in the darkness. George looked at those parted lips, reddened and bruised by kisses. His kisses.
“George…”McCartney squirmed a bit and bit his bottom lip. “Would ya…”
“Yes.” George marvelled at the steadiness of his own voice. “Yes I would. But only if you do the same for me.”
Paul’s breath quickened slightly. “O-kay.” He stammered.
As he laid his hands on Paul’s fly, Harrison could somehow feel himself slipping away from reality. The oddness of the moment was striking and it was worth thinking about it, later. Regretting it. Cursing himself for being a fucking queer. But at this very moment, he couldn’t think of anything, except to how much he actually wanted to do that. He could smell the musky odour of Paul’s pleasure already filling the small cupboard, the heat of the sensitive body shivering under his hands and finally, the expected harness under his fingers, the blood pulsing in the velvety skin.
He freed the straining erection form McCartney’s pants and stroke it tentatively. The moan Paul made nearly sent him over the edge. Biting his lips, he took a long breath, and engulfed it as far as he could without choking. He was a man, after all, he never did things by halves.
To be honest, he didn’t like the sensation very much, though. It was too big, nearly gagging him and leaked a strange-tasting fluid. But the whimper Paul made was worth all sacrifices. And the power! There he was, kneeling on the floor in a rather submissive position and yet, he had never fell such a sensation of power, of control, especially on Paul. His own cock was eagerly pushing against the material of his jeans.
He let out a shaky breath and started sucking, trying to win another delicious moan. The answer was immediate. Paul’s hand gripped his hair and his hips bucked. George settled down for a steady rhythm, relaxing his throat and licking furiously. The sounds McCartney made were divine music to his ears and the last rational part of his mind remaining noted that they must definitely have those in a song.
And this hand. This shaky hand on his head, pushing, pulling, pleading him to go faster… George complied, decided to finish Paul off. He rubbed the hardness with his tongue and sucked the whole length intently, quickening the rhythm. And then, Paulie was done. He shot he the back of his younger mate’s throat and buried himself in it to the hilt, while George swallowed, desperately trying not to gag.
Paul’s breaths were ragged and his fingers stayed intertwined into George’s hair while he attempted to recover. He closed his fly and finally stepped out of the cupboard, giving Harrison’s head a little pat. In the full light, Paul’s face looked even more attractive. His cheeks were red and flushed, his eyes were glistening and his lips bled a little where he had been biting them. George followed him, trying to conceal the obscene bulge in his trousers.
When they arrived at their hotel room, he sat on his bed, while Paul headed straight for the bathroom, washing himself a bit-or pretending to-. The younger man could see him leaning on the sink, and fiercely staring at his reflexion in the mirror. When he came back, George had more or less managed to calm down. McCartney sat in front of him, keeping his eyes on the ground.
« George… » He began, his voice strained and uneasy.
« You don’t have to do it, if you don’t wanna. » He interupted, trying hard not to shoot him his trademark death stare. Paul replied by casting him his special McCartney’s number twelve glare, the half-caring, half-lusting one. The effect of the alchohol had nearly faded away. They had no excuses for what could happen anymore.
« No. But I’m gonna do it anyway. That was the deal.»
George lifted his brows.
« No questions, » Paul added. « No repercutions. » He got up.
« No regrets, » George whispered.
Paul gave him an intense look before spreading his legs and kneeling between them. Unfastening his trousers, he looked up to search for George’s eyes, finding there the warmth, the reassuring glow he needed. The younger man smiled and McCartney dived in his lap. And from this point, it was pure, unaltered bliss.
George had already have a few girls performing this on him but the awareness that this was Paul, the wickedness of it all, sent him over the edge almost as much as the hot sucking mouth.
You can read the second part here : http://gereiheimer.livejournal.com/1508.html