Pose
Click.
There was a blinding flash of light, and I relaxed. I blinked hard, to get rid of the afterglow, and ran my hand over my face. God, I was tired. The warm heat of John kneeling behind me, with his forearms resting on my shoulders, came closer as the photographer—a balding, middle-aged man—said,
"Ok, boys, I think that's that. If you'd just stay there for a minute, I need to pop this in the dark room." He quickly walked out of the room through a heavy curtain, not bothering to wait for an answer. As soon as he was gone, John slid his arms around my neck, burying his face in my hair. I held on to his elbows and leaned back into his legs, revelling in his warmth in the frigid studio. I sighed, and he moved his head and rested his cheek on my shoulder, brushing his ear against mine.
"What's wrong?" he whispered gently, his breath brushing against my cheek. He tightened the embrace slightly so I could feel his chest against my back.
"Just tired," I muttered, and turned slightly into him so I could warm my thigh against his knee. "And cold. This room's bloody freezing." He laughed slightly at that, and I smiled too. I reached up to my neck and loosened my tie a bit, undoing my top button. I knew that Ringo thought the outfits that Brian made us wear made us look, well, weird, but I quite liked them. I shifted slightly under John's weight, and moved my legs so they weren't crossed, but were still touching his. That motion made my cheek come dangerously close to his—dangerous, because once they came in contact my self-control would crumble and the photographer would come back to find two apparently 'straight' Beatles fucking in the middle of the floor. Not, perhaps, the most agreeable of sights to see on a Wednesday morning. But when I thought about it, fucking John seemed to be a good idea.
No, not now! My conscience scolded me. Maybe later... But not yet!
I drew in a deep, fortifying breath, a mistake considering our proximity—his personal scent of tobacco, that shampoo and man always seemed to arouse me so much, and it was what I just got a huge lungful of. Not surprisingly, it went straight to my cock. Shit. How the hell am I supposed to hide a stiffie until I get home? I thought frantically. To hide it from John, who almost certainly would tease me about it all the way back to the flat—Two years. Only two bloody years older, and he acts like he knows everything. Sod.—I pulled my legs up towards my chest. He responded by wrapping his long arms around me and lowering himself so he was kneeling on his heels. I bent my head over my knees and held onto his hands as they clasped around my shins. He moved his chin to the very top of my back, his breath tickled my neck and made me shiver. I relaxed into the familiar embrace and assessed the state of my groin. God! It still hadn't gone down! I tried desperately to think of off-putting thoughts. I thought of lots of things, like old people having sex, and when I accidentally walked in on Ringo in the bath, but it didn't work. I resigned myself to another round of sarcastic taunts from John, and just settled in to enjoy the time we had together.
We had been still in that position for about five minutes, not believing our luck that the photographer hadn't come back, when John, apparently bored of not doing anything, began to press feather-light kisses on the side of my neck. I moaned softly at the touch. My neck had always been my undoing, and he knew all my weak spots. He moved slowly down and around, pushing my collar away with his nose, until he had reached my pulse-point. There he stayed, sucking, licking and kissing until that spot was bright pink. It was all I could do to not cry out too loudly. He suddenly bit down, not drawing blood, but it made me jump.
"Fuck..." I moaned, slightly too loudly, and we heard loud footsteps in the hall, announcing the return of the photographer from the dark room.
"Shit," John said, trying to quickly make me look presentable, pulling my collar up and tightening my tie. I was adjusting my bottom half, having found that my trousers had become rather tight. He quickly glanced at my groin, and groaned. "Oh, Paulie. How're you going to hide that?" He pulled a battered set of playing cards from his pocket, and began shuffling them, just as the balding man pushed his way backwards into the room, carrying a box. I promptly pushed John a little way away from me, because I didn't think that straight men spent time nearly on top of each other.
"Righty-ho!" God, I hated that man. "So boys, I've just developed a couple of these, don't you think they're good?" He was just so smarmy, and he acted as if we were ten-year-olds. He handed us some glossy pictures, and he visibly preened as we looked at them.
"They're ok," Well done, John. He looked gutted. "So, we'll just be going..." We stood up, and I found that he had diffused my erection. That was one thing he was good for. We quickly got our overcoats and fled the room, roaring with laughter when we were safely out of the building.
"He looked so disappointed!" I choked out through fits of mirth.
"Yeah, that the great John Lennon and Paul McCartney bought his photos were shite!" he guffawed, holding onto my arm for support.
"One of his photos was good though," I said, calming down quickly. I skimmed through the ones I was holding until I found it. It was of me and John, one of the last ones that he took, the ones with John leaning on my shoulders as I sat cross-legged on the floor. We were both staring directly into the camera, and you could see the tension between us.
"Wow," he whispered, and ran a finger over my eyes, which looked like they were going to burn through the paper. I was thinking of John in that one, and I was thinking about what we were going to do that night when we got back to mine or John's flat. "I'm keeping this one," he said. "It's your eyes."
With that, we started walking to my flat, the closer one, just far apart enough that we didn't look as if we were holding hands, but close enough that we felt we were. And what we did when we got there, well, that's our business.