Chapter 14
A/N: This chapter is ridiculously long, which is also why it is two days late, so thanks for being patient. Paul also speaks French in this chapter (seriously though, how amazing would it be to hear Paul speak fluent French?), so I have put the original sentences at the end of the chapter, so you can look up what it means if you don't know. (Thanks for Chut-je-dors on Tumblr for translating these for me).
Attraction was an odd feeling to be experiencing, John thought as the coach drove through the French countryside, over both stone and dirt roads, through villages and alongside fields of wheat and corn with far off farmhouses in the distance, some of it harvested, some of it still standing tall as it enjoyed the warmth of the sun. Paul, although he had always been handsome in John's eyes, looked even more lovely to him now as he sat opposite him, eyes closed, long lashes grazing his cheeks, tempting lips slightly parted, and his face calm as he laid with his head resting against the side of the coach, vast asleep, his chest rising and falling at a calm, soothing rhythm, like the coming and going of the sea on a pleasant spring day in the beginning month of June. Ever since he had admitted his feelings to himself, the sight and thought of him filled his stomach with an almost constant feeling of weakness, and his heart with a desperate need to touch, to trace the man's pink lips with his fingertips and to feel them tremble as he kissed them, to feel the pulsation of his heart and the warmth of his skin against his own, to hear him laugh and whisper his name, be it pleading or in happiness.
But at the same time, he felt nauseous too, with fear of rejection, fear of not being good enough, fear of losing the one he hadn't even had, or even the fear of being disappointed if something were to happen between them, that if they would touch, his feelings would fall flat, leaving him disillusioned and out of love. Not that he felt there was any chance of the latter option coming true. The strange thing was, although the thought that he could never have him was a disappointing one, it did not crush him as much as he had thought it ought to, perhaps because he had always known, even before he had admitted his feelings to himself, that there was no chance of anything happening in that respect, as Paul was not only too far out of his league, and would therefore never even so much as consider the possibility, their circumstances made it utterly impossible for them to be together, even if, as he had realised, Paul did fancy men.
He had not said a word to him about the revelation he had had at the theatre a couple of days ago, being both afraid of his reaction towards him questioning him about such things, and uncertain whether it was his place to say anything of it in the first place. It was a private matter after all, and not something he had any business of knowing, considering he was his portraitist, an aspiring artist who had been lucky enough to be brought along to an exhibition in Paris to show off his work to some of the most important figures in the business, not a sexual, let alone romantic, interest of his, whom he was attempting to woo. Perhaps, he thought, some things were better left unsaid.
Sighing, he looked down at the sketchbook in his hand and considered his work as he shot the occasional glance at his model to see what needed changing, adapting, or refining, and hurried to continue his sketch of the younger man, needing to work quickly if he wanted to have it finished before he would awake. It was a struggle to draw in a driving carriage, the wobbling as they took turns and drove over uneven roads, up and down hills, and through puddles, making it difficult for him to keep a steady hand, occasionally causing his pencil to slip on the paper or his lines to come out too wiggly, but he did not mind too much, the unsteadiness giving the drawing an unique look he had not considered before.
It was not much longer, though, when John noticed Paul stirring and slowly awakening from his afternoon slumber, his gaze first unfocused and hazy as he opened his eyes, until they rested on him for a moment and his lips curled up in a little smile that caused John's heart to make a funny little jump. Groaning, the younger man stretched himself out, tightening his muscles for little longer than a second or two, before relaxing them again and curling back up where he was still half lying down with his side against the carriage, looking comfortable and at ease as he suppressed a yawn and closed his eyes for a moment before they found John's again.
"How long was I gone for?" he asked, his voice croaky from sleep, and it took John a few seconds before he realised Paul had asked him something and produced a cheap pocket watch from his waistcoat.
"Not long," he said, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose to see his watch better as he glanced down at it, "about an hour and a half, perhaps a little less." The other man hummed in acknowledgement and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before sitting up and glancing out of the small window in the carriage door.
"We're nearing Paris, if I am not mistaken. It should only be about another half hour or so," he said and this time it was John's turn to hum in response, his words getting lost in his throat as he continued to stare at him, being only able to look away and down into his sketchbook when Paul turned his eyes back on him. "What were you drawing?"
"E-excuse me?" he stammered, and cleared his throat as he forced himself to meet Paul's eyes to see him nodding towards the notebook and pencil in his hand.
"You. What were you drawing?" he asked and John fought the urge to blush, as he glanced down at it, struggling to come up with what to say, as, for some reason, telling him the truth seemed too revealing, even though he suspected he would not mind it.
"Oh... The landscape," he lied after a moment of silence, which had been a tad too long to be convincing, and motioned to the view of the golden grain fields underneath the clear blue with white dotted sky, that was visible through the little window, to illustrate, and was relieved when Paul did actually look outside for a moment, allowing him enough time to gather himself and stop his blushing and stammering.
"It is a stunning view, isn't it?" Paul said, sighing as he took in the country's beauty, and John immediately agreed, though he was not even sure himself if he was talking about the fields or Paul. "Can I see it?"
"I don't like showing any of my unfinished works to people," he said, not meeting the other man's eye when he looked back at him and staring instead out of the window where more villages with houses and shops cropped up into view, telling him they were coming closer to the outskirts of Paris.
"You showed me all the different versions of my portrait before those were finished, and that didn't seem to be an issue," Paul remarked, causing an involuntary grin to appear on John's lips despite himself as he glanced back at him.
"You were the exception, rather than the rule, I'm afraid."
"Was I? That's a shame," Paul said and he held John's eyes for a moment before continuing, "You can show me once it is finished, then. You are going to love Paris, though. I know it. The city is gorgeous, more so even than London, and the language is simply bewitching, especially when it falls from the lips of a pretty French girl, and there are plenty of those around, I can assure you," said Paul with a wink and John forced himself to smile at the mention of pretty girls, knowing now that neither he nor Paul had any interest in those, and that he was most likely talking about a pretty boy instead, which inevitably caused John to wonder what Paul sounded like when he spoke French, which only allowed his thoughts to drift further into directions he did not want them to go, most of those being too inappropriate or ridiculous to even be imagining.
"I am looking forward to it," was the answer he eventually gave, and went back to drawing, attempting to continue it from memory instead now he had lost his model, who sat looking out of the window, allowing John to sneak cursory glances at him for small details while the man himself remained unaware of it.
***
Paris, John realised as they drove through the city, was even more beautiful than how Paul had described it. The whole atmosphere felt so different from that of England: freer, warmer, with softer colours, and with beautiful buildings of sand-coloured stone, that lined the streets, with tall sash-windows and quaint red or blue coloured tiled roofs. Shops were situated below with richly decorated shopfronts to beckon customers in, and outside stalls were filled with colourful flowers, fresh fruits or loaf of bread that were still warm from the oven, spreading the smells of it through the streets, where music could be heard coming from the cafés that were placed between it all.
The streets, lined with tall trees and full bushes, were busy with people, who were either walking or being driven around in carriages or were sitting outside the cafés on the terraces, sipping their coffee or drinking their tea, dressed in a fashion that was yet unknown to England, with tight-laced bodices, opulent yet pretty hats with flowers or lace or ribbons of various shapes, sizes and colours, and puffy dresses, once again of various light colours, leading down to rest about half an inch above the ground so it would not get dirty. The men's fashion, too, was different: though they wore simple suits of colours that did not vary much with the English equivalent, they were tailored differently to accentuate the broadness of their shoulders and the slimness of their waists, while making their legs appear longer, giving John hints of the suits Paul had shown to wear on occasion. Even the clothes of the poorer people was different from that of the English, the colours being less bleak and dark, with deeper colours, and the skirts laced tighter around the waist, thus accentuating their natural figures in a way that John was certain some people would call obscene if anyone in England would dress that way. He would have liked it for that alone, if it wasn't for the fact that the fashion actually looked appealing to him, and he could not help but think of how Cynthia would look in a dress like that. She had the figure for it.
They stopped in front of one of the prettiest buildings on the side street they had turned onto, and John felt glad for the calmness that surrounded them as he took the hand Paul offered him to help him out of the coach with a thankful smile and fought the blush that was threatening to appear on his cheeks as he made his ways down the small set of stairs, feeling rather like a young girl with a crush from the courteous way Paul was treating him, the calmness offering him at least the illusion of some privacy. He muttered a thank you as he turned away from Paul and looked up at the grand building instead, hoping it would help his body temperature to lower itself again, and was struck by the beauty of it, with its sandy stone facade, the tall windows, and the iron railings along the balconies that seemed to function more as a decoration than a true balcony, the amount of space it offered being far too small for a person to stand. Some of the windows were open, and John could see the curtains swaying in the wind in a way that almost seemed to be inviting, though he knew it was only his imagination.
He jumped a little as he felt Paul's hand on his arm, and turned around in surprise, only to have Paul push his suitcase into his arms as he told him to follow him inside, to which John obeyed without question. They arrived into some kind of reception hall with clear marble flooring, light-coloured wood panelling and fancy flowery wallpapers. Cream-coloured sofas were placed along the walls with traditional art works hanging above them, salon tables between them, and flowerpots besides them in the corners, while a glass chandelier hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room that would light it up in the evenings, but had not been lit now. They approached the desk at the end of the room, behind which a clerk stood, who greeted them - but mostly Paul - as soon he saw them coming in with a warm smile. Behind him hung a rack of keys with numbers above them, which most likely corresponded with the number of the room that they would open.
"Ah! Monsieur McCartney! Je suis tellement content de vous revoir. J'espère que votre voyage était bien agréable," the clerk said once they were close enough and offered Paul his hand to shake, which the other man immediately accepted as he answered him in fluent French, which did more to John than he thought would be wise to admit.
"Oui, merci. Pourtant, je suis ravi d'être encore ici. Je suppose que vous avez reçu mon lettre?"
"Ah, oui, monsieur. Tout est bien arrangé pour vous et votre invité."
"Et vous n'avez rien dit à mon père, comme j'ai demandé?"
"Non, bien sûr que non, monsieur. Tout à été fait selon vos désirs. Pourrais-je vous encore aider?"
John, although the sound of Paul speaking French was unlike anything he had heard before - bewitching perhaps, as Paul had said - he soon found his mind drifting away, understanding hardly a word of what the two men were saying, except for Paul's mention of his father, and took to glancing around the room instead, his eyes resting for a moment on two men who were sitting on the couches, reading a book as they smoked their pipe, apparently thinking neither him nor Paul interesting enough to look at, being fully engrossed in whatever it was they were reading. He tried to read the covers, but one was in French and the other in German, and thus made little sense to John. He wished he could speak multiple languages, like Paul could, but his education had not offered him much in that respect, though he knew he partly had himself to blame for that. He found it odd, though, to find himself in all these upper class places with its upper class people, and although on the one hand it was exciting to be part of it for once, it unnerved him too, everything he saw and heard making it all the more clear to John that he did not belong here and was, in fact, intruding. This was Paul's world, and he doubted he could ever be part of it. How could he, if he could not even speak or read French or German? His Latin wasn't very good either.
"John? Are you coming?" Paul said and jangled a key in front of his eyes, drawing him away from his thoughts that were quickly becoming more and more melancholy, and cheering him up once more with a small smile, though John doubted he was even aware of it. He nodded, took a hold of his suitcase and offered the clerk a polite nod, before following Paul into a hallway that lead through to another hall with a large stone set of stairs that curled upwards around a metal, rickety-looking elevator, that looked even more untrustworthy than Aunt Mimi's smile, which John had not thought to be possible. To his horror, Paul opened the elevator door and motioned John inside after him. He was unsure how he actually got into the elevator but as Paul closed the door again and pressed the button of the highest floor, making the elevator come into motion with more groaning and screeching than John thought to be okay, he wished for the first time he had remained in England. He let out a sigh of relief once the elevator came to a halt again and as soon as Paul had the door open, he pushed past him and stepped outside with his suitcase as fast as he could, causing Paul to snicker behind him, apparently amused by his very rational fear of immediate death.
They found themselves on a smallish landing with only one double door that John supposed would lead into the McCartney's family suite. He waited patiently and watched as Paul produced a small key from the pocket of his coat and unlocked the door for them, pausing for a moment to look back at John before pushing it open and revealing a luxurious suite that opened up into a spacious and richly decorated room with dark timber flooring and white-painted ornamental mouldings against impeccable cream walls, combined with some light wooden panelling that gave the room a more cosy feel. It was light and airy, with big windows on the wall opposite the door, allowing plenty of natural light to pour in while also keeping the air fresh. There was an enormous French fireplace at one side of the room, surrounded by a couple of puffy light green chairs and sofas of various patterns with a salon table in the middle and a chandelier above it. On the other side stood two tall bookshelves that reached from the ground all the way up to the ceiling, with two more armchairs before it with a reading lamp in between. It was a beautiful room and John could not hold back the gasp that escaped his throat at the sight of it.
"Come on. I'll show you your bedroom," Paul said as he closed the door behind them and moved past the other man as he slid off his coat and laid it over the back of the one of the sofas, before beckoning John to follow him into another corridor of the same colour-scheme onto which a couple of doors were situated, the last of which Paul opened by turning the golden-coloured door knob, though John doubted it was actual gold, judging from the wear on it. He watched curiously as Paul opened the door for him and allowed him to step inside, only to let out another gasp.
"Paul... this is..." he could not even finish that sentence, not having expected this when he had agreed to come with Paul to Paris - granted, he had not expected much of what had happened over the last couple of days, in so far as that he could hardly remember what it actually was he had expected when he had agreed, though he was certain it had not been this - and not knowing what to say in return. The bedroom was stunning. It was spacious, with an almost white, wooden, queen-sized bed with a cream-coloured headboard of soft satin that appeared to be filled with feathers, mad up with fluffy pink pillows and thick covers that seemed to be begging John to let himself collapse on top of it to melt into it, not to come out again for a long time after. The walls were of warmish green with light panelling of the same colour as the bed and the floor was once again made out of wood. Light flooded in through the two large windows, before which pink curtains were draped, and there were two large closets and a vanity with a large standing mirror beside it. Before the bed stood a little sofa with, as John only now noticed, a small stack of folded clothes placed on it.
"I am glad you like it. I mean, it is only the guest room," Paul muttered as he walked over to the windows to close them, while John made his way across the room to the stack of clothes, curious to see what it was.
"It is gorgeous, Paul. How could I possibly say otherwise?"
"If you find this impressive you should see my room," Paul replied, a blush creeping up on his cheeks as he realised how that sounded, but John barely heard it, let alone saw it, as he picked up the stack of clothes, only to find it was a suit, consisting of a pair of black trousers, a white shirt, a grey waistcoat, and a black blazer, complete with a satin scarf, tailored in the same way as he had seen on those men in the streets, and presumably, from what he could see, in his size. He turned to Paul with a frown, unsure what to make of it.
"Oh," Paul said with a nervous chuckle as he walked over to the other man and took the suit from him, straightening it out with his hands, before holding it up before him as he looked him up and down to evaluate the look. "I had this made for you. I thought you might like it. Your master was kind enough to give me your measurements. It seems a perfect fit."
"You didn't have to-" John started, but Paul was quick to interrupt him, pulling the suit away from him and lying it out on the bed, where he began to adjust a couple of small things as he spoke.
"No. I did have to. We are going to The Salon in about an hour or two, which is, in case you were unaware, one of the most prestigious galleries in Europe, so, if you want to go there to show your artwork, you shall have to look the part."
"I have brought a suit of my own," John muttered as he watched Paul work, silently impressed by the swiftness with which his clever fingers worked, pulling and folding the material in different areas until he had created the perfect look. Once finished, he glanced up at John as he shook his head.
"Your suit is nothing compared to this, and I cannot have my companion look scruffy, can I? Besides, it was no trouble," he said and John did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing and only stared at the suit that laid spread out for him on his bed. It was a stunning suit, he had to admit.
"Is that what I am then? Your companion?" he muttered, still staring down at the suit, and Paul nodded in return.
"For now," he said, and John felt his throat tighten as his mind filled with all kinds of thoughts at that, most of which he struggled to push away, liking them a tad bit too much despite knowing that holding onto such hope was foolish.
"Now," Paul said after a brief moment of silence as he cleared his throat, catching John's eye again, "the opening will start at five, and I do not want to be there late, so we have a little less than two hours to get ready. The bathroom is opposite your room, which you can use whenever you want - I have my own. I have asked the reception to bring us some bread, cheese and wine for our delayed lunch, which I will have served in the living room, so you can eat something there if you feel hungry. Take some time to relax and be ready in time to leave. I am going to have a bath and change. I'll see you in about two hours." John nodded in return and Paul looked around the room, as if to think of anything else to say, before he offered John one last nod and turned back to the door to leave, only to halt in his steps once he had pulled the door open.
"Oh, and John?" he asked as he glanced back at him. "Please, wear the suit."
***
John could not stop plucking at as his new suit as he and Paul stood in line together before the entrance of The Salon, watching the other people to pass the time as he waited to be lead inside, the queue moving slowly as only one or two people were allowed in at the same time - to regulate the flow and to allow people to spread out once they were inside, Paul had explained, but John thought it rather ridiculous. It was cold outside, and the overcoat he was wearing, although fashionable, provided him only so much heat, forcing him thus to stand close to the other man, hoping to catch some heat from him without it being too inappropriate. The men and women around them were chatting in French, and so far he had heard no one else speak English, which made him worry for the rest of the evening, being uncertain how he would entertain himself if he had no one to talk to except Paul, who would have plenty of others things to occupy himself with, he knew. Still, he tried not to let his anxieties show and instead fumbled with his glasses as he saw two young women glance into their direction, making him feel even more exposed in his tight-fitting clothes, knowing he did not look half as good as Paul did in something of this cut.
The suit was nice, though, and felt surprisingly comfortable around his skin, the way it was tailored to his form allowing enough room for him to move around in, and although it suited Paul better, he had liked the way it shaped his body as he had studied himself in the mirror. Paul, on the other hand, had not said a word about it yet, having only looked him up and down when they had met up in the living area before leaving without a word or even an appreciative noise or nod, leaving John to wonder if there was something wrong with it.
Finally, and much to John's relief, they were next in line and he could sneak a glance into the building as the man and woman who had stood in line before them walked inside, giving him a brief impression of the gigantic room in both surface area and height, that, as far as John could tell from where he stood, was filled with people and artworks, the latter of which hung all over the walls, covering them completely like a mosaic of paintings of various sizes and colours, making it look all the more impressive, and the people even smaller, giving John a fair estimate of the size of it. He took a deep breath as Paul finished his little conversation with the porter and took him by the arm to lead him inside. He must have noticed his nerves, for as soon as they were inside, he drew him to a more quieter side of the room and allowed him to take it all in for a moment as he watched him with an encouraging smile, avoiding everyone who so much as looked in their direction in order not to overwhelm the other man.
"I know it is a lot to take in," he whispered to him as they continued to walk up and down the more quieter sides of the room, "Just relax and let it wash over you. You are supposed to enjoy yourself, remember? Take a look at the artworks and enjoy the champagne. If I need to introduce you to anyone, you can let me do the talking. Most people here don't actually speak English, you see? I will stay close to you."
John nodded in response and took a deep breath as he started to calm down a little, his fear ebbing away at his companion's reassurance, and finally he forced himself to smile at the younger man. "I don't particularly fancy crowds," he admitted, to which Paul replied with a chuckle that sounded more pitying than one of ridicule.
"You will get used to it," he said, and before John could say anything in response, they were approached by another man and a woman, who looked about as interested in her surroundings as he had felt during his arithmetic classes in school, which was a shame, as he could see she was rather pretty, especially for her age, which had to be nearing the forty mark, although her looks already told John there was not much substance about her.
"Mr. McCartney?" the man beside her spoke with a strong French accent. "What a surprise. I did not know you would attend this evening. I heard, you were staying in England because of your brother's engagement." John watched Paul as the latter turned around to him, his face switching with ease to a more amicable look, meeting him with a warm open smile and twinkling eyes as he offered the man his hand.
"Change of plans at the last minute, Mr. Travere. Mrs. Travere, how lovely to see you again. Er, this is Mr. Lennon, my companion this evening. He is an aspiring artist himself, so I thought it be good to bring him along," Paul said, and John forced another smile as he shook the man's hand and kissed the woman's, hoping to leave a good impression for Paul's sake.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," John said and the man looked him up and down for a moment, before turning back to Paul, his expression unreadable.
"How good of you. The collection is magnificent, of course, though not as good as last year's, is it, my dear? Such a shame. Oh, and before I forget, Mr. Deniau is most eager to speak with you. Something about your father it seems. Is he well?"
"Very well, thank you. Now, if you would excuse me, Mr. Lennon and I are going to get a glass of champagne before I speak with Deniau. I think I know what he wants to discuss. Enjoy your evenings," Paul said and with that, he took John by the arm again and began to drag him towards the other end of the room, allowing him to have a good look around, being most impressed by the various works of art that were covering every inch of the walls as people stared up at it, lumping together in multiple groups as they went around the room, discussing it, while holding their more private conversations at the same time. Servants were walking around with trays of food and glasses of champagne and John was grateful when they were both offered a glass as well, and muttered a shy 'merci' at the young man, who nodded in return before walking off again.
"I am sorry for dragging you around like this," Paul said with a sigh before taking a sip from his glass, "Mr. Travere and his wife were simply not the people I wanted to spend this evening talking to."
"His wife seems like a treat," John replied, glancing at the other man for a reaction, and smiling as Paul started to chuckle at that.
"Oh, she is, believe me. She is an absolute joy to be around. Not that her husband is much better. For a moment I thought he would try to have you be kicked out. Not that he would have any good validation for that; The Salon is not just for the rich, although he would wish that were the case," he told John with a wink, who chuckled in return as he glanced around the room, watching the people who stood together, talking, and felt his throat tighten as he noticed one tiny little detail.
"Shouldn't you be here with a woman?" he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on another group of people as to avoid Paul's eye, his voice wavering too much even for his own liking. "Everyone seems to have a date with them except you."
Paul considered the question for a moment, his eyes travelling around the room to see for himself, before his eyes landed on John. "The girl I usually take with me had other things to do. Besides, I told you I wanted you to keep me company, didn't I?"
"Well, yes, but you could have asked someone else, couldn't you?"
Paul studied him for a moment, as if considering what to say, before sighing and shaking his head.
"It was best I wouldn't. Like I said, I often bring a friend of mine along, and the less rumours I create, the better. Now, come on, we are here for the art, so let's actually have a look around, shall we? I need some more time before I meet up with Mr. Deniau. He is rather a nice gentleman, though very opinionated and bold, but he does not know when to stop talking. We may need some more champagne before we are able to deal with him. Come on, the sun-room will be quieter."
"We?"
"Oh, yes. He is the person I wanted to show your work to," Paul answered and John swallowed at the prospect, his bad with his sketchbook, which he had slung over his shoulder, feeling as if it had gained two pounds, as he followed Paul across the room and to a rather grand wooden door that was only partly opened, giving people room to move from chamber to chamber, while still allowing for the smallest possible amount of space to be lost.
As Paul had expected, the sun-room was quieter and John and Paul spent most of their evening together, discussing the art they saw as they went around the room statue by statue, painting by painting, being left mostly undisturbed as they drank their champagne and took some food from the trays that went around the room to enjoy. John liked this the most so far, going through the artworks and discussing them with Paul, defending his own views while still allowing for Paul's perspectives to alter his own, resulting in calm but philosophical discussions on various subjects that opened John's mind not only on those subjects, but on the other man as well, realising all the more where he was coming from and that they had more in common than he had first supposed. It even seemed, though of course John could not be certain, Paul was actually pleasantly surprised by the level of their conversation as well and was reluctant to stop it in favour of his own obligations.
Yet, after about an hour or two, some other people came over to them and spoke with Paul about all kinds of things that John could not understand, and in the end, he had needed to break himself free from him for a moment to deal with some business, thus leaving John alone to look around, a fifth glass of champagne in his hand. At first, he continued analysing the artworks he saw, going back to some about which Paul had opened up some interesting points, but soon, within twenty minutes, John came to the conclusion that it was not the same without him and went back into the main chamber where most people were. He found himself a sofa to sit on - it was one of the few ones out there and felt lucky to have managed to get it - and allowed his gaze to travel through the room, ultimately falling onto Paul who was standing halfway across the room, talking animatedly with a couple of other men, and having therefore, as it seemed, no eye for anyone else, never mind him. Everyone else he saw was either speaking French or German, and once again, John felt rather out of place, being unsure what to do now to pass the time as he waited for Paul to be finished.
At first, he took to people watching, and sat there in silence, sipping his drink as he put his notebook down on his lap to draw and list things as they came up in his mind that could result in a nice poem or could be used for one of his short stories, but not fifteen minutes had passed, or John had started to notice the curious glances some of the younger women were shooting Paul's way, and how some of them seemed to openly flirt with him as they spoke with him, leaving John with a burn in his stomach that was urging to get out. Then, he tried drawing, making studies of the works surrounding him as not to have to look at people, as he waited and soon enough he had become so engrossed in it, he barely even noticed it when someone came over to shake his hand, thus causing for all the more shock as he looked up to see not only Paul, but Mr. Deniau and two other men looking down at him.
"John? I would like you to meet some acquaintances of mine, Mr. Deniau, Mr. Arpin and Mr. Dittmar." John swallowed thickly and glanced from Paul to the other three men as he stood up to shake their hands, feeling how his heart began to race in his chest as he greeted them.
"Bonsoir, Messieurs," he said in his best French and forced himself to smile as Mr. Deniau looked him up and down with a scrutinising gaze.
"Il semble qu'un singe est toujours un singe, même avec des beaux vêtements," he muttered, and John looked at Paul for any sign of emotion, not having understood what the man had said, but thinking it had not sounded particularly nice. His fears were confirmed when Paul was quick to stand between the two of them, taking over the course of the conversation right away, for which John could not be more grateful, the language barrier making it considerably more difficult for him to stand up for himself, not being able to say anything in return if he did not understand what was being said to him in the first place.
"Vous devriez lui donner une chance. La plupart d'artistes ne sont pas considérés comme 'appropriés', mais ça ne réduit pas la valeur de ses œuvres. S'il vous plaît!" Paul said and urged John to get his drawings out, which the older man did right away, handing them to the strange man and biting his lip as he sat back down and waited for the man to say anything, studying his face in the hope his expression might give something away that would tell him what he thought of it. The man considered the sketchbook in his hand for a moment, not seeming very pleased with the way the works were presented to him, and John glanced back at Paul, who shot him a reassuring smile, which this time did little to assuage John's nerves. He held his breath as the man started flipping through it, humming as he studied the sketches and drawings while the other men leaned over his shoulders to have a look as well, cutting in at times to make some comments on a couple of things, that did not sound altogether negative, which John supposed was a good sign. Paul, on the other hand, did not yet look convinced, his features set with worry as he started playing with his fingers to have something to do.
"En plus," he continued after a brief moment of silence, in the hope to do some good for his companion, "on peut bien apprendre les manières." He jumped a little as the man slammed the book close again and lowered his eyes to look at John for a moment, before he turned back to Paul.
"En fait, jusqu'à un certain point c'est possible. Cependant, il y en a ceux qui ne sont pas nées avec le talent artistique. Je suis désolé, monsieur McCartney. Je croyais que vous auriez eu du goût. Moi, j'ai vu des chiens qui font des œuvres supérieures à celles-ci. Dans votre place, je trouverais un autre protégé, si vous avez vraiment besoin d'en avoir un. Peut-être ce chien que je viens de vous mentionner," Mr. Deniau spat at him as he pressed the sketchbook back into his hands, his face scrunched up with such disdain, as if he had been personally insulted by having so much as glanced at his work, that John could not hold himself back any longer.
"Stuck up cunt," he hissed, eyes on Paul to see his eyes grow wide as he turned to stare at John, not believing what he had just said, which would have been amusing, had it not been for the fact that, to his horror, Mr. Deniau did the same, and he looked much less amused by his cheek than Paul did, his face white and his hands bawled up into fists as he stared down at him with such rage that John would not be surprised he were to attack him, knowing that any man of a lower class would have done so without thinking about it.
"The nerve..." Mr. Deniau started in English, causing all the colour to drain from John's face as he realised he had heard exactly what he had said, and he stared up at him as he waited for what would happen next. "How dare you? I hope, Mr. McCartney, you do not plan on bringing this man here more often. I don't believe my ears. Venez, Messieurs. Ces deux ont assez reçu de notre temps."
"Mr. Deniau, I'm sure Mr. Lennon-" Paul started, but the man had made up his mind and raised his hand to motion Paul to stop talking, before turning around and walking away without another word, leaving both men rather stunned behind. As soon as the three men had disappeared into the crowd, however, Paul burst out laughing.
"I can't believe you said that!" he said, hiding his laughter behind his hand as he shook his head and took a seat beside John on the sofa, grabbing his stomach as he almost doubled over from laughter. "He looked so shocked."
"Well, why didn't you tell me he spoke English?!" John said, trying to sound angry, but his lips too had already curled up into a smile, and Paul's laughter made it increasingly more difficult to stifle his own laughter, until he could not hold back any longer, and burst out into laughter as well, causing some of the people who stood closest to them to turn their heads into their direction in annoyance, which only caused them both to laugh even harder.
"Come on," Paul said after a minute or two longer and tried to catch his breath as he got up and offered John his hand to lift him up onto his feet as well, his cheeks flushed and eyes red with tears from laughter as he bit down his tongue to keep himself from bursting out again. "Let's go home, shall we? We have caused enough trouble here as it is, and I could use a good night's sleep, don't you?" he asked, still chuckling to himself and John nodded as he took Paul's hand and got up as well, taking a deep breath in an effort to calm down himself down as well, but as soon as their eyes met, both starting giggling again like school girls.
"Alright," Paul said as he grabbed John by his shoulders and started steering him towards the door, and thought to grab John's bag and sketchbook before they made their way towards the door, both of which he handed to John to carry. "Let's go."
***
The two men were still giggling as they stumbled into the suite, both holding onto the other for balance as Paul kicked the door shut behind them, the alcohol rendering them both slightly tipsy, making it difficult for them to stand on their own two feet, especially when the ordeal with Mr. Deniau was still so fresh in their minds, causing them to start giggling over and over again as soon as either one of the two had calmed down a little. Together, they made their way to one of the sofas before the fireplace and let themselves collapse onto them rather haphazardly with limbs thrown over or hooked around each other, making it difficult for the two of them to untangle themselves. Finally, with some tugging and pulling from both parties, Paul managed to pull himself free from the older man only to topple off onto the floor with a loud thud, causing both of them to laugh once more at his expense, before John took Paul by his hand and hauled him up onto the sofa to lie beside him. Once they were both comfortable, their laughter died down and John felt weariness pull on his body, making it impossible for him to move again. Turning his head, he stared at Paul who laid beside him, a wide smile still on his lip as he stared up at the ceiling, being so deep in thought that he did not even seem to notice it that their thighs were touching - that, or he didn't care.
"I still can't believe you called him a stuck up cunt," he spoke after a moment of silence, turning his head to look at John, who hummed in return as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back and out of his face, suddenly feeling rather hot as he sat there with Paul, feeling how the warmth of his body burned into his own.
"You could have told me he spoke English, at least. How else was I supposed to know he was going to understand me?"
"Oh, so now it is my fault that you have the unseemly habit of running your mouth at the worst possible moments, is it? Oh god, he is going to be furious with me for a long time..." Paul said, chuckling to himself and the two men looked at each other for a moment, until both of them had gone completely silent, the only thing they could hear now being their own breathing and the occasional creaks and groans of the building itself. John found it difficult to look him in the eye, feeling himself get hot under his collar as he watched the beautiful man before him, thinking about how easy it would be to kiss him right there and then, the other man's alcohol-infused mind having lowered his reflexes to the point that he could, in theory, kiss him right there and then without being pushed away, only to blame it on the alcohol the next morning, but there was something stopping him from doing it, not just his conscience, but something else as well - something that only made him want to kiss him if Paul wanted it to. Sighing, he pulled away from the other man and sat up straight.
"I am going to get something to drink. Do you want anything?" he asked as he got to his feet, surprised at how steady his body was now, the thought about Paul having had a strong sobering effect on him that had lowered his emotional happiness as well. Paul groaned and shook his head as he reached for the scarf around his neck and started pulling it loose, exposing more and more of his long elegant neck as he undid it completely, before unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt as well, revealing the hollow in his throat that John felt the insatiable need to kiss.
"Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Lennon?" he asked with a small grin, and John fought the urge to flush as he shook his head, raising his eyes to the man's eyes to stop himself from staring at him inappropriately. That, it turned out, was a mistake.
"I do not think I would need to anymore if that was my intention," he said as he stared into his eyes, unable to look away, even when Paul narrowed his eyes at him, before huffing in reply and shifting his body in a way that filled John's mind with dirty thoughts so he was lying in a more comfortable position.
"You might be right," he muttered in reply, but John did not say anything in return, unsure what he had meant by that. In the end, it was Paul who spoke next, "I hope this evening wasn't too boring for you."
"No, I enjoyed myself. I haven't had this much fun since Stuart's last birthday," he said and when Paul hummed in return as he glanced around the room, unconvinced, he added, "it was fun with you."
Paul smiled in return. "I am glad to hear it. Really, I know these openings aren't fun. It is not what I enjoy about my trips to Paris."
"What do you enjoy about your trips to Paris?" John asked, causing another small grin to appear on Paul's lips, and the man considered him for a moment, before shaking his head.
"All in due time, Mr. Lennon," he said in a tone that was yet unbeknownst to John, causing him to frown in return, but Paul left him with little time to think about it. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think it is best if I retire for the evening. It has been a long day. I will see you in the morning, John," he said and with that he got up and started to make his way towards his bedroom, leaving John alone in the room. Eventually, he sighed and walked into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water to quench his thirst, and went to his bedroom as well, agreeing with Paul that they had both earned a good night's rest.
However, instead of changing into his sleepwear and sliding into bed as he ought to, he took off his blazer, scarf, and waistcoat and unbuttoned his shirt as he went over to one of the windows to open it and let in some fresh air, still feeling rather hot from the moment with Paul on the couch, and he took a couple of sips from his water as he leaned with his arms on the windowsill and looked out over the streets of Paris, watching as people made their way home and dogs and cats ran about chasing either each other or other small animals such as mice. It was still rather warm for the time of year and John closed his eyes for a moment as he enjoyed the breeze running through his hair and over his face and chest, cooling him off without it becoming too cold for him.
It was about thirty minutes later when there was a knock on the door, pulling John away from his thoughts about the previous evening and Paul, as he turned around to stare at the door, unsure why anyone - Paul in this case, as he was the only other person here - would knock on his door at this hour.
"John?" Paul's singsong voice came from behind the door, soft yet urgent, with a tremble to it that made John frown. "John, are you still awake?" he asked and John put his glass back down on the dresser, before opening the door.
"Paul-" he started, but before he could say anything more, the words were cut off by the feeling of two firm, soft lips pressing against his own and the warmth of someone's breath infiltrating his mouth, taking him by surprise. It was only once they were gone that he realised Paul had kissed him.
"Wha-" he started, but this time he cut himself off, not knowing what to say as he stared at the other man with wide eyes, his brain working hard to catch up with that had just occurred. Paul, Mr. James McCartney's eldest son, who nearly everyone in town despised one way or another, had kissed him, while wearing nothing more than his trousers and shirt.
"I-I am sorry, I only..." Paul started, but before he could finish his sentence, John had kissed him back, pulling at Paul's plump lips with his own as he raised his hand and curled it around Paul's head, his fingers tangling themselves into his silky hair as he pulled him to him, only to moan as he felt Paul kiss back in response, pressing his lips even firmer against John as he grabbed a hold of him with both hands and pushed him backwards into his bedroom, shutting the door with his foot.
"I-Is this okay?" he asked as they broke away to catch their breaths and John found it difficult to say anything in return now he had Paul so close to him, his body pressed against his own and his saliva coating his lips, so instead he nodded and kissed him again, pulling him fully against him as he let out a desperate groan, which Paul answered with one of his own as he slid a hand down his back and grabbed at his arse with a need and want that got John's mind spinning.
"I need you," he muttered against his lips, before dragging them down across his jawline, suckling at the skin as his hand massaged his arse, and John could only nod in reply as he let out a shuddering breath. "So tempting you are, with the way you keep looking at me, always watching and studying me as you sit there opposite me behind your stupid easel, always with a pen in your hand, and oh god... the feeling of your hands on my body, hesitant and gentle... I am so stupid for not having done anything about it sooner," Paul continued and John's breath caught in his throat at the confession, his mind filling with images of them together in his studio, first painting, then kissing, and then him on his knees with Paul's cock in his mouth.
"Oh Paul... Want you too. Oh fuck." He hissed as Paul sank his teeth into the skin of his neck and started nibbling, causing John's cock to twitch into full hardness in response and before he knew it, his knees hit the side of the bed and he fell down on top of it, only to have Paul crawl into his lap, his legs on either side of his body, as his delicate fingers ran up and down his sides, before they grabbed at the naked flesh of his chest, well-manicured nails scratching at the skin, grazing a nipple, which caused John to thrust up his hips into Paul's arse as he bit back a moan.
"Kiss me," Paul said and John could do nothing more but obey at the sound of his voice, already ragged and heated with arousal, and he reached up to tangle his hands into the other's hair and pulled him to him to capture his mouth with his own, his tongue dipping into his mouth right away, as he thrusted his hips up again. Moaning, Paul kissed back with just as much passion, letting his tongue curl around John's as he sucked on it, and let his fingers go lower and lower, until he reached the waistband of the other man's trousers and, without warning, he got to work, undoing it button for button until it was loose enough for him to pull it down along with his underwear, exposing John's erect cock. The feeling of the cold air against his heated skin, made John groan into Paul's mouth as he thrusted his hips up again, only to growl as Paul's clever fingers wrapped themselves around his dick and started pulling at it, earning himself a tiny shout as he broke away to catch his breath.
"You are so beautiful, do you know that," Paul whispered as he leaned over him, letting his head rest against the pillow next to John's so he could whisper into his ear as he jerked him off with quick, hash strokes. John flushed at his words, and Paul must have noticed his doubtful response, for he moved his lips to kiss the skin right behind John's ear as he repeated it to him. "So beautiful," he said and John felt his cheeks burn up even more as he moved his hands down between him and Paul to undo Paul's trousers as well, hoping to be able to keep himself from saying any more by giving him some friction as well, but before he could, Paul had grabbed a hold of his wrists and pulled them up above John's head as he sat up and started to undo his own trousers, letting John watch as he undid button for button, before reaching in to take out his own cock, not wanting to waste any time by undressing fully. John stared down at the organ in Paul's hand, and licked his lips at the sight of it, red and glistening with precum, wanting to feel it in his own hand, but as soon as he reached down, Paul slapped his hand away and leaned down to kiss him again as he thrusted his hips down into John's, allowing their erections to rub together as they both let out a moan at the same moment, their voices melting together in a sensual harmony as they rutted together, their tongues entwined in an embrace as John took a hold of Paul's hand and held it tightly into his own, needing to hold onto something as he felt his orgasm approach.
"I- I'm close," he gasped, opening his eyes to look straight up into Paul's, only to feel his cock give another eager twitch in response; he could get lost in those eyes. Paul nodded in agreement at that, his eyes fluttering close, and let his forehead rest against John's bare shoulder as he whispered he was too, his hip movements speeding up even more as he chased his orgasm, reaching down to grab at John's naked thigh to part them even further. John, feeling the familiar knot pull tight in his stomach, wrapped his arm around the younger man, moving it under his shirt to feel his naked skin, holding him close as he spread his legs wider to give Paul more room, and whispered small encouraging words into his ear as he concentrated on his pleasure, allowing it to consume him as he thought of nothing for a moment and only enjoyed the sensations and the feeling of Paul's warm body against his own. Not long after, though, he could feel Paul starting to tremble in his arms as he let out a deep moan and came, his hips jerking forward as he rode it out, his cum oozing over John's cock, allowing for an even better slide, while the thought of Paul's spunk dripping onto his cock, tipped John over the edge too, his nails digging into Paul's back as he held onto him tighter and came too, biting his down his lip to keep himself from crying out.
For a moment, John felt little else than the warmth of Paul's body against his skin and his hair tickling his chin as he came down from his high, his body still tingling from the after waves of his orgasm as he caught his breath and his hold onto Paul slackened. He could feel the warmth of Paul's breath on his shoulder as he caught his breath as well, his face still buried there as his fingers tightened their hold on John's hand, as if fearing he would get up and leave if he didn't, and felt the smile on his lips as he turned to him and kissed the top of his head.
"I can't believe I did that," the younger man muttered as he rubbed his face into the skin of John's shoulder and wrapped his arm tighter around the other's body, wanting him even closer than he already was. John chuckled at his words and nodded and he let out a deep sigh.
"I am glad you did, though," he said and smiled as Paul raised his head from his shoulder and looked down at him, bruised lips wet and parted, hair an utter mess, and his cheeks still flushed from the exercise. John opened his mouth to say anything, but before he could, Paul head leaned down and kissed him again, his nose knocking awkwardly against his glasses, but neither cared and only chuckled. It was a chaste kiss, unlike the urgent ones from before, but not less passionate, the feeling of it causing John's heard to flutter as he smiled into it, reaching up to tangle his fingers into his hair before carefully rolling them over, so Paul was lying down properly as well, and sat up to undress them both the rest of the way, before laying back down and curling up around him as he pulled the covers up to shield them from the cold and laid his head on his chest, letting the rapid beating of his heart lull him into a peaceful slumber, not long after which, Paul drifted away as well, a happy grin still on his lips.
***
Translations:
Ah ! Monsieur McCartney...: Ah ! Mr. McCartney. How good it is to see you again. I hope you've had a pleasant journey?
Oui, merci. Pourtant...: Yes, thank you. But I am pleased to be here again. I take it you have received my letter?
Ah, oui, monsieur. Tout est...: Oh yes, sir. Everything has been arranged for both you and your guest.
Et vous n'avez rien...: And you didn't mention anything to my father, as I asked?
Non, bien sûr que non...: No, of course not, sir. Everything has been done the way you said. Is there anything else I can help you with?
Il semble qu'un singe est...: It seems that a monkey is always a monkey, even with good clothes.
Vous devriez lui donner...: You ought to give him a chance. Most artists are not what we would consider 'proper', but that does not reduce to value of their works. Here!
En plus, on peut...: Besides, manner can be taught.
En fait, jusqu'à un certain point...: Yes, up to a certain point, they can. Artistic talent, however, can not. I am sorry, Mr. McCartney. I thought you had better taste than this. I have seen dogs do a better job with their paws. I would find another protégé if you feel the need to have one, if I were you. Maybe that dog I just mention.
Venez, Messieurs. Ces deux...: Come gentlemen. We have given these two enough of our time.
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