Next Time - A Teensy Weensy Slashthingy
Title: Next Time
Author: Lennonsmuse
Rating: PG, for a bit of language and that
Warnings: Absolutely none
A/N: Reckon there's not much to be said. It's not long, it's not really short. It's simply here. Don't know how many words. Didn't bother counting. :)
Next Time
What an odd but beautiful creature...
That’s the exact thing Paul’s thinking the first time he ever really takes a good long look at John. He can’t even describe or discern it properly....what he feels now. But the realisation of it is overwhelming in itself...
Especially for a boy only eighteen.
And yes, naturally....also the more obtrusive elephant in the room....
A boy feeling this for another boy.
He reckons even that should rattle him more than it does. After all, they’ve already been best mates for a few years. And only best mates....though there’s always that underlying edge of being a little something more to one another without either of them actually ever saying it. It’s something that’s more expressed in actions; a subtle brush of fingertips while passing a shared ciggie, or a gaze that lingers far longer than it probably should. A private joke that even if demonstrated for a room filled with people, only makes two of them laugh.
They are the two...
The two who live and breathe and move as one.
And somehow it all seems so clear to Paul....now that he’s really taking the time to look at John. So funny how one is able to clarify things within any given yet unanticipated moment.
But he can feel it...and it’s definitely real...sitting there across from his best friend, guitar perched on his lap and John hunched over his notebook while writing in it. Horrible eyesight, the poor chap, so everything he reads, writes or doodles has to have his face practically planted dead on the paper as well before he can legibly decipher what he’s doing or looking for.
Why isn’t he wearing his glasses today?
“Ye still wanna go with that last bit, yeah?”
“The last bit...” Paul repeats, letting the words trail off and then linger there in the small space between them as a captivating pair of almond-shaped, honey-brown eyes rise to meet his. Paul’s thumping heartbeats become lodged in his throat at the sight, preventing him from uttering another word.
Beautiful. Why hadn’t he noticed before? Or had he and just failed to admit it?
“Yeah....y’know....that line with the ‘you’ll be sorry....and you’ll be blue....’ bit....’”
“Nah...” Paul intercedes, shaking his head...attempting to shake off the spell, “...don’t much care for that one. Don’t think we should leave it in.”
“Yeah, didn’t think ye’d want to. So what then?” John asks, and Paul’s eyes lower to his lips.
Those beautiful lips. Deeply blushed....all dewy plum-coloured moistness and just pouty and slightly plump enough to look irresistibly kissable. Lickable.
What the fuckin’ bloody ‘ell?
Paul struggles to swallow the thought that’s suddenly forming a lump of anxiety in his chest and a subtle aching tension that’s beginning to press uncomfortably against the fly of his trousers.
He looks at John’s hair....wild and unruly...just like the boy himself...golden reddish bronze curls that catch dancing alabaster flecks of light as they stream through the pattern in Mimi’s lace parlour curtains.
His fingers twitch at how much he’d love to touch that hair and feel its silky texture against his flesh.
He believes that he can, at this very moment, capture and memorise every one of John’s features like a bit of poetry and recite them to himself many years from now when he’s become an old man. It’s not something he’ll likely forget....
“Ye’ve not heard a fuckin’ thing I’ve said, have ye?”
It’s only then that Paul realises John’s been talking since the last question he asked.
“Uh....wha........”
But before he can get a proper word in, the notebook is flung hastily aside and the guitar that had separated them collides recklessly with the floor, twanging out some blaring sour notes that hadn’t gotten a chance to be strummed....
And the mouth he’d been secretly coveting is suddenly crushed against his....his best mate’s strong fingers griping the nape of his neck like a vise. Paul feels himself initially panic at the unexpected contact and loss of oxygen; one second prepared to fight it and the next drawing breath through his nostrils as he surrenders to the soft warm wetness of John’s kiss....how it lingers teasingly and then deepens....relishing the sweetness of a lazily probing tongue that tastes of Tips Tea and ciggies as it snakes between his snog-bruised lips and laves his good sense into soft moans, ragged gasped breaths and mindless oblivion.
After a long moment, John releases Paul just as abruptly as he’d first grabbed him, scoops up the notebook that had scattered to the floor and then flings himself back on the sofa across from his friend’s now crooked little wooden chair, chest heaving as his lips stretch into a victorious grin.
His own air being drawn spasmodically into his lungs, Paul’s delicately arched brows knit close as his nose crinkles and he lashes out in mild embarrassment, “What the blazin’ fuck was that for?”
A warm shiver of gratification visibly assaulting his spine, John shudders and then chuckles lightly. His light brown eyes glazed with silent satisfaction, he quips, “Maybe now you can concentrate on this goddamn song we’ve been tryin’ to write for the past two hours, aye?”
“Yer fuckin’ daft, you....” Paul breathes, trembling fingers running through his hair to brush dark fallen locks from his forehead back into place. He bends down to pick up his guitar and shakily repositions it on his lap, “Ye could’ve broken it, y’know....”
“S’all right, Macca. I’ll be more careful next time...” John promises with a grin that’s suddenly gone shy as he somewhat nervously fishes a pair of black-rimmed specs from his shirt pocket and shoves them onto his face in order to study the notebook once again....
And Paul’s belly warms with the blaring awareness that his mate isn’t referring to the guitar, nor does he miss the hint of there being a ‘next time’.
******************************************************
Author: Lennonsmuse
Rating: PG, for a bit of language and that
Warnings: Absolutely none
A/N: Reckon there's not much to be said. It's not long, it's not really short. It's simply here. Don't know how many words. Didn't bother counting. :)
Next Time
What an odd but beautiful creature...
That’s the exact thing Paul’s thinking the first time he ever really takes a good long look at John. He can’t even describe or discern it properly....what he feels now. But the realisation of it is overwhelming in itself...
Especially for a boy only eighteen.
And yes, naturally....also the more obtrusive elephant in the room....
A boy feeling this for another boy.
He reckons even that should rattle him more than it does. After all, they’ve already been best mates for a few years. And only best mates....though there’s always that underlying edge of being a little something more to one another without either of them actually ever saying it. It’s something that’s more expressed in actions; a subtle brush of fingertips while passing a shared ciggie, or a gaze that lingers far longer than it probably should. A private joke that even if demonstrated for a room filled with people, only makes two of them laugh.
They are the two...
The two who live and breathe and move as one.
And somehow it all seems so clear to Paul....now that he’s really taking the time to look at John. So funny how one is able to clarify things within any given yet unanticipated moment.
But he can feel it...and it’s definitely real...sitting there across from his best friend, guitar perched on his lap and John hunched over his notebook while writing in it. Horrible eyesight, the poor chap, so everything he reads, writes or doodles has to have his face practically planted dead on the paper as well before he can legibly decipher what he’s doing or looking for.
Why isn’t he wearing his glasses today?
“Ye still wanna go with that last bit, yeah?”
“The last bit...” Paul repeats, letting the words trail off and then linger there in the small space between them as a captivating pair of almond-shaped, honey-brown eyes rise to meet his. Paul’s thumping heartbeats become lodged in his throat at the sight, preventing him from uttering another word.
Beautiful. Why hadn’t he noticed before? Or had he and just failed to admit it?
“Yeah....y’know....that line with the ‘you’ll be sorry....and you’ll be blue....’ bit....’”
“Nah...” Paul intercedes, shaking his head...attempting to shake off the spell, “...don’t much care for that one. Don’t think we should leave it in.”
“Yeah, didn’t think ye’d want to. So what then?” John asks, and Paul’s eyes lower to his lips.
Those beautiful lips. Deeply blushed....all dewy plum-coloured moistness and just pouty and slightly plump enough to look irresistibly kissable. Lickable.
What the fuckin’ bloody ‘ell?
Paul struggles to swallow the thought that’s suddenly forming a lump of anxiety in his chest and a subtle aching tension that’s beginning to press uncomfortably against the fly of his trousers.
He looks at John’s hair....wild and unruly...just like the boy himself...golden reddish bronze curls that catch dancing alabaster flecks of light as they stream through the pattern in Mimi’s lace parlour curtains.
His fingers twitch at how much he’d love to touch that hair and feel its silky texture against his flesh.
He believes that he can, at this very moment, capture and memorise every one of John’s features like a bit of poetry and recite them to himself many years from now when he’s become an old man. It’s not something he’ll likely forget....
“Ye’ve not heard a fuckin’ thing I’ve said, have ye?”
It’s only then that Paul realises John’s been talking since the last question he asked.
“Uh....wha........”
But before he can get a proper word in, the notebook is flung hastily aside and the guitar that had separated them collides recklessly with the floor, twanging out some blaring sour notes that hadn’t gotten a chance to be strummed....
And the mouth he’d been secretly coveting is suddenly crushed against his....his best mate’s strong fingers griping the nape of his neck like a vise. Paul feels himself initially panic at the unexpected contact and loss of oxygen; one second prepared to fight it and the next drawing breath through his nostrils as he surrenders to the soft warm wetness of John’s kiss....how it lingers teasingly and then deepens....relishing the sweetness of a lazily probing tongue that tastes of Tips Tea and ciggies as it snakes between his snog-bruised lips and laves his good sense into soft moans, ragged gasped breaths and mindless oblivion.
After a long moment, John releases Paul just as abruptly as he’d first grabbed him, scoops up the notebook that had scattered to the floor and then flings himself back on the sofa across from his friend’s now crooked little wooden chair, chest heaving as his lips stretch into a victorious grin.
His own air being drawn spasmodically into his lungs, Paul’s delicately arched brows knit close as his nose crinkles and he lashes out in mild embarrassment, “What the blazin’ fuck was that for?”
A warm shiver of gratification visibly assaulting his spine, John shudders and then chuckles lightly. His light brown eyes glazed with silent satisfaction, he quips, “Maybe now you can concentrate on this goddamn song we’ve been tryin’ to write for the past two hours, aye?”
“Yer fuckin’ daft, you....” Paul breathes, trembling fingers running through his hair to brush dark fallen locks from his forehead back into place. He bends down to pick up his guitar and shakily repositions it on his lap, “Ye could’ve broken it, y’know....”
“S’all right, Macca. I’ll be more careful next time...” John promises with a grin that’s suddenly gone shy as he somewhat nervously fishes a pair of black-rimmed specs from his shirt pocket and shoves them onto his face in order to study the notebook once again....
And Paul’s belly warms with the blaring awareness that his mate isn’t referring to the guitar, nor does he miss the hint of there being a ‘next time’.
******************************************************