WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT. IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS, DO NOT READ. THANK YOU.

... … …

John's groggy eyes splintered open when his ears were attacked by the deafening sound of a horn. It ripped through his thinning serenity, his previously limp fingers hurriedly pressing against his panicked orbs, too frightened out of his mind to watch the scene unfold before him. His throat ripped open with the scream he couldn't hold back. "We're gonna die! We're gonna fucking die!"

Bright white lights burnt through the windshield, rendering the two men nearly completely blind for a moment as both musicians shrieked in panic. The horn was pounding in John's ears. The screech and smell of burning rubber assaulted him as he felt the vehicle swerve sharply to the left. A loud, dangerous crash followed, a noise that sounded far too close for comfort, and the shrieking horn of the truck plowing towards them shortly faded down the road as the car sped along.

After a few beats of fearful, pregnant silence, save for Paul's panting breaths and the hum of the engine, the rhythm guitarist removed his palms covering his eyes and let his scared gaze shift over to the bassist beside him.

Paul's fingers were curled so tightly around the steering wheel that his digits were an ivory white and his arms were trembling likes leaves in an autumn breeze. His hazel orbs were so wide in panic they looked about to pop out of his skull. His breaths shuddered in and out hurriedly like hot glass in his throat, and his whole body was tensed like a spring.

John saw that the mirror on the drivers door had disappeared: it had been ripped off by the force of the passing lorry, gone and forgotten, down the road, where it lay shattered into broken pieces.

The two musicians jittered in their seats, shaken into shocked silence from the near catastrophe that had struck them. They could have died; they could have fucking died right in that moment, and they wouldn't have been able to do anything about it. No medication, no therapy, no drink or drug could cure death, even with all the money in the world.

Yet, here they were, unscathed, not a single scratch on them, nor a hair out of place: as if it had never happened. John felt a shaky, trembling laugh rattle through his wheezing chest and bubble up in his aching throat until it split the air. He hadn't noticed that Paul had pulled over, until the only noise to be heard for miles around was his own hysterical glee. The laugh died on his throat, and finally his hectic, mocha orbs met Paul's sober ones of hazel.

The bassist continued earnestly to stare with scrutiny, until he quickly shrugged himself out of the car and slammed the door. He checked how badly the truck had clipped the side of the vehicle and ran his fingers along the scratch that decorated the paint on the outer door like a scar.

John watched him pace along, the slightly younger man muttering and cursing to himself when he inspected the untidy remains of the broken mirror that had been demolished by the truck. Luckily, Paul had been able to veer out of its path quick enough before it destroyed the whole car with them inside.

But, if Paul was such a good driver, he wouldn't have risked their lives like that in the first place, right?

John frowned, feeling a finger of chilly breeze caress his ear. He shook his head lightly. That was ridiculous; Paul wasn't trying to kill him... he just got distracted.

From behind him, the rhythm guitarist heard the voice again. It said something about Paul's real intentions but, before John could disagree, the bassist tugged on the car door again.

Paul climbed back into the car, face ashen and drawn into a tight frown: a face comparable to a brooding calm right before a thunder storm. John's grip tightened on his car seat, his breathing quickening through his nose, his throat dry and sore from his scream. He looked, and saw Paul's small lips open and close a little, murmured and whispered nothings never meeting John's ears.

Finally, after the frosty ice of silence had chilled them to their bones, the bassist said, "Why are we friends?"

John's mind began to race with millions of answers, numbers on such an improbable scale, so unfathomable, that it seemed to make him mute. He tried to speak, but only a crackle of husky confusion made it past his lips. "Wha…?"

Paul's tired form darkened under the wilting heartache that plagued his soul. He breathed. "Why are we friends… when I always end up hurting you?"

"You…" the rhythm guitarist murmured, "You don't hurt me- "

"I do, John." Paul turned his head of raven hair to look the other man in the eye. Once sunny and warm, his hazel orbs were harrowing, lifeless, tired. The deep bags under his eyes made his youthful, charming baby face appear haggard and aged. His eyes were semi-bloodshot, and they stared at John- through him- and into his foggy mind.

John felt all the answers swimming in his cognitive thought processors evaporate into nothingness. The pathway between his brain and his tongue tied into knots and kinks before finally snapping in two like a broken guitar string. His eyes began to irritate "I… I…" he stuttered, his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

"Oh, don't bloody start with that now," Paul muttered, slumping away from the older man. The light was fastly fading and the sun had started to set behind the trees. The two musicians were in their respective corners of the car. The bassist's eyes glimmered moodily in the fading sunset. "You always have to turn on the bloody water works, don't you?"

John swallowed thickly. "I'm not fuckin' crying, softlad." His hollow tone had quickly gained a defensive stance, his eyebrows drawn together in an angry tightness. "Why do you always have to be so bitter about everythin'?"

"I ain't bein' bitter!" Paul scoffed, "If you want bitter, talk to George, he's the one who hates your guts-"

Silence. Paul swiftly shut his mouth. John's angry eyes melted into hurt. He dropped his chin to his chest.

Paul quickly recovered from his verbal slip. "That's not true… I didn't mean that!" Now his body was twisted to face the rhythm guitarist. His eyes were wide and begging. "I didn't fucking mean that, Johnny, George loves you." His tone peaked in desperation.

"Okay,"

"No, you have to fucking believe me," the bassist urged, "I didn't mean that; George loves you, he's your brother, we all love you-"

"Do you love me, Paul?"

Paul stumbled on his breath for a moment. His lips teetered open and closed. "O-Of course I do, what are you talking about?"

"Love," John said calmly, "it's everywhere."

Paul's hazel eyes narrowed a little in confusion.

The slightly older man continued. "It's been here for millions upon billions of years, stories of love told in the oldest novels, on the telly, on the radio- we even fuckin' sing about love, Paul: we're surrounded by it."

The bassist nodded slowly. "Yeah, we are, I suppose, but what… what are you trying to say?"

John seemed to reflect briefly, his dark eyes seemingly watering with a waging pensiveness. "What I'm tryin' to say is… uh… okay: I'm just gonna come out with it because it's drivin' me mad and I'm quite fuckin' barmy already.

"We've known each other for… years, yeah? We're very close, aren't we?" John started and Paul nodded quietly in agreement. "And lately, um… lately I've been feeling that maybe I feel… closer to you- closer than a friend."

The bassist had a rather frightened look in his eyes. He looked so little- perhaps it was because he had never seen John so feeble and vulnerable looking. The older man trembled like a leaf in the path of a heavy wind. John had never been like this; he was supposed to be the rag-tag charming teddy boy, yet here he was with teary eyes and a lump in his throat, trying to confess his feelings for Paul: for a MAN.

The rhythm guitarist paused. "What are we?"

Confused, the doe-eyed musician made a smothered noise. "We're friends… aren't we?"

John looked down at his thin hands. "Are we?"

There was a cold silence. Paul chortled with a panicked breath. What was John getting at? "Of course we fuckin' are-"

"I like you." John said.

Paul blinked. "Uh, I like you too," he frowned. John sighed heavily.

"No- I like you Paul, I'm… I'm in love… with you... I think."

The slightly younger man didn't breathe for a good few moments, his heart hammering in his chest and his mind reeling. He heard the whizz of a passing car zoom by and the birds, disturbed by the noise, screaming out in the fading daylight. Everything settled once again.

"That's what I was trying to say," the older man said quietly, "I was trying to say that I think I really like you a lot, I think I love you." He fiddled with his bony digits like a scolded child. "And if you don't wanna talk to me ever again, I'll get out of this car right now."

"I'm…" Paul started after a long pause of silence, his throat dry and croaky, "I'm so confused." He looked over at the older man with wide eyes. "When did you start feeling this way?"

John blinked, the tears in his eyes threatening to spill over. "Uh... I don't know..." he sifted through his memories like sorting through a jumbled deck of cards, "it's hard to remember... maybe during the concert- I mean conference... I just wanted to hug you; you made me feel safe." His pointed nose flared a little in nervousness. He dipped his head as he spoke and avoided Paul's wide eyes like they were blinding spotlights.

The bassist exhaled, turning his face forward so that he was staring straight ahead. For the longest time, neither man uttered a word. A few dribbles of cars passed by, their headlights like fireflies dancing in the distance. When everything settled once again, Paul breathed loudly and ran a hand through his hair and then down his face tiredly.

"I don't know what to say," he announced finally, voice low and crackling.

"I want you to say that you still want to be my friend," said John. He had the timid voice of a young boy, one that Paul found almost maddening.

With his dark hair ruffled from his hands, Paul's sorrowful gaze lingered on the older man's thinning frame. "You mean so much to me," he whispered.

John's eyes both set alight and also rippled with pools of melancholy. He looked so fragile- like a mosaic- tucked away into the corner, pressed against the car window, his lips trembling and his orbs watering.

"You mean a lot to me too, Paul; I don't know where I'd be without you, really... probably in jail." He grinned sadly. "Probably in the nut house..." His gaze turned sorrowful.

Paul bit the inside of his lip. It took him a while to speak. "I... I suppose I have been thinkin' about you too." He looked down at his fidgeting hands nervously, arguing internally with himself. "But I ain't a queer, alright? I'm not gay."

"I didn't say you were," said John timidly.

"I know but I don't want you to think, just because I've... kissed you, or thought about you, that it means I like men; I don't fancy blokes... maybe just..."

John waited with bated breath, eyes as wide as dinner plates. The bassist frowned deeply again. It made the rhythm guitarist shrivel with guilt because this obviously pained him.

Paul sighed. "I'm just really confused, John." He whispered. "I'm sorry."

Paul's eyesight became slightly blurred when hot, stinging tears clouded his vision. He winced when he swallowed the painful lump in his throat and suddenly felt a hand, coarse and worn, touch his warm cheek with a surprising gentleness. He didn't dare move.

The hand cupped Paul's sharp jaw line, caressing the roughness of his unshaven stubble like touching a priceless artefact. The bassist slowly shifted his hazel eyes over to John's direction and stared at him in puzzlement, yet he did not pull away.

In fact, the younger man found himself melting into the touch like heated butter. He used a cautious hand of his own to touch John's knee, silently delighted when the older man didn't flinch or decline his small advance. John shifted in his seat and finally moved his hand to Paul's far shoulder and pulled him gently in, so that their faces were mere inches from each other.

Brown eyes gazed deeply, longingly, lovingly, into hazel orbs of the same calibre. The world around them seemed to stop for a few seconds, before John slowly and carefully pressed his thin lips to Paul's plumper ones.

At first, it felt like Paul wanted to pull away; he hadn't kissed back and his hand on John's knee had turned to stone. John pulled Paul a little tighter into the crevice of his body, his eyes squeezed shut as if he wanted the world- or perhaps Paul- to swallow him up: this was humiliating.

John, finally deciding that this was twenty-thousand different levels of awful, detached his mouth from Paul's and immediately slapped his hands over his eyes, refusing to look at the younger man.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he mumbled erratically, his voice low and laboured in flustered embarrassment.

Paul didn't reply. His hazel eyes had trained themselves to the dashboard of the car in a dazed puzzlement.

"Fuck..." John breathed, "why do I always fuck everything up!" He tore his palms away from his face and shuddered out a husky breath, his voice shivering with pent up frustration. He glanced at the silent Paul for a weary moment and threw open the passenger side door, scrambling out of it and slamming it shut.

The rhythm guitarist had never felt so mortified in his entire life. With wobbly legs, he stalked away from the car. He barely felt he could keep it together.

Everything had gone to complete and utter shit; his friends hated him; the person he thought loved him back wanted nothing to do with him; his sanity was only barely hanging on by a thread; his appearance had plummeted, as had his musical ability; his self-esteem was non-existent, and he had no one.

John was alone, mentally and physically, with only that bastard hallucination to berate him every once in a while.

As he walked, he patted down his coat pockets to find himself empty of cigarettes: another thing to add to the shit pile. His life was a joke, and no one was laughing.

Rattling in shaky breaths, the musician's trembling footsteps had unknowingly carried him further along the long country road they had been driving down. He didn't know where he was headed, and sooner or later he would probably forget why he was even here.

"John!"

He ignored it, his brain and eyesight growing a little fuzzy as the sun had completely set, leaving him in cold, black darkness. He could feel himself slowly starting to become disoriented; the mounds of dirt and shrubbery beneath his boots felt like landmines on the mottled grass bank. He was scared. Where was Paul? Where was he himself?

"John, stop!"

John found himself transported back to 1958, the chill of the night air nibbling at his skin, the light damp of the atmosphere crawling in the nape of his neck uncomfortably, the darkness beckoning him.

He stumbled a little on the beaten path as he blindly continued forward. He could hear something calling him, a scared voice drifting into his ears from a distance away. Paranoid he would unknowingly wander into the road, John considerably slowed his pace until he was fumbling along in the dark like an old man.

His breathing was laboured, a panic branding his stomach like hot poker irons. Every now and again, the musician would feel the urge to turn and run; he needed and longed for Paul, but he knew Paul didn't need him.

Scowling ahead of him, he didn't see a large, unearthed tree root snag his shoe and pull him down to the dirt. He landed with a thump on his stomach, brief pain shooting through his chest and bones, before fading away to numbness.

John didn't feel like moving, and when he heard footsteps approaching him, he curled further into a ball. The wind rushed past him, clusters of hisses burning his ears in the biting breeze.

"John?"

He felt a warm presence grace him, almost like an angel glowing in the dark night. His breathing was a little laboured from walking- or perhaps running, John couldn't tell- briskly to catch up to the fleeing rhythm guitarist. With nervously quick fingers, the man touched John's cold face and stared down at him with those sad, doe eyes.

"Paulie?" John whispered.

The man used his arms to pull John up from the ground and into his chest, cradling him for a moment. The man was slightly warmer than John, who was icy cold in comparison. When John put his ear to the man's chest, he could almost hear the thump of his heartbeat, or perhaps he was imagining it.

After clinging to the shape for some time, and feeling the sting of tiredness burn over his eyelids, John tried to nestle himself comfortably into the man's coat. Instead, he found himself being heaved up and pulled into the figure's shoulder. After just about getting his bearings, the rhythm guitarist felt his head spin when, out from the darkness, he felt a shy pair of lips press against his cheek.

The two of them walked back to the car in silence.

... ... ...

When they arrived back at the house, they discovered Mimi and Brian to be gone. Paul found a note on the kitchen counter telling them that John's aunt had checked herself into a hotel not far away. Brian had presumably went back to his little flat to sulk alone like always. Paul decided he wouldn't tell anyone about the missing mirror on his car, or their near-death experience, for both his and John's sake.

John stood in the living room, face a little worn and tired from the late nights and the weary days. His skin was an alabaster, a dull, gaunt grey, his eyes sleepy and small in their sockets. His form was tense, but yet undeniably saggy under his own fatigue.

Paul looked back at him from the kitchen, his hands brushing past different medicines as he felt about the cupboard for John's sleeping tablets.

"You tired?" The bassist asked gently.

John nodded, eyelids so heavy that it almost hurt him to stay awake. "I don't need those tonight," he mumbled.

"Need what?" Paul frowned.

"The pills," the older man said, "to make me sleep: I don't need them, not tonight."

Paul stopped quietly and pulled his hand out of the cupboard, leaning against the kitchen counter. He appeared forlorn. "I wish it didn't have to be this way, you know?"

The older man nodded in silence. "Yeah," he said.

"Do you have nightmares?" Paul asked.

"Sometimes," John admitted after a pregnant pause, "I dream about... bad things. Do you?"

"Yeah, I do," Paul said, "I have nightmares too. What bad things do you dream about?"

A tsunami of horrific images waged in the ocean of John's mind. He heard alarm bells blare and echo painfully around his skull.

John hadn't been sleeping well at all, he supposed that was why he needed the tablets. Even with the medication, he would wake up sweaty and exhausted with shallow-breaths. He often dreamt of headlights. He would flinch whenever the engine of a vehicle roared outside his window. He dreamt of everyone leaving him, he dreamt of Paul leaving him.

John shrugged, his brown eyes glazed over with grotesque visions. "I don't remember," then he looked at Paul. "What do you dream about?"

The younger man shook his head. "Lots of things," he sighed, "hardly any of them good."

The two men drowned in silence.

"I'm... I'm sorry," John said, "about what happened back there... about the kiss."

Comparable to a city flooding with light from the street lamps, like moonlight glittering across the choppy surface of a lake, like the night sky glowing with a thousand stars, Paul's hazel eyes set alight with a dozen different emotions. His fingers trembled, his jaw tightened, as he tried to restrain whatever feelings he had rushing through his body.

Finally, when he reeled himself forwards slightly, ambling over to the rhythm guitarist and edging through the narrow space between John and the kitchen counter, his face was dangerously close to the older man's. John watched those doe orbs quickly flicker over his lips and down his neck and to his chest. Then, their eyes met.

Paul gave a small smirk, one that exhumed nervousness but also a little confidence. "Don't be," he said.

John watched him walk away.

... ... ...

Paul found himself staring up at the ceiling for a long time. The hours faded into each other, and, before he knew it, it was two o'clock in the morning. Even when his doe eyes burned with weariness, the bassist couldn't stop his mind racing; thoughts of John's lips danced through his mind, a stampede of scents and tastes and memories, like a thousand running wild horses, left him almost dizzy as he lay on his bedsheets.

He let his hand rest on his milky chest lazily, fiddling and toying with the small amount of chest hair that had started to sprout. His other hand stroked his thigh in a comforting motion. He was naked, pink and thoughtful, on his quilt. His tired eyes glittered like exploding stars.

Amidst his day dreaming, Paul felt himself grow remorseful at the memory of him not kissing back. He remembered John's desperate, tentative lips on his, the taste of cigarettes dancing across his tongue, but the bassist was too shocked for his brain to tell his mouth to move. John had shamefully pulled away before Paul had been able to engage in the kiss properly.

The dark-haired musician felt scorn towards himself run all over his body like free-flowing water. He longed for John to kiss him again; he hadn't felt that much passion from another human in such a long time that it seemed like the rhythm guitarist was the only one who cared.

He remembered a time when they were touring, and Paul had picked up a bird and brought her back to his hotel room for the usual course of fucking and forgetting. She had red hair, and that was about as far as Paul's memory stretched when it came to her appearance.

He remembered, during their heated, sticky session of frantic intercourse, John had burst into the room, eyes wide in furious anger and mouth stretched back to reveal angry razor-sharp fangs. He had ranted and raved, Paul and the girl trying to hurriedly conceal their modesty, and John had started cutting up the poor girl's dress with a pair of scissors. The bird had to leave in one of Ringo's shirts.

Had John always been that protective from the start?

Paul's hand had found its way closer to the inner folds of his slim thigh. His hand nestled over his pale skin, gently caressing the milky, white countenance of the soft flesh of his manhood. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, his mind drifting away, as he began to guide his palm up and down his shaft slowly. His breathing relaxed.

He thought of the red-head once again, and the many other women in between, he had ravished. He heard their breathing, their soft, harmonious moans and hitches of breath dancing in his ear. He remembered the way the light bounced across their naked bodies, like beacons calling out to the inner beast inside Paul wanting to claim them.

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, when ripples of tingles tickled across his manhood, and in that moment of darkness he saw a pair of chocolate eyes, hungry with desire, stare back at him.

He felt vibrations and pulsing heat prickle his groin as he massaged with a quickly growing passionate hand. His breathing, once relaxed, started to pick up, as did his lust.

Paul saw flashes of breasts and curves cloud his vision, the wild animal inside growling for release. He hummed a little when he felt his bubbling erection tingle in the cool air of the bedroom. He gripped his palm around his semi and started to stroke with a new-found energy that demanded his attention. He needed this.

As quick as the lustful visions of the female physique blitzed through his mind, he found himself curling his toes at the thought of John's lips again. He couldn't help but clutch the bedsheets with his free hand and writhe gently against the mattress when he remembered John's scent, his deep rumbling voice, his chest, and those abyss-like brown orbs that seemed to go on forever. Paul felt that he could happily drown in John's eyes, and melt into his lips.

The thought of this made Paul's hand work a little faster, until he felt the heat radiating from his fully erect member deflect into his palm, like magma in a volcano. He felt a sliver of pre-cum dribble from the tip of his manhood slowly. He jittered a little as the pleasure bubbling in his belly warmed his body and sent little tingles and fingers of blissful lightning shooting through his skin. His eyes rolled back a little, comparable to hazel marbles racing round a paper cup.

His hungry mind raced back to the moment John had latched himself to Paul in the janitor closet at the fashion event not long ago, when- like a dog in heat- John had pressed himself so tight against the bassist that it felt like the rhythm guitarist would crush him. He remembered feeling John's manhood, caged inside his trousers, touch Paul's thigh and how wild it had sent him.

Paul's member was pulsing beneath his palm; the bassist felt himself start to buck a little into his hand, his breathing growing slightly laboured and his throat melting with small gasps of pleasure and frantic, but hushed, grunts of erotica. Paul felt himself growing closer with every pump of his hand.

When he closed his eyes, he saw John's body against his own, he heard his deep voice, imagined his soft moans and his naked figure. Paul's brow tightened as he continued to touch himself masterfully; he had never thought about these things before; he had never thought of John- his best friend- in that way. It confused him, scared him, but he couldn't stop himself from enjoying the image.

He breathed in and out quickly, the pressure building up in his stomach, ready to burst. He couldn't help but moan when a wildfire of tingles spread over his body and made every touch, every movement, electric with passion. He grew faster and faster, the warmth of his lust absorbing every inch of his body, until he felt he would drown in his own ecstasy.

Trying to supress any growl of pleasure escaping his lips, the bassist closed his eyes once again and saw John with him in the moment; he imagined the touch of his hand against his manhood was John's palm, the moans and grunts of passion were John's, and that John's lips ravished his body wildly, his dark eyes alight with desire. He couldn't help but whisper the man's name.

"John," he breathed, pale body trembling, with the lust taking complete control. "Oh, fuck, John!"

It all became too much, and Paul's hazel orbs shot open when an overwhelming climax shook his bones, sending vibrations coursing round his body like bolts of lightning. He grunted, and the sticky, cloudy seed spilled into his hand, onto his stomach, warm and long-awaited. Paul felt relief and relaxation wash over him almost instantly, as if all the troubles in his mind had melted away. His eyelids sagged, as did his shaking body. He panted, and used some tissue to clean himself up a bit, before lying back down in the bed.

Finally, he stopped his heavy breathing. His eyes were trained on the ceiling once again, the heavy burn over his eyelids making his orbs water in pain. He was so fucking tired: tired of everything.

Had he pushed John away? Had he pushed everyone away?

Did he like John? Did he love him?

He couldn't deny that the thought of John against him made him ache in longing.

Paul rolled over onto his side, smothering his face with the cool press of the bedsheet against his cheek. He screwed his eyes shut and groaned into the fabric.

Drifting off the sleep, the bassist felt a heavy weight of despair plague his heart.

… … …

(Hello everyone…

Firstly, chapters from now on might have sexual content in them. I'm sorry if this bothers you but it is a McLennon story…

Secondly, I'm so, so sorry for not updating in such a long while; school has been hectic and I haven't really been feeling the best in myself lately. Hopefully this chapter satisfied you? I hope so… I'd hate to disappoint any of you…

If this chapter just seems like more filler, I really apologise. There will be more plot development coming soon but I just don't like keeping you guys' waiting so long.

I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter. A comment would be much appreciated! Thank you all so much for reading.

See you soon!)