zzzsleeptalker (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zzzsleeptalker) wrote2020-12-16 12:55 pm
zzzsleeptalker) wrote2020-12-16 12:55 pm
Entry tags:
1 / 3 (2008-09 version)
NO MORE SITUATIONS PART 1 / 3
Pairing: John / Paul
Rating: NC17 (for Part 3)
Setting: Hamburg 1961
Summary: John convinces Paul to go to a party with him.
Notes: Apologies in advance for any inconsistencies in terms of chronology,
geography, etc.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, I make no profit, I mean no harm!
Dec 2020 Note: Thanks to Dane for saving this as I had lost all my old drafts of this fic. (If anyone has the old-old version of this, the original version that was first posted in 2008 and was 2 chapters long and had them climbing a tree to get a kite down - please let me know in the comments)
Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3
Eckhorn was roaring at them in German as they came down off the stage. “More! Keep playing!”
“No, we’re done. You see, if you look at the time,” John thrust his wristwatch into Eckhorn’s eyeline. “You’ll notice it’s past quitting time for us.”
Eckhorn grabbed John’s wrist and tapped vigorously on the face of his watch. “I’ll tell you when you can go. Get back on that stage.”
“Let’s just do one more,” George said wearily.
“What about you? You look like you’re about to keel over,” Paul said.
“I’m fine.”
“He’s not well, this one, you know,” Paul said loudly, as if for Eckhorn’s benefit, but of course the squat, dark-eyed man didn’t understand a word of it – and even if he had, it wouldn’t have made a difference.
“Either you play or you don’t get paid.” He gestured emphatically.
“What’s going on then?” Pete was hovering at the edge of the stage, watching John expectantly.
“Fine,” John said, pulling his face into a leering grin, waggling his brows at Eckhorn. “We’ll do one more, just for you, mein Herr.”
They clambered back onto the stage. The dance floor had emptied, but the bar was crowded, the tables still full. The air was healthy for the hour - choked with smoke and rumbling with drunk voices.
The noise dipped slightly as the band returned to the stage.
It was going on 3am at The Top Ten Club. The Jaybirds had pissed off some time around midnight, leaving them to shoulder the early hours on their own.
“Wankers.” Pete was still muttering as he settled in behind the drums again. “I’m serious, that lot had better make this up to us...”
“Right then.” John rolled his shoulders and adjusted his guitar strap. “What do we think?”
They’d gathered around the raised drums platform, leaning in to hear one another.
“Long Tall Sally?” George volunteered, shooting a questioning look Paul’s way.
Paul shook his head. “You’ll be dead before the end of Long Tall Sally.”
“I can manage,” George said defensively. He was sweating more than the others and his face was chalk-white in the harsh stage lights.
“You look like shit,” John said lightly.
“Too many uppers,” Paul said.
John cocked his head. “Or not enough.”
“Well, if we’re taking this easy, then why not…” Paul trailed off, thinking.
“’Til There was you?” John hazarded with mild derision. “There’s a crowd-pleaser.”
“Shut it,” Paul said wearily. He blew out his cheeks. “What about an Everlys’?”
“That’s still not exactly…” George inclined his head in the direction of the dance floor.
“It’s three in the morning,” Paul said. “They’re hardly going to start rioting. And if they do hate it, at least Eckhorn’ll let us go.”
“Not permanently, you’d hope,” Pete said, rapping his sticks restlessly against one leg.
“Whoever got sacked for doing the Everly Brothers?” Paul said.
John was nodding; the incongruity of the whole thing was starting to appeal to him. “Which one do you want to do?”
Paul didn’t hesitate. “Cathy’s Clown.”
Pete grimaced. “Drum’s all rattle on that thing.”
Paul shook his head disbelievingly. “Come off it.”
“’Til I kissed you,” John said, raising chuckles from the others. “No, that one, definitely.”
“Fine, let’s just get on with it.” George said, coughing savagely and shooting another hawkish look over his shoulder at the crowd.
John turned to Paul, lapsing into an elastic Everly croon. “By golly, how about it, Phil? Can you say no when it feels so darn right?”
Paul tilted his head away, answering in a drawled approximation of Americana: “When you put it like that, Don, I guess not.”
They plugged into the amps again. Pete rolled his sticks off the tom-toms, bubbling over with impatience. The other three took up their places, George off to the right, Paul and John up stage. Paul folded his hands on the join of his bass and waited to one side while John bent to adjust the mic. John straightened his guitar again before addressing the room.
“Well, that was an overwhelming ovation.” He wiped his sweaty hair back. A man at the bar bellowed something drunken and unintelligible in German. John’s brows lifted. “An encore, you say?”
Paul snorted. John shot him a stern, decorous look before continuing. “We’re slowing the tempo now, ladies and gentlemen. This one will be our last, so grab a friend and pucker up, you miserable fuckers.”
He gripped his Rickenbacker and stirred into a steady strum. The band galvanised around the shimmying little rhythm. He and Paul swung languidly near, heads bent together at the mic.
“Never felt like this until I kissed yah…”
Their voices dovetailed in the close-harmony. The stage was a bubble, beyond its edge, the murk and gloom of the club could have been anywhere. Their fingers gripped shapes on the necks of their guitars. Sweet tones came from their throats, crooning, mock-romantic.
Paul was straight-backed and intent at his work, his head moving cordially in time with the rhythm. Even John was exacting and reserved, his mouth drawn, brow faintly furrowed.
The middle-eight mounted. Paul withdrew and the band dropped suddenly out.
John was alone in the suspended quiet, his voice nasal and plaintive, the punching upward stroke on his guitar a stark accompaniment; melancholy, strangely rousing.
“You don’t realise what you do to me…”
Paul stepped in close again. The rejoining harmony soothed beyond the point of pastiche, their voices winding. They rolled to the end, hitching higher and higher, somewhat raggedly.
“I kissed yah. Oh yeah. I kissed yah. Uh-huh. I kissed yah.”
The applause, when they finished, was scattered, and came for the most part from the couples who’d filtered back onto the floor to slow-dance.
John and Paul coughed and flexed their fingers and nodded. John let the atmosphere hang for a couple seconds longer, then disregarded it with a sour little smile, booming 'Thank you' unnecessarily loud into the mic.
Without further flourish, they disentangled themselves from their instruments and started packing up. They were done for the night, Eckhorn be damned.
***
George and Pete immediately slunk off upstairs. Paul, blinking with tiredness, headed for the bar where he could see John in amongst a jostling group of people.
He caught the barman and asked for some water.
“Paul,” John called, beckoning him over. “Meet Lukas.” He gestured to the young man standing beside him. “I told you about his band, remember? They’re the ones who had a guy piss on their amp at the Kaiserkeller.”
“Oh right, yeah.” Paul extended his hand. “Nice to meet you. Shame about that.”
“These things happen,” Lukas said dryly. He had a narrow face and an abundance of fine, blonde hair, which he’d back-combed masterfully into a quiff.
Almost everything on his lank form was leather. Paul thought he looked pretty impressive.
“I was just saying to John,” Lukas went on. “A few of us are throwing an early-morning party at my apartment. You should come.”
“Thanks,” Paul said. “But I’m dead on my feet -”
“Have you met Matt, Paul?” John interrupted.
“No, John, I can’t say I have,” Paul said, mirroring his wooden tone.
“Well, he wants to meet you.” John and Lukas exchanged wolfish grins. Lukas turned and called something in German to the rabble of young people standing close by. It was then that Paul really looked at the group properly. They were mostly young men, though there were a couple of girls. Judging from their hairstyles, they were a bunch of art students. High spirited - drunk - they were messing around, touching and kissing as freely as they conversed. It was with a dull sense of surprise that Paul noticed that a couple of the lads were feeling each other up against the bar not four foot from him. He looked away demurely, catching John’s eye.
“Interesting crowd, this lot,” John said. He drew on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes lazily at Paul.
“Well, you have fun with them,” Paul replied. “I’m going to bed.”
“Matthäus,” Lukas said, welcoming the dark-haired youth who had joined them.
“You know John already, of course. I promised to introduce you to all of The Beatles. Here is number two.”
“You played very well tonight," Matthaus said, his eyes on Paul.
“Thanks. Shame the others pissed off to bed before you could meet them. I’m actually about to do the same,” Paul said. “Nice to meet you anyway. It's Paul, by the way.” He thrust out his hand to Matthäus, catching the look that passed between John and Lukas out of the corner of his eye.
“You are not coming with us?” Matthäus said mildly. “It is perhaps, how you say, rather late for a party. Or rather early.”
“One of the two,” Paul said. “Like I said though, I’m knackered, you know, we've been playing for –”
“He’s trying not to be rude.” John tapped ash into an empty glass on the bar top. “We’ve caught him off-guard.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Paul muttered, deadpan. A whistle from the bartender drew his attention and he turned to accept his glass of water.
“You see, our Paulie’s a sweet lad, really,” John went on, addressing the Germans. “An innocent in this world. Got a bit of an aversion, you might have noticed.”
Paul swallowed a mouthful of water and turned back to face them, wiping his mouth. “What are you on about now?”
“An aversion. You know,” John lent in close confidingly. “With some of your mates being as they are…” He nodded meaningfully towards the snogging youths.
“Ah,” Lukas said slowly. “I see.”
Matthäus said nothing.
“He’s just a bit nervous.” John shrugged. “Doesn’t want to be exposed. He’d rather go and hide under his bed.”
“Give it a rest,” Paul said flatly. Then to Lukas and Matthäus: “We've been playing since seven last night. It’s got nothing to do with…”
“With what?” John prompted.
Paul looked down at his glass, groping for words. “It’s not that,” he said shortly, glancing up again. “Don’t listen to him, okay, he’s full of shit is John.”
“John?” One of the girls had broken away from the group and was skipping towards them. She slid in between Paul and Matthäus, fussing with her blonde bob of hair. “Are you coming with us, John?”
“But of course, my dear,” John said congenially, adopting his best BBC accent. “I can’t speak for everyone though.” His eyes fixed once more on Paul. The girl glanced at him furtively.
“Hello. I haven’t seen you before.” Her fingers fluttering over her hair, framing it carefully about her face. “What is your name?”
“Don’t worry about him, love,” John cut in. “It’s past his bedtime.”
“Piss off, John.”
“Eva, Paul,” Lukas said smoothly.
“Are you in John’s band?” Eva asked, swaying closer to him.
“I’m – well, yeah I –”
“Paul’s a bit simple,” John said. “We let him come up on stage and hold a guitar. Seems to keep him out of trouble.”
“Are you coming to the party?” Eva asked Paul.
“We’re trying to seduce him,” Lukas said. “Help us out.”
“I think you should come, Paul,” the girl said.
“Well, I really can’t -” Paul was starting to colour under the bombardment.
“But you should.” The girl touched his arm.
“Don’t pressure him, now,” John said. “He’s nervous around your kind.”
Eva blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Stop being a twat,” Paul said.
“You will come with us then?” Matthäus said, landing his hand on the back of Paul’s neck and smiling.
Paul scratched his cheek self-consciously, purposefully ignoring John. “Yeah, okay.”
There wasn’t time for him to get his jacket from upstairs. He stepped out with them, feeling inadequate in his jeans and white t-shirt.
Roaring into the street, the Germans barked and jostled in loud, ringing voices.
Eva and the other girls were shouting at John in scattered English, fussing around him and Lukas.
Paul fell in awkwardly with Matthäus and some other guys. Goosebumps rose on his flesh at the wind and he buried his hands as best he could in his jeans pockets, striding heavy-footed, his legs stiff from long hours spent standing.
Lukas had a van, an old thing with graffiti on one side. Everyone folded in, contorting, breathless with laughter. Paul squeezed in almost last of all, accepting the hand which Matthäus offered him.
The doors slammed closed.
“Fucking gas chamber.” Paul heard John's voice from further up the vehicle.
They were in darkness. There was giggling, muffled shouts, and limbs shifting and rearranging in the confined space. Paul leant close against the wall, the metal hard against his spine.
“Tight fit,” he muttered.
“Yes,” Matthäus’ voice replied, startlingly close to Paul’s ear. “Hope this piece of shit doesn’t break down.”
As Paul’s eyes struggled to adjust, he saw as much as felt Matthäus reach out and steady himself against the wall, planting his hands either side of Paul, one braced close to his torso, the other near to his head. The van started up and they lurched forward. Paul stiffened as Matthäus leant into him slightly with the motion of the van, their chests brushing.
Within five minutes of being on the road, Paul was in an agony of embarrassment. He’d shrunk as far back against the van’s metal frame as he could, but Matthäus had pressed closer with each rock and sway along the journey. When they rounded a particularly tight corner, Matthäus touched him, his hand brushing lingeringly up his side. Paul remained rigid, holding himself so stiff that his muscles ached. His cheeks burned furiously in the claustrophobic dark.
He thought maybe he should hit the guy.
When the van came to a halt, Paul was the first to jump out, scrambling down like a man escaping a burning house.
They had stopped alongside a tall, red-bricked building. Lampposts on the opposite side of the street illuminated a line of rope railings which ran the length of a wide wharf.
Everyone emptied out and followed Lukas around the side of the building - an old docklands warehouse which had been converted to apartments. Paul hung near the back of the group, hoping to avoid Matthäus. He was trying not to be too obvious as he cast around searchingly for John. He caught sight of him near the front of the group.
It stung, that John had gone out of his way to make him come and was now pointedly ignoring him. Rankled, Paul resolved not to seek him out again.
Inside, the party got quickly underway. Someone stuck on a record. The circulating abundance of cheap spirits helped things along.
Paul found himself sitting on a patchy leather sofa with three guys who were getting progressively more and more smashed. They’d made a token effort to speak a little English to him initially. Now Paul was the butt of more than a few jokes. They’d slap his back, splutter German at him, and roar at his uncomprehending expression.
After what felt like an hour of this, Paul’s frustration overcame his reserve, and he started drinking with a sort of blunt determination.
Time rolled by and Paul sat slack and unmoving, stunned with the vodka and his own exhaustion, listening vacantly to the chatter around him. He blearily entertained the idea of just getting up and leaving.
“Where the fuck is John?” he said, a little thickly, directing the question at the young man sitting next to him.
The youth gestured to himself and said loudly:
"My...name is...Bruno. Bruno!"
“John's such a - he's -" Paul rubbed his face, trying to clear his head. "Such a dickhead.”
Bruno grunted and patted him heavy-handedly on the knee.
Paul became aware then, with a dim sense of unease, that Matthäus had joined their group and was sitting on the floor a short distance from him. He groped to remember exactly what Matthäus had done to offend him and, feeling generous, decided to forget.
Presently, Bruno shook Paul’s arm and gestured towards the door. It was time to go somewhere, time to do something.
Paul was crossing a cool lobby, following Bruno and the others, his shoes clattering on the stone floor. He made a point of holding the door for Matthäus, playing at the gentleman. He fought the impulse to laugh at his own ridiculousness and half-wished John was there - it was the kind of thing he’d have appreciated.
Outside, the sun was rising behind dull clouds. The length of the docklands was now visible. Paul studied the cluster of warehouses and industrial buildings, the wharf that stretched on dull and severe, the peers trailing out to pontoons bobbing on the brown waters of the Elbe.
The sodden, sullen mechanics of the harbour were familiar to him.
The Landungsbrücken loomed in the distance, its towers knifing against the low sky.
“Everywhere's grim up North,” Paul muttered. He wasn't sure if what he felt was homesickness.
“You come from, ah, Liverpool, don't you?” Matthäus said.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “It’s about as cheerful as this.”
One of the lads produced a handful of pills from his jacket pocket. The others huddled in close and plucked from his palm like hens snatching up corn.
“Benzedrine? Benzos? It’s no problem,” Bruno said encouragingly when Paul showed signs of reticence. Paul thought the stuff could be no worse than what Bernhard had been giving them night after night at the Top Ten.
“How much have you drunken?” Matthäus asked him casually. Bruno said something in German and the others sniggered.
When Matthäus placed the pill in Paul's hand, he paused only long enough to draw saliva thick into his mouth, then tossed the Benzedrine back. The Germans cheered him.
“So you've been in this band with John for a long time?” Matthäus said as he drew out a pack of cigarettes and offered them around.
“You could say so,” Paul said shortly. “Cheers.” He accepted a cigarette and felt Matthäus’s eyes on him as he put it to his lips.
“I’ve been to see you guys a couple of times.” Matthäus held out his lighter and cupped the flame while Paul lit up.
“Yeah?” Paul concentrated on the smoke entering his lungs.
“Sure. When you were playing at the Kaiserkeller.” Matthäus stepped idly down off the pavement and into the empty street. Paul hesitated for a moment.
Something is Matthäus' thin smile, his dark, encouraging gaze, made him follow.
The rest of the lads stayed where they were, calling jeeringly after them. For once, Paul was glad he could not understand what they said.
The two of them crossed unhurriedly to the other side of the street and paced to the brink of the wharf where there was no railing and the water slapped against the stone a couple of feet below.
“How old are you?” Matthäus asked, abruptly, prompting a snort of laughter from Paul.
“Nineteen. You?”
“Twenty-one.”
They stood smoking, saying little, flicking ash into the water.
Paul’s gaze wandered along the peer. He felt a sudden, wild urge to run, leap-frog the bollards, jump off the wharf and into the water. He laughed again.
“What?” Matthäus said, turning to him.
“No, no.” Paul cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
Matthäus smiled knowingly. “Benzos don’t do much for me.”
“The barman at the Tep Ten, he’s always got stuff. Uppers. No hard stuff. Or so he tells us. Shifty bugger.” Paul's tone lifted with repressed amusement. He shook his head and tried to draw himself back under control. A reckless giddiness had risen in his chest, but it was nauseating in its forcefulness. He dragged hard on his cigarette and shook his head again. “Stupid though. I’m never going to sleep now. I’ve not had a proper sleep in…fucking ages.”
“Paul?” Matthäus said.
Paul glanced at him, anticipating the worst. “What? What is it?”
“What do you think of us?”
“You…?” Paul looked back towards the building where the three other youths were stood smoking. “Oh. Yeah. Nice lads. You lot are alright.”
“I think,” Matthäus swallowed, retiring suddenly. He paused, then threw away his cigarette in a gesture that seemed to commit him. When he spoke again, it was almost flatly, dispassionately. “I think you are a great guy, Paul.”
“Oh right.” Paul had come to the end of his own cigarette. He flicked it into the water and watched the filter floating, the water rippling.
“You and John…” Matthäus said quietly.
“Yeah?” Paul's jaw clenched tight. His stomach seemed to turn over.
“Are you…?”
Rough laughter forced its way out of Paul again; there was no mirth in it, just strain and faint delirium. “What?”
Matthäus watched him closely. “You know.”
“No, I don’t know. Are we what?” Paul said, speaking rapidly. “What are you asking me?”
“What is your relationship?”
“He’s my mate.”
“Have you slept together?”
Paul bent his head for a moment as if listening for something, some obscured strain of music. He straightened slowly, meeting Matthäus’ gaze, his eyes luminous. “Pardon?”
“I thought you might be a couple,” Matthäus said mildly. “I notice things. I don’t think I’m mistaken.”
“Are you having me on?” Paul scrubbed a hand across his face, flattening his hair back from his brow in a despairing gesture.
“I think you are beautiful,” Matthäus said quietly. He had turned to face Paul fully.
Paul could think of nothing to say. Matthäus’s eyes were on his mouth.
“I just want to kiss you, Paul.” He stepped closer to him. “I wish you would let me kiss you.”
“I’m not queer, okay?” Paul said unsteadily. He moved backwards. The ground seemed to be lifting and falling like they were out on the water. “I don’t know where you got this idea from.” He could no longer muster much indignation. He was light-headed, reality had been jarred out of place. “I need to just, I need a minute -”
“Come back with me. You’re tired. You can sleep at my flat,” Matthäus said. He reached for him. Paul swayed a step back and started, finding himself closer to the edge of the wharf than he’d realised. “Careful,” Matthäus murmured, gripping his arm and drawing him close. Paul staggered slightly against him.
“I don’t feel well.” Paul said thickly, straightening, bracing himself against Matthäus’s arms. “I think I need to go in.”
“You Englishmen can’t hold your drink.” Matthäus said, rubbing Paul’s back. Paul shied from him, but his movements were half-started and ineffectual. The strength had gone out of him. Matthäus’s arms were firm around him. Their faces were close all at once, and Matthäus was trying to kiss his mouth.
“Look, seriously -” Paul said roughly, turning his head obstinately away. “I don’t – I’m really not –” Matthäus’s mouth was on his neck, on his cheek, clumsy against his lips. Paul shoved his chest and tried to lurch away. Matthäus had a hard hold on his arm. Paul stumbled, resisting his grasp. They seemed to be moving strangely, dazed and encumbered, as if they were half-waltzing, half-wrestling.
“Get the fuck off me,” Paul said. He swung, rough and impeded, striking at Matthäus with his fist, his knuckles catching him blunt and sudden on the jaw.
Matthäus jerked in surprise. The struggle moved into something else. Matthäus was roused and angry.
“What’s going on?” A voice called sharply. Even before Paul looked, he knew it was John.
He turned his head. Matthäus’s fist connected with his mouth.
Matthäus released him, and Paul stumbled back from the blow, throwing his arm out to catch his balance. The ground was lurching and unsteady under his feet.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” John was there between them, rigid and immediate, shoving Matthäus roughly with one hand, putting his weight behind it.
Matthäus fell back a step. Bruno and the others were there, ready to hold him back. But it was clear that the fight was over. Matthäus stood, panting slightly, staring from Paul to John, at a loss.
John turned, his eyes dark and hooded. “You alright?”
Paul fingered his lip. The blow had been a blunt shock, not especially painful. He didn’t acknowledge John. He straightened his shirt, raked a hand through his hair and took a couple of slow steps away. His stomach clenched and the ground was suddenly swinging close as he doubled over and clutched his knees.
“Has he taken something?” John barked. “What did you give him?”
“Benzedrine,” Matthäus said.
“That all?”
“Yes.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
John moved to Paul’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s alright.” Paul swallowed. “Just – give us a minute.”
John straightened again. He glanced at Matthäus and said, quietly: “You’re a sly bastard, you are.”
Matthäus didn't flinch. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you fucking do,” John said.
Paul retched. His legs gave out as he started to vomit. He was heaving up liquid, all liquid: vodka and beer. He thought it wouldn’t end. When finally it did, he could only kneel trembling on the paving stone, breathing raggedly, recovering himself.
He stared glassily down at the mess, spitting every so often to clear the taste from his mouth. After a moment, John took him by the elbow and helped him to his feet. Paul swayed slightly, wiping his mouth and chin as best he could.
“You’re alright, Paul?” John murmured, looking him over. Paul was struck by the odd stiffness of his expression. It was as if he were embarrassed.
Paul sniffed and turned aside and spat again. He shot a sidelong look at Matthäus. The others were still standing around him, watching. Matthäus met his eye boldly.
“Come on.” John nudged his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
***
Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3
Pairing: John / Paul
Rating: NC17 (for Part 3)
Setting: Hamburg 1961
Summary: John convinces Paul to go to a party with him.
Notes: Apologies in advance for any inconsistencies in terms of chronology,
geography, etc.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, I make no profit, I mean no harm!
Dec 2020 Note: Thanks to Dane for saving this as I had lost all my old drafts of this fic. (If anyone has the old-old version of this, the original version that was first posted in 2008 and was 2 chapters long and had them climbing a tree to get a kite down - please let me know in the comments)
Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3
Eckhorn was roaring at them in German as they came down off the stage. “More! Keep playing!”
“No, we’re done. You see, if you look at the time,” John thrust his wristwatch into Eckhorn’s eyeline. “You’ll notice it’s past quitting time for us.”
Eckhorn grabbed John’s wrist and tapped vigorously on the face of his watch. “I’ll tell you when you can go. Get back on that stage.”
“Let’s just do one more,” George said wearily.
“What about you? You look like you’re about to keel over,” Paul said.
“I’m fine.”
“He’s not well, this one, you know,” Paul said loudly, as if for Eckhorn’s benefit, but of course the squat, dark-eyed man didn’t understand a word of it – and even if he had, it wouldn’t have made a difference.
“Either you play or you don’t get paid.” He gestured emphatically.
“What’s going on then?” Pete was hovering at the edge of the stage, watching John expectantly.
“Fine,” John said, pulling his face into a leering grin, waggling his brows at Eckhorn. “We’ll do one more, just for you, mein Herr.”
They clambered back onto the stage. The dance floor had emptied, but the bar was crowded, the tables still full. The air was healthy for the hour - choked with smoke and rumbling with drunk voices.
The noise dipped slightly as the band returned to the stage.
It was going on 3am at The Top Ten Club. The Jaybirds had pissed off some time around midnight, leaving them to shoulder the early hours on their own.
“Wankers.” Pete was still muttering as he settled in behind the drums again. “I’m serious, that lot had better make this up to us...”
“Right then.” John rolled his shoulders and adjusted his guitar strap. “What do we think?”
They’d gathered around the raised drums platform, leaning in to hear one another.
“Long Tall Sally?” George volunteered, shooting a questioning look Paul’s way.
Paul shook his head. “You’ll be dead before the end of Long Tall Sally.”
“I can manage,” George said defensively. He was sweating more than the others and his face was chalk-white in the harsh stage lights.
“You look like shit,” John said lightly.
“Too many uppers,” Paul said.
John cocked his head. “Or not enough.”
“Well, if we’re taking this easy, then why not…” Paul trailed off, thinking.
“’Til There was you?” John hazarded with mild derision. “There’s a crowd-pleaser.”
“Shut it,” Paul said wearily. He blew out his cheeks. “What about an Everlys’?”
“That’s still not exactly…” George inclined his head in the direction of the dance floor.
“It’s three in the morning,” Paul said. “They’re hardly going to start rioting. And if they do hate it, at least Eckhorn’ll let us go.”
“Not permanently, you’d hope,” Pete said, rapping his sticks restlessly against one leg.
“Whoever got sacked for doing the Everly Brothers?” Paul said.
John was nodding; the incongruity of the whole thing was starting to appeal to him. “Which one do you want to do?”
Paul didn’t hesitate. “Cathy’s Clown.”
Pete grimaced. “Drum’s all rattle on that thing.”
Paul shook his head disbelievingly. “Come off it.”
“’Til I kissed you,” John said, raising chuckles from the others. “No, that one, definitely.”
“Fine, let’s just get on with it.” George said, coughing savagely and shooting another hawkish look over his shoulder at the crowd.
John turned to Paul, lapsing into an elastic Everly croon. “By golly, how about it, Phil? Can you say no when it feels so darn right?”
Paul tilted his head away, answering in a drawled approximation of Americana: “When you put it like that, Don, I guess not.”
They plugged into the amps again. Pete rolled his sticks off the tom-toms, bubbling over with impatience. The other three took up their places, George off to the right, Paul and John up stage. Paul folded his hands on the join of his bass and waited to one side while John bent to adjust the mic. John straightened his guitar again before addressing the room.
“Well, that was an overwhelming ovation.” He wiped his sweaty hair back. A man at the bar bellowed something drunken and unintelligible in German. John’s brows lifted. “An encore, you say?”
Paul snorted. John shot him a stern, decorous look before continuing. “We’re slowing the tempo now, ladies and gentlemen. This one will be our last, so grab a friend and pucker up, you miserable fuckers.”
He gripped his Rickenbacker and stirred into a steady strum. The band galvanised around the shimmying little rhythm. He and Paul swung languidly near, heads bent together at the mic.
“Never felt like this until I kissed yah…”
Their voices dovetailed in the close-harmony. The stage was a bubble, beyond its edge, the murk and gloom of the club could have been anywhere. Their fingers gripped shapes on the necks of their guitars. Sweet tones came from their throats, crooning, mock-romantic.
Paul was straight-backed and intent at his work, his head moving cordially in time with the rhythm. Even John was exacting and reserved, his mouth drawn, brow faintly furrowed.
The middle-eight mounted. Paul withdrew and the band dropped suddenly out.
John was alone in the suspended quiet, his voice nasal and plaintive, the punching upward stroke on his guitar a stark accompaniment; melancholy, strangely rousing.
“You don’t realise what you do to me…”
Paul stepped in close again. The rejoining harmony soothed beyond the point of pastiche, their voices winding. They rolled to the end, hitching higher and higher, somewhat raggedly.
“I kissed yah. Oh yeah. I kissed yah. Uh-huh. I kissed yah.”
The applause, when they finished, was scattered, and came for the most part from the couples who’d filtered back onto the floor to slow-dance.
John and Paul coughed and flexed their fingers and nodded. John let the atmosphere hang for a couple seconds longer, then disregarded it with a sour little smile, booming 'Thank you' unnecessarily loud into the mic.
Without further flourish, they disentangled themselves from their instruments and started packing up. They were done for the night, Eckhorn be damned.
George and Pete immediately slunk off upstairs. Paul, blinking with tiredness, headed for the bar where he could see John in amongst a jostling group of people.
He caught the barman and asked for some water.
“Paul,” John called, beckoning him over. “Meet Lukas.” He gestured to the young man standing beside him. “I told you about his band, remember? They’re the ones who had a guy piss on their amp at the Kaiserkeller.”
“Oh right, yeah.” Paul extended his hand. “Nice to meet you. Shame about that.”
“These things happen,” Lukas said dryly. He had a narrow face and an abundance of fine, blonde hair, which he’d back-combed masterfully into a quiff.
Almost everything on his lank form was leather. Paul thought he looked pretty impressive.
“I was just saying to John,” Lukas went on. “A few of us are throwing an early-morning party at my apartment. You should come.”
“Thanks,” Paul said. “But I’m dead on my feet -”
“Have you met Matt, Paul?” John interrupted.
“No, John, I can’t say I have,” Paul said, mirroring his wooden tone.
“Well, he wants to meet you.” John and Lukas exchanged wolfish grins. Lukas turned and called something in German to the rabble of young people standing close by. It was then that Paul really looked at the group properly. They were mostly young men, though there were a couple of girls. Judging from their hairstyles, they were a bunch of art students. High spirited - drunk - they were messing around, touching and kissing as freely as they conversed. It was with a dull sense of surprise that Paul noticed that a couple of the lads were feeling each other up against the bar not four foot from him. He looked away demurely, catching John’s eye.
“Interesting crowd, this lot,” John said. He drew on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes lazily at Paul.
“Well, you have fun with them,” Paul replied. “I’m going to bed.”
“Matthäus,” Lukas said, welcoming the dark-haired youth who had joined them.
“You know John already, of course. I promised to introduce you to all of The Beatles. Here is number two.”
“You played very well tonight," Matthaus said, his eyes on Paul.
“Thanks. Shame the others pissed off to bed before you could meet them. I’m actually about to do the same,” Paul said. “Nice to meet you anyway. It's Paul, by the way.” He thrust out his hand to Matthäus, catching the look that passed between John and Lukas out of the corner of his eye.
“You are not coming with us?” Matthäus said mildly. “It is perhaps, how you say, rather late for a party. Or rather early.”
“One of the two,” Paul said. “Like I said though, I’m knackered, you know, we've been playing for –”
“He’s trying not to be rude.” John tapped ash into an empty glass on the bar top. “We’ve caught him off-guard.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Paul muttered, deadpan. A whistle from the bartender drew his attention and he turned to accept his glass of water.
“You see, our Paulie’s a sweet lad, really,” John went on, addressing the Germans. “An innocent in this world. Got a bit of an aversion, you might have noticed.”
Paul swallowed a mouthful of water and turned back to face them, wiping his mouth. “What are you on about now?”
“An aversion. You know,” John lent in close confidingly. “With some of your mates being as they are…” He nodded meaningfully towards the snogging youths.
“Ah,” Lukas said slowly. “I see.”
Matthäus said nothing.
“He’s just a bit nervous.” John shrugged. “Doesn’t want to be exposed. He’d rather go and hide under his bed.”
“Give it a rest,” Paul said flatly. Then to Lukas and Matthäus: “We've been playing since seven last night. It’s got nothing to do with…”
“With what?” John prompted.
Paul looked down at his glass, groping for words. “It’s not that,” he said shortly, glancing up again. “Don’t listen to him, okay, he’s full of shit is John.”
“John?” One of the girls had broken away from the group and was skipping towards them. She slid in between Paul and Matthäus, fussing with her blonde bob of hair. “Are you coming with us, John?”
“But of course, my dear,” John said congenially, adopting his best BBC accent. “I can’t speak for everyone though.” His eyes fixed once more on Paul. The girl glanced at him furtively.
“Hello. I haven’t seen you before.” Her fingers fluttering over her hair, framing it carefully about her face. “What is your name?”
“Don’t worry about him, love,” John cut in. “It’s past his bedtime.”
“Piss off, John.”
“Eva, Paul,” Lukas said smoothly.
“Are you in John’s band?” Eva asked, swaying closer to him.
“I’m – well, yeah I –”
“Paul’s a bit simple,” John said. “We let him come up on stage and hold a guitar. Seems to keep him out of trouble.”
“Are you coming to the party?” Eva asked Paul.
“We’re trying to seduce him,” Lukas said. “Help us out.”
“I think you should come, Paul,” the girl said.
“Well, I really can’t -” Paul was starting to colour under the bombardment.
“But you should.” The girl touched his arm.
“Don’t pressure him, now,” John said. “He’s nervous around your kind.”
Eva blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Stop being a twat,” Paul said.
“You will come with us then?” Matthäus said, landing his hand on the back of Paul’s neck and smiling.
Paul scratched his cheek self-consciously, purposefully ignoring John. “Yeah, okay.”
There wasn’t time for him to get his jacket from upstairs. He stepped out with them, feeling inadequate in his jeans and white t-shirt.
Roaring into the street, the Germans barked and jostled in loud, ringing voices.
Eva and the other girls were shouting at John in scattered English, fussing around him and Lukas.
Paul fell in awkwardly with Matthäus and some other guys. Goosebumps rose on his flesh at the wind and he buried his hands as best he could in his jeans pockets, striding heavy-footed, his legs stiff from long hours spent standing.
Lukas had a van, an old thing with graffiti on one side. Everyone folded in, contorting, breathless with laughter. Paul squeezed in almost last of all, accepting the hand which Matthäus offered him.
The doors slammed closed.
“Fucking gas chamber.” Paul heard John's voice from further up the vehicle.
They were in darkness. There was giggling, muffled shouts, and limbs shifting and rearranging in the confined space. Paul leant close against the wall, the metal hard against his spine.
“Tight fit,” he muttered.
“Yes,” Matthäus’ voice replied, startlingly close to Paul’s ear. “Hope this piece of shit doesn’t break down.”
As Paul’s eyes struggled to adjust, he saw as much as felt Matthäus reach out and steady himself against the wall, planting his hands either side of Paul, one braced close to his torso, the other near to his head. The van started up and they lurched forward. Paul stiffened as Matthäus leant into him slightly with the motion of the van, their chests brushing.
Within five minutes of being on the road, Paul was in an agony of embarrassment. He’d shrunk as far back against the van’s metal frame as he could, but Matthäus had pressed closer with each rock and sway along the journey. When they rounded a particularly tight corner, Matthäus touched him, his hand brushing lingeringly up his side. Paul remained rigid, holding himself so stiff that his muscles ached. His cheeks burned furiously in the claustrophobic dark.
He thought maybe he should hit the guy.
When the van came to a halt, Paul was the first to jump out, scrambling down like a man escaping a burning house.
They had stopped alongside a tall, red-bricked building. Lampposts on the opposite side of the street illuminated a line of rope railings which ran the length of a wide wharf.
Everyone emptied out and followed Lukas around the side of the building - an old docklands warehouse which had been converted to apartments. Paul hung near the back of the group, hoping to avoid Matthäus. He was trying not to be too obvious as he cast around searchingly for John. He caught sight of him near the front of the group.
It stung, that John had gone out of his way to make him come and was now pointedly ignoring him. Rankled, Paul resolved not to seek him out again.
Inside, the party got quickly underway. Someone stuck on a record. The circulating abundance of cheap spirits helped things along.
Paul found himself sitting on a patchy leather sofa with three guys who were getting progressively more and more smashed. They’d made a token effort to speak a little English to him initially. Now Paul was the butt of more than a few jokes. They’d slap his back, splutter German at him, and roar at his uncomprehending expression.
After what felt like an hour of this, Paul’s frustration overcame his reserve, and he started drinking with a sort of blunt determination.
Time rolled by and Paul sat slack and unmoving, stunned with the vodka and his own exhaustion, listening vacantly to the chatter around him. He blearily entertained the idea of just getting up and leaving.
“Where the fuck is John?” he said, a little thickly, directing the question at the young man sitting next to him.
The youth gestured to himself and said loudly:
"My...name is...Bruno. Bruno!"
“John's such a - he's -" Paul rubbed his face, trying to clear his head. "Such a dickhead.”
Bruno grunted and patted him heavy-handedly on the knee.
Paul became aware then, with a dim sense of unease, that Matthäus had joined their group and was sitting on the floor a short distance from him. He groped to remember exactly what Matthäus had done to offend him and, feeling generous, decided to forget.
Presently, Bruno shook Paul’s arm and gestured towards the door. It was time to go somewhere, time to do something.
Paul was crossing a cool lobby, following Bruno and the others, his shoes clattering on the stone floor. He made a point of holding the door for Matthäus, playing at the gentleman. He fought the impulse to laugh at his own ridiculousness and half-wished John was there - it was the kind of thing he’d have appreciated.
Outside, the sun was rising behind dull clouds. The length of the docklands was now visible. Paul studied the cluster of warehouses and industrial buildings, the wharf that stretched on dull and severe, the peers trailing out to pontoons bobbing on the brown waters of the Elbe.
The sodden, sullen mechanics of the harbour were familiar to him.
The Landungsbrücken loomed in the distance, its towers knifing against the low sky.
“Everywhere's grim up North,” Paul muttered. He wasn't sure if what he felt was homesickness.
“You come from, ah, Liverpool, don't you?” Matthäus said.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “It’s about as cheerful as this.”
One of the lads produced a handful of pills from his jacket pocket. The others huddled in close and plucked from his palm like hens snatching up corn.
“Benzedrine? Benzos? It’s no problem,” Bruno said encouragingly when Paul showed signs of reticence. Paul thought the stuff could be no worse than what Bernhard had been giving them night after night at the Top Ten.
“How much have you drunken?” Matthäus asked him casually. Bruno said something in German and the others sniggered.
When Matthäus placed the pill in Paul's hand, he paused only long enough to draw saliva thick into his mouth, then tossed the Benzedrine back. The Germans cheered him.
“So you've been in this band with John for a long time?” Matthäus said as he drew out a pack of cigarettes and offered them around.
“You could say so,” Paul said shortly. “Cheers.” He accepted a cigarette and felt Matthäus’s eyes on him as he put it to his lips.
“I’ve been to see you guys a couple of times.” Matthäus held out his lighter and cupped the flame while Paul lit up.
“Yeah?” Paul concentrated on the smoke entering his lungs.
“Sure. When you were playing at the Kaiserkeller.” Matthäus stepped idly down off the pavement and into the empty street. Paul hesitated for a moment.
Something is Matthäus' thin smile, his dark, encouraging gaze, made him follow.
The rest of the lads stayed where they were, calling jeeringly after them. For once, Paul was glad he could not understand what they said.
The two of them crossed unhurriedly to the other side of the street and paced to the brink of the wharf where there was no railing and the water slapped against the stone a couple of feet below.
“How old are you?” Matthäus asked, abruptly, prompting a snort of laughter from Paul.
“Nineteen. You?”
“Twenty-one.”
They stood smoking, saying little, flicking ash into the water.
Paul’s gaze wandered along the peer. He felt a sudden, wild urge to run, leap-frog the bollards, jump off the wharf and into the water. He laughed again.
“What?” Matthäus said, turning to him.
“No, no.” Paul cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
Matthäus smiled knowingly. “Benzos don’t do much for me.”
“The barman at the Tep Ten, he’s always got stuff. Uppers. No hard stuff. Or so he tells us. Shifty bugger.” Paul's tone lifted with repressed amusement. He shook his head and tried to draw himself back under control. A reckless giddiness had risen in his chest, but it was nauseating in its forcefulness. He dragged hard on his cigarette and shook his head again. “Stupid though. I’m never going to sleep now. I’ve not had a proper sleep in…fucking ages.”
“Paul?” Matthäus said.
Paul glanced at him, anticipating the worst. “What? What is it?”
“What do you think of us?”
“You…?” Paul looked back towards the building where the three other youths were stood smoking. “Oh. Yeah. Nice lads. You lot are alright.”
“I think,” Matthäus swallowed, retiring suddenly. He paused, then threw away his cigarette in a gesture that seemed to commit him. When he spoke again, it was almost flatly, dispassionately. “I think you are a great guy, Paul.”
“Oh right.” Paul had come to the end of his own cigarette. He flicked it into the water and watched the filter floating, the water rippling.
“You and John…” Matthäus said quietly.
“Yeah?” Paul's jaw clenched tight. His stomach seemed to turn over.
“Are you…?”
Rough laughter forced its way out of Paul again; there was no mirth in it, just strain and faint delirium. “What?”
Matthäus watched him closely. “You know.”
“No, I don’t know. Are we what?” Paul said, speaking rapidly. “What are you asking me?”
“What is your relationship?”
“He’s my mate.”
“Have you slept together?”
Paul bent his head for a moment as if listening for something, some obscured strain of music. He straightened slowly, meeting Matthäus’ gaze, his eyes luminous. “Pardon?”
“I thought you might be a couple,” Matthäus said mildly. “I notice things. I don’t think I’m mistaken.”
“Are you having me on?” Paul scrubbed a hand across his face, flattening his hair back from his brow in a despairing gesture.
“I think you are beautiful,” Matthäus said quietly. He had turned to face Paul fully.
Paul could think of nothing to say. Matthäus’s eyes were on his mouth.
“I just want to kiss you, Paul.” He stepped closer to him. “I wish you would let me kiss you.”
“I’m not queer, okay?” Paul said unsteadily. He moved backwards. The ground seemed to be lifting and falling like they were out on the water. “I don’t know where you got this idea from.” He could no longer muster much indignation. He was light-headed, reality had been jarred out of place. “I need to just, I need a minute -”
“Come back with me. You’re tired. You can sleep at my flat,” Matthäus said. He reached for him. Paul swayed a step back and started, finding himself closer to the edge of the wharf than he’d realised. “Careful,” Matthäus murmured, gripping his arm and drawing him close. Paul staggered slightly against him.
“I don’t feel well.” Paul said thickly, straightening, bracing himself against Matthäus’s arms. “I think I need to go in.”
“You Englishmen can’t hold your drink.” Matthäus said, rubbing Paul’s back. Paul shied from him, but his movements were half-started and ineffectual. The strength had gone out of him. Matthäus’s arms were firm around him. Their faces were close all at once, and Matthäus was trying to kiss his mouth.
“Look, seriously -” Paul said roughly, turning his head obstinately away. “I don’t – I’m really not –” Matthäus’s mouth was on his neck, on his cheek, clumsy against his lips. Paul shoved his chest and tried to lurch away. Matthäus had a hard hold on his arm. Paul stumbled, resisting his grasp. They seemed to be moving strangely, dazed and encumbered, as if they were half-waltzing, half-wrestling.
“Get the fuck off me,” Paul said. He swung, rough and impeded, striking at Matthäus with his fist, his knuckles catching him blunt and sudden on the jaw.
Matthäus jerked in surprise. The struggle moved into something else. Matthäus was roused and angry.
“What’s going on?” A voice called sharply. Even before Paul looked, he knew it was John.
He turned his head. Matthäus’s fist connected with his mouth.
Matthäus released him, and Paul stumbled back from the blow, throwing his arm out to catch his balance. The ground was lurching and unsteady under his feet.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” John was there between them, rigid and immediate, shoving Matthäus roughly with one hand, putting his weight behind it.
Matthäus fell back a step. Bruno and the others were there, ready to hold him back. But it was clear that the fight was over. Matthäus stood, panting slightly, staring from Paul to John, at a loss.
John turned, his eyes dark and hooded. “You alright?”
Paul fingered his lip. The blow had been a blunt shock, not especially painful. He didn’t acknowledge John. He straightened his shirt, raked a hand through his hair and took a couple of slow steps away. His stomach clenched and the ground was suddenly swinging close as he doubled over and clutched his knees.
“Has he taken something?” John barked. “What did you give him?”
“Benzedrine,” Matthäus said.
“That all?”
“Yes.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
John moved to Paul’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s alright.” Paul swallowed. “Just – give us a minute.”
John straightened again. He glanced at Matthäus and said, quietly: “You’re a sly bastard, you are.”
Matthäus didn't flinch. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you fucking do,” John said.
Paul retched. His legs gave out as he started to vomit. He was heaving up liquid, all liquid: vodka and beer. He thought it wouldn’t end. When finally it did, he could only kneel trembling on the paving stone, breathing raggedly, recovering himself.
He stared glassily down at the mess, spitting every so often to clear the taste from his mouth. After a moment, John took him by the elbow and helped him to his feet. Paul swayed slightly, wiping his mouth and chin as best he could.
“You’re alright, Paul?” John murmured, looking him over. Paul was struck by the odd stiffness of his expression. It was as if he were embarrassed.
Paul sniffed and turned aside and spat again. He shot a sidelong look at Matthäus. The others were still standing around him, watching. Matthäus met his eye boldly.
“Come on.” John nudged his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3