A/N: I really meant to write this sooner, I really did. Sorry...

Paul's POV

It had now been several months since John and I had fallen in love. Aside from the one media scare, we'd gone unnoticed. Not even Ringo or George noticed. I would've thought that at least George would've, with his keen perception. Jane had no idea and Cyn didn't know.

We were in France now, and the reception was pretty good. They didn't scream as much as English fans, that was for sure. But we couldn't tell if they didn't scream as much because they were listening or because they didn't like us. I really hoped it was the former of the two.

"Paulie," a soft voice touched my ear. I blinked sleepily, wincing as the sun burned my retinas.

"Yeah?" I yawned, stretching. John's unshaven face floated into focus. He leaned down and planted a soft kiss on my lips which I returned with equal care.

"Up and at 'em, sleepyhead, we've got a gig tonight." I groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets over my head.

"The keyword in that sentence is 'tonight', John," I said, my voice muffled by the blankets. He tugged at them.

"I know, but we're going out to breakfast and everyone else is up and ready already," said John. "Don't make me tickle you, mister."

That was a sincere threat. I sat up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "There, I'm up. Happy now?"

"Not yet," he said, a playful gleam in his eyes. "I haven't gotten my morning kiss." I shook my head and he looked hurt.

"Your face is all..." my groggy brain looked for the right word. "Prickly. Shave and then I'll think about it."

John pulled a face. "I hate shaving, you know that," he whined. "I always nick meself."

"Too bad," I joked. "Use more shaving cream, yes?" John pranced away, mimicking me childishly. I chuckled.

"Immature sod," I muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

"I heard that!" John's indignant voice floated out of the bathroom. A few minutes later, his obnoxious humming and nonsensical singing echoed and reverberated off the walls. It was soon interrupted by a curse and a yelp of pain.

I went into the bathroom. John stood over the sink with a wad of tissues pressed to his neck.

"Damn razor," he groaned, rolling his eyes.

"You okay?" I asked, coming up next to him so that our hips were touching and putting my hand over his hand.

"Yeah, I'm alright. I'm not gonna bleed out or anything. Or at least I hope I won't," he said, shifting the tissues. I pressed a kiss to his temple.

"I'm gonna go get dressed," I told him.

"Need some help?" he joked, eyebrows wiggling obscenely.

"Maybe," I said, my eyebrows doing a dance of their own.

I tugged a pair of comfortable jeans over my legs and a gray t-shirt over my head. When I wandered into the sitting room of the hotel room, Ringo was practicing, which entailed him tapping on anything that would sit still long enough to enable him to do so, George was writing, and Brian was reading a magazine.

Ringo was the first to see me. "Hey Paul," he greeted me.

"Morning, Rings," I said. "John's shaving, might be a while." George groaned.

"I'm starving!" he moaned, flopping back on the couch dramatically.

"I'm here, don't get your knickers in a twist," John made his grand appearance and I had the sudden feeling that I'd just stepped off a very sharp ledge due to the fact that my stomach was attempting to do somersaults. He was wearing a pair of dark drainpipe trousers that hugged his thighs, a clingy white t-shirt, and a black jacket. They were all three of my favorite articles of clothing out of his closet. I wondered if he had any idea that I was nearly going mad. Self-restraint? I thought. Check... sort of.

"Come on then, let's go," Brian instructed, getting up.

"Forward, march!" John commanded, flinging his hand out.

We went to a restaurant that served crepes and coffee. The crepes were fantastic and the coffee, if it could truly be called that, left much to be desired.

"Pardon me sirs, but I have a telegram for a Mr. Brian Epstein," a young, blonde waitress materialized at our table.

"Thank you," Brian thanked the waitress and she handed him the slip of paper before she left. His eyes slowly grew to a size that would give dinner plates a run for their money in terms of size and his skin drained of pigment. I was terrified that something had happened until he opened his mouth.

"What is it, Eppy?" Ringo asked, concerned. "You look as if you might pass out."

"You-" Brian's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "You're number one in America," his voice was full of disbelief.

A heart-stopping moment of silence preceded a major explosion of sound that erupted from our table. It's awkward and difficult to hug and clap shoulders when there's a table in the way, but we managed.

"Where are we fellas?" John shouted, a grin of pure joy lighting up his face. This is what he'd been working for ever since he'd first heard an Elvis song on the radio.

"The top, Johnny!" we yelled, and I felt my smile stretch to an impossibly big size.

"And which top is that?" John inquired, laughing with delight. I missed hearing that sound; it had been awhile.

"The toppermost of the poppermost, Johnny!" we crowed.

After breakfast, Brian left to take care of some business. Ringo and George were going to go to a daytime music club. "Do you two wanna come?" Ringo asked. John shook his head.

"No thanks," he said. "There's a song bouncing about in my head and it's driving me bonkers." I shook my head as well.

"I've got a bit of a headache," I lied. "I'm gonna go and lie down for a bit." The pair looked crestfallen.

"Okay, good luck John and feel better Paul," George said, patting our shoulders.

"Thanks, mate." John clapped George on the back.

We practically ran back to the hotel room.

"At least two whole hours," I sighed, falling into John's arms the minute the door closed. He nodded, running his hands up and down my back. I hooked a finger around one of his belt loops and tugged him toward the bedroom where we promptly fell on the bed and continued kissing.

"You know," I said between sloppy, wonderful, open mouthed kisses. "I feel sort of bad for lying to Ringo and George, but-" John stopped my mouth with a kiss that burned with desire.

"Don't be," he murmured, the low pitch of his voice sending ripples of goosebumps over my skin. Not much talk ensued after that, it was mostly just murmured moans and muffled expressions of love.

My hands fluttered to the hem of John's shirt and began to tug. I knew exactly what I wanted. Him.

"Are you sure..." John trailed off when my fingers spread across the smooth skin of his stomach.

"I'm sure," I whispered. There was no turning back now. This was the point of no return.

Some time later, we lay in bed together, covered by a sheen of sweat and a pristine, white sheet. There was no warning when the door opened and two very startled people stumbled in.

"What the hell-" George cried and I realized too late that it would be impossible to pass this off as anything other than what it was. We were naked and tangled together and our clothes were thrown every which way across the room. The two songwriters, best friends, and apparently straight to the unaware eye of the Beatles had just been found in bed by their two other bandmates. Together. And they had just had sex.

So this is how the band ends, I thought miserably.

A/N: I seem to be prone to leaving cliffhangers as of late. Sorry!

Review? :)