[warning: light slash. R to NC-17 I guess, you'll probably be able to handle it though. I couldn't write good smut if my life depended on it]

April, 1962.

Entry four-

It's almost time for another tour in Hamburg, and I've been anticipating when I could see the others again. The last time we were there, Stu had gotten me interested in all that German philosophy bullshit that his kraut friends were into.

I had been pulled right along into it, but now that it had worn off I still sometimes think about Klaus and Jürgen and Astrid and the whole group, really. They had become part of the band's "inner circle" and their company was still something to enjoy.

That was what I looked forward to; not the shitty living arrangements and the booze that tasted more like dull piss. I miss Stuart the most.

He's been in a poor state for the last couple weeks, bedridden and having intense headaches. We talk often through letters since he decided to stay with Astrid, and I think he sometimes over-exaggerates the severity of the illness. It worried me to think he perhaps was telling the truth about his symptoms; temporary blindness was one of the scarier ones I believed he must be joking about.

I could talk to that Sutcliffe about anything under the sun, my deepest fears and hopes and feelings. He doesn't judge me or invalidate my thoughts towards life.

In my most recent entry, I told him something rather revealing and I haven't gotten his reply yet. Maybe it just wasn't something you tell a mate, maybe depression was too heavy a topic for Stuart. He even replied in a decent manner when I hinted around about my unrequited feelings for Paul.

"I can't remember anything without a sadness, So deep that it hardly becomes known to me. So deep that its tears leave me a spectator of my own stupidity."

Maybe it's just the kind of thing other people don't want to deal with. Or maybe I am.

Astrid Kirchherr looked the same as always; her short blonde hair framing her slender, pretty face. She dressed in a plain black blouse and when I denied her handshake and pulled her in for a crushing hug, she smelled of those scented candles I remembered being in her cozy home. I noticed she held on for a little longer than a person usually would.

"Lovely seeing you." I mumbled against her hair and smiled a genuine smile, gently pulling away from her petite body.

"How 'ave things been here? Stuart treating you alright?"

Paul interrupted her response to me, resting his hand on her shoulder. Her faint grin lapsed and I felt a cold dread begin to creep throughout my body.

Stuart.

Had something more serious happened?

"Astrid, luv? Is something wrong?" McCartney spoke to her again.

His voice was caring and quiet, and he stared into her eyes with such empathy that for a foolish moment I felt jealous of her and the attention my bandmate gave her.

I'm quite aware of the fact that I'm too selfish and cold-hearted for my own good, it's always annoyed me and made me insecure about responding to difficult situations. But here, with Astrid, who had recently been through what was hell for her, I should have been different. I should have hugged her or thought about her before me.

When she finally broke and the tears in her eyes spilled over onto her cheeks, crying into Paul's shoulder - I fucking laughed.

"Stuart has passed away." She said in a pained voice, her pretty lips quivering pathetically.

I simply didn't believe the words coming out of her mouth - how ridiculous! Stuart, dying? Right. I had just written a letter to him the day before!

Astrid obviously couldn't be telling the truth, I decided with a light chuckle.

George turned towards me and furrowed his eyebrows silently, shaking his head. He must be in on it too, this sick prank they had decided to pull. Astrid probably found some of my letters to Stuart and thought they were funny, and told the band how close we are. This is all just one big laugh.

"You're ridiculous." My grin was ear to ear, but it felt weak and even forced.

They weren't giving up very easily on the joke, and the concerned, utterly awkward looks I received caused me to shuffle my feet uneasily.

"John, he's gone." The gravelly tone of Paul's voice rung in my ears and I flickered my gaze to him, a shiver tumbling down my spine.

No.

Another disgusting laugh spilled from my dry mouth and the edge of it made me flinch internally.

No, no. Stuart wasn't gone, he wasn't, not when I had just told him everything!

I closed my eyes.

"Don't try to fool me, you lot. This is a fucking awful way to get a lark."

George, Paul, Astrid, Pete. They all stood quietly, staring at me like I was some mutant form of an endangered species. I felt like one, too.

The unnerving feeling of being left out of the circle of what was going on, being the odd one out, made my fists clench involuntarily. I wanted desperately for one of them to fail to suppress a grin; to make this bizarre charade go away.

Astrid took a step forward, resting her hand on my arm. I shook my head, not wanting her to touch me.

She was lying.

"It was an aneurysm, John. I'm sorry. He died in the ambulance, they were too late."

Astrid began crying again, her words broken and shaky. I watched with an ache that could not be soothed, spreading through my chest like ice and stinging in the same way it did years ago, when Julia died. And how it did even before that, when Uncle George passed away.

Stuart was dead; stone cold dead, from a raging fit of agony and pain.

The first night was long and difficult. I no longer craved the company of our old friends, I had no desire to be in this foreign country, playing music and taking prellies. I didn't know what I wanted. It wasn't to be back in Liverpool, finding comfort in Mimi's home and living off of her income. It wasn't to wallow in my misery in Hamburg, crying at night when no one could hear me.

There was nothing I knew of that would help to stop the bleeding Stuart's death had caused. It was an added injury to the many I had previously suffered, just scratching the surface of the invisible, metaphorical scars.

It bloody well hurt, too. It hurt like a bitch.

And the first night was when I truly began to feel that internal pain, clawing at me from somewhere deep inside.

We were all sharing bunks in the same room, here. George slept above me on the top bunk, and across from us, Paul lay parallel to me, on the other bottom bunk. Above him Pete Best snored like there was no fucking tomorrow. He barely cared for Stu, the lucky dog.

I felt utterly alone. I knew what I wanted,

I had known all along and it was a waste of time pretending otherwise. But I couldn't have Paul's comfort, what I so desperately yearned for.

No longer was it only a physical attraction, but a psychological one as well. Now that he knew I had a crush on him, though, I didn't feel comfortable revealing myself to him.

He would probably accept me with open arms tonight, tell me it's all alright, but tomorrow he would be distant, most likely worried that it made him queer to comfort a man who enjoyed his company a little too much. And that would hurt me even further.

Another thing I've learned in life, I'm a fucking masochist when it comes to Paul McCartney. I wanted to be vulnerable in the presence of that man.

Slowly, I peeled the thin sheet away from my body and stood up, being careful not to hit my head on the top bunk. It took what seemed like years for my eyes to adjust to the dark, and even then I felt as blind as a bat. Taking a venturous step forward, I managed to stub my toe on something and nearly fall forward, an annoyed string of curses leaving my mouth.

"Go to sleep, John." Paul mumbled, half awake as he rolled over to face my direction.

His eyes were still closed and I almost smiled, because he was a bossy bastard even when unconscious. I felt my way over to the bed he occupied, guilt eating at me for disturbing him in such a peaceful state.

"Budge over, fat arse."

I pushed his arm with all the force I could muster up, only slightly scooting him on the mattress.

"Move!" I whisper-shouted, and with a grunt of irritation, he complied.

His heavenly eyelids blinked open and watched as I climbed onto the small bed, burrowing beneath his sheets. Paul stared at me, not saying anything because he simply knew not to, I had to be the initiator. It took a while, but I was suddenly spurred into conversation when his eyes nearly shut and his breathing became more even.

"I'm sad, Macca."

The sentence hung in the air, bringing Paul back to a conscious state and causing him to frown.

"Stuart wouldn't want you to be sad. He'd call you a ponce." He commented.

I chuckled softly, nodding my agreement.

"Death is a fact of life, Johnny. Don't dwell so much that it feels like a curse."

And with that last whispered sentence, I sensed he was drifting back off to sleep. His chest rose and fell slowly, muscles relaxing and breath steadily being exhaled from his plump lips. He looked so alive that it was hard to focus on death. His cheeks were healthy and pink, not to mention chubby and so very soft. Baby smooth skin.

"Don't die, Paul." I whispered, barely audible.

I dared to allow my fingers to ascend to his raven black hair, stroke it lightly and twist it around my shaking digits. Tears were making my throat feel raw and aching, tears that I didn't let fall. They showed at the corners of my eyes and made it hard to breathe, my fingers slipping from Paul's hair and resting gingerly on his cheek.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in - towards his body.

I let him, very willingly, and took the opportunity to lay my head on his firm chest.

Shudders shook every inch of my being and my teeth chewed excessively on my thin lip. I felt warm. And he was very warm, very comfortable.

In the worst situation in the entire fucking existence of the universe, I soon began to feel heat pooling in my stomach, blood surging to my cock. It was wrong to get turned on while I should be grieving. It was also a nice distraction.

My body was touching his, although I had a lower position on the bed. And we were fucking facing each other - my head on his chest; my torso somewhere around his groin; my unfortunate arousal up against his thigh.

He didn't seem to notice, but then again, if he pulled me this close so easily, he had to be more awake than he let on.

"I'm not dying, you idiot. Go to sleep."

His lips flashed a grin, a real one that briefly revealed his little white teeth and made me smile too. But with this declaration, he moved to get comfy; the grinding motion of his flaccid prick against my stomach.

I held back a moan.

Right, sleep. The concept seemed alien, unreal at a time like this, when my every nerve was doused in gasoline and the match was just lit by a person I craved like no other.

Never in my pathetic life had I been so excited just to be touching somebody, never had my heart beat so wildly and untamed; I wanted to kiss him again.

Like the time he had allowed me to, when I claimed his lips and had consent to do it. I wanted him, but it was not the time or place.

"Christ, it's like I can read your bloody mind sometimes." Paul yawned, startling the shit out of me.

I went rigid, staring up at him silently. He couldn't possibly know that I-

"Scoot up, get face to face."

His voice was still lethargic and rough sounding, making my insides feel even hotter. This wasn't good.

But I complied, hesitantly, pushing myself a upwards little with my feet and meeting his hazel eyes, full of understanding. I remained quiet and careful.

"John, I'm not goin' to ignore something so obvious."

My eyes widened, surprised by the boldness of what he said, when he usually took his time with these subjects, danced around them delicately. I felt myself wet my lips, licking them without realizing.

"Are you saying you're going to do something about it?"

"If it'll help you sleep."

I didn't believe the words coming from his mouth, for a second time today.

Holy shit. Bloody fucking hell.

I lost my voice with the shock, knowing he meant it. My cock twitched with stiff interest, and for the first time in a sexual situation, I didn't have the faintest clue on what do to.

Paul did, though.

"Jus' because I care." He whispered, being cautious of our sleeping bandmates.

I knew what that sentence meant.

I'm not queer. I feel sorry for you. This doesn't mean I'm in love with you.

I knew this, accepted it, even.

This was Paul, trying to distract me with pleasure so that I would forget the deeper feelings. He played dirty, manipulative. And it never worked, even though I pretended it did just to ensure that the pleasure would happen again.

Paul doesn't waste any time with words of endearment or sweet touches or lingering stares when it comes to me. He saves those for the birds. Probably doesn't want me to get the wrong idea.

But anyways, he gets right down to business with these types of things, propping himself up on the bed and avoiding my eyes completely.

His left hand slipped underneath my Y-fronts and I shivered; his warm fingers moving across my inner thighs and massaging there slowly, paying no mind to my swollen length.

Every inch of my skin was icy hot, waiting for the moment when he would stop teasing and actually touch me.

I felt like I looked like the biggest queer on earth, eager and anticipating what was to come. (Me, hopefully.)

My eyes kept closing and it was a constant fight to force them open, wondering why Paul's face seemed so bland and lifeless when I had already begun to breathe heavily.

"Bored, Paulie?" I whispered with a bit of jest, rolling my hips and quietly hissing as two fingertips brushed over my balls.

He glanced my way and made a little shushing noise, paranoid stiff that someone would wake up and find his hand down my underwear.

Well, I could fix that.

Pushing away his hand and earning a confused look, I hooked my fingers around the elastic and yanked down the cloth that gave us so little space.

"It's easier this way." I mumbled an explanation, swallowing hard.

It was a miracle that this was even happening, and I probably just made it uncomfortable or difficult for Paul by having things so out in the open.

I made it harder for him to pretend - well, whatever he pretends to delude himself from the fact that he's giving me a hand-job.

My stomach churned uneasily.

Am I whore for Paul McCartney? Do I really let us continue on like this, when he felt nothing at all? Should I stop?

But the thoughts stopped there, because suddenly his hand was there, fingers wrapped snugly around my aching flesh and I felt the gentlest of squeezes, my mind and body melting and sizzling with the pressure.

It took so much not to groan out his name, to press myself upon him and passionately kiss his neck.

Oh, how I wanted to. So much it hurt.

His brows furrowed in concentration and his lips parted; rosy and dry, air coming in a sharp gust from his lips and hitting my shoulder and neck.

I writhed and let my eyes shut, the persistent sounds becoming quite a task to hold back whilst his hand pumped and squeezed.

As if that weren't enough torture, Paul circled the pad of his calloused thumb around the tip, making my hips buck up and my body shake like a leaf.

"Please...please Macca, Christ, I need it."

My lips formed the words without permission and even when I was being quiet it made my heart stop momentarily. The rush of the possibility of being caught honestly brought me closer to the edge, adrenaline rushing through my veins and chills going down my back.

Paul made me feel like I was on fire.

Every time our eyes met, every touch and flick of his wrist and every breath and every time he would spit on the palm of his hand to make it more pleasurable when it slid down my shaft...Hell, I was close already.

"Feel alright?" He whispered hoarsely, smirking because he knew it would be any moment.

A smirk. Relief washed over me and I reveled in it for a moment, damn near rejoiced that he no longer looked as stiff as a board and equally expressive as one.

Oh, there was something stiff about him, alright. But he wasn't touching himself.

Maybe afterwards, I could help him out with it, gladly return this favor. I would even do more than that.

I briefly pictured myself hovering over him, gripping onto his smooth, slender hips and nuzzling my nose against that coarse hair surrounding his engorged member, teasing licks up towards the head...having to stop his squirming and moaning.. Fuck.

Before I could even finish that fantasy, he sped up his demanding motions and I felt the orgasm coming long before it actually did.

It was bloody amazing, the most satisfying I'd experienced thus far.

He held his hand over my mouth to muffle the cries and whines of intense pleasure, my body straining; searching for the moment when it finally happened, warm liquid dripping onto my lower belly. I felt blissful.

"Christ." A faint whisper unconsciously left my mouth.

Paul wiped his hand silently on the old sheet, cheeks quickly growing red.

I attempted to pry away his shell and see if I could have a peek inside. Just one try.

"I could help you out as well, y'know.."

"You should sleep." Low, all-business tone. Detached. Uncaring.

It was too late.

I inhaled deeply but without a sound, reality hitting me like a hard slap and his coldness creeping through my head.

The too-good-to-be-true feeling only came around for moments at a time, those times few and far between.

Embarrassed to my very core and too sluggish to care, I slid my Y-fronts back up and stole one last glance at his emotionless face, my feet hitting the cold floor.

I crept back to my own bed and sat down, feeling discarded and even more so, dejected.

It was obvious now that the blurring ecstasy had faded, the fog dissipating and clearing out.

He wanted to get my mind off of Stuart by blinding me with meaningless touches and unaffectionate gazes. It was his alternative to hearing me mope and cry while he patted my shoulder awkwardly.

He never even cared for Stu - didn't even want me to be friends with him!

Of course he wasn't troubled by the loss, scarred by another abandonment.

With a heavy heart and trembling hands, I wished I was capable of hating Paul McCartney. I also wished I was capable of having Paul McCartney.