#welp....

The cherry on top, John thinks are the clothes. All of them practically wear the same outfit, but none of them look like Paul does—with his long legs, and slim frame accompanied by an arse that makes John want to throw things around until the swooping desire in his belly stopped haunting him.

Hamburg is a dirty dirty place, but it's big, much bigger than Liverpool could ever be. And there's more people to play for here, even if none of them seem to give two shits about their rock 'n roll abilities so long as they were loud, the people would roar back in full volume.

All of their heads were full of prellies day in and day out, and time felt like it was passing by faster than John could blink his eyes open. So, really it wasn't his fault, not as much as it usually is when he does things without thinking, without heeding any warnings thrown his way. It got to him, is the thing, this insistent want of everyone around him to have a sly arm thrown over Paul's shoulders, or a lingering gaze that appears innocent enough but is actually devilish in nature.

He could see it, more clear than ever the naked want in their eyes. The girls are alright, he doesn't give a shit about them, he never really has—a hand up their skirts and they'd be moaning any name uttered in their vicinity. Its the men that boil his blood, make him see red, make him want to bite their heads off and tear them apart.

They look at Paul, his Paul, like he is some sort of meat waiting to be bitten into—a mere piece of furniture they can use to jerk off. And it bothers him because that's not how you experience James Paul McCartney at all, you experience him in the early hours of dawn when the sun's not really there just yet, and Paul appears sleep-soft in your bed curled up closer to you than you remember being. You see him when he is making you a cuppa on a winter morning while his dad grumbles about your presence in the background.

He is not something to have, he is not an accomplishment, he is....he is a gift. A gift John damn well knows he doesn't deserve, but sue him, he is going to keep it for himself for a good while.

Again, he would like to make it quite clear that it was by no fault of his own that he is currently leaning against the disgusting toilet sink of The Indra with a bloody fist that stings as Paul runs it under ice cold water. He forces down the hiss of pain and tries to appear nonchalant. His rage has gone down profusely the moment the blue eyed, blonde haired monster had fled and Paul had grabbed hold of his shoulder and steered him towards the loo.

"The prellies makin' you barmy, I reckon." Paul muses, not looking particularly put out by it but there's a hint of disapproval in his tone.

"Keepin' me sane, they are," John mutters back, wanting to snatch his hand away but stays put, observing him, taking note of his furrowed brows and gentle touch.

Paul carefully dries off his hand with a bunch of toilet paper, "Haven't got anythin' on me to put on. Just got to let it heal itself."

"Barely takes a day or two, I know it. Routine now, innit?"

Paul gives him a dark look, as he drops his hand, "And whose fault is that?"

"Me temper," John grins, despite the situations he keeps putting them both in. "Just awful."

"Make sure you can play tomorrow, you stupid git."

"Aye, aye, princess. Don't fret."