(no subject)
Title: October Revolution
Rating: R/NC-17
Fandom: Beatles
Pairing: John/Paul
october revolution
john says spain and it sounds good. in theory. to think of it evokes hazy images of emerald palm fronds, sickly sweet liquor, and balmy heat, completely foreign to a couple of guys from the 'pool. sad thing is john's plans have a way of falling apart before their very eyes. in theory, spain sounded good. but in theory, spain is another six hours by train, and christ knows how many by hitchhiking. in theory, you might as well turn right around and ask auntie for another hundred quid. in theory, his arse is dragging and there are two gorgeous beds in the third-rate room they checked into.
oh, certainly there was concern - paris is entirely the wrong sort of exotic. spain is a colorful, carnal bed of dark-skinned flamenco dancers, whereas france is a clean, stark country where your grandparents will holiday, maybe even retire.
we have principles, johnny.
i'm aware, paul.
but when they stop for a think on a mass of gilded iron swirls that some people call a bench, things begin to take shape. so they told everyone it was spain. the fact that they had a plan sounds suspiciously like obligation. france here affords them license, which is freedom, and freedom is freedom even if you're in a hovel in kuala lumpur, eating vampire bats. this is what the one says to the other, anyway, and the other just smiles, reassuring.
fuck it, john says, waving a hand. the point is, it's my birthday and no one knows where we are. so paul buys him a hamburger to celebrate and presents it with all the pomp and circumstance one might expect from a good english boy, which is to say none. he says it's better than vampire bats, anyway, and john chokes a little.
:::
paul is stealing john’s cigarettes and watching the clouds break.
i’m not going to sit here all goddamn day and watch you blow smoke rings, says john.
no one’s asking you to.
they have nowhere to go so they go everywhere. for a wanderer john has a terrific lot of purpose. he strides along, never stumbling, and it’s paul who stops every few feet to take a photograph. then he points the camera at john.
he looks over his shoulder and gestures for paul to hurry. give the fucking thing a rest, he says.
john! damn near blasphemy, that is. our slides will not be complete without monsieur eiffel here, will they? he aims the camera and takes another shot for emphasis before john yanks the device from his eyes.
would you stop and actually look at the place?
his hands are still wrapped around paul’s.
he looks.
slowly as he dares john untangles their fingers. do you have his address?
:::
dieter is a friend of jurgen, and he wears pants that are entirely too tight. john feels too tiredhornydevious to berate himself for noticing and stares just a little bit. jurgen notices john noticing and misinterprets. he knows of a local place where john and paul can buy a pair themselves.
they do.
they regret. up and down an alley and they are tripping and flapping around on the absurdly wide legs, and from the knees on up they are being squeezed, made uncomfortably aware of their lower extremities. bell-bottoms? shit!
there goes my masculinity, says paul.
there's an obvious comment to be made but john doesn't make it. hotel? he suggests. for a change?
please.
so maybe they're not hip enough for jurgen's pants but they like jurgen's hair. neither can remember asking but soon they find themselves sitting in his apartment, flinching a bit at the snick snick snick of the scissors and the goddamn itchy hair that drifts from their heads and down the backs of their shirts.
when it's done their eyes meet in the mirror. they will agree that the newly shorn hair is perhaps a bit short, but what choice have they got anyway? perhaps, in a hilarious twist of irony, the look would catch.
later john will tell a select few people that somewhere, a chorus of angels began to sing, and white, pure sunlight flooded the window above his head. but the truth is it was raining.
:::
jurgen knows a few of them, yeah. they're nice enough boys. he himself hints but never says anything one way or the other.
john and paul don't know any.
that you know of, says jurgen.
the three of them sit in the corner of a cafe, two of them casting furtive glances about. jurgen is still grinning at these boys who do not know anything when he says: anyway, it's not a big deal. it’s not as though - but then a waitress spills a drink, jurgen is distracted, and they are too shy to ask him to continue. it's not like they're curious or anything. they are always sitting on their hands and feeling antsy as hell.
john scoots a few inches from them. a blush is creeping into his cheeks and he knows it and he wants to lose control.
:::
cécile’s english is halting but this does not stop her. she tells them all about her ailing father. she tells them this is the first night out she's had in four months, she's been taking care of him so long. she tells them her mother is dead and her sister is studying in america, but she doesn't care. when her father dies (god forgive her) she's going to follow her sister to america and marry pat boone.
john and paul admire a girl with priorities. they treat her to a drink, cop completely accidental feels, and invite her back to the hotel.
she seems slow but they like her, a lot, and she likes them too, both of them. and she is not most patient-type, if-they-know-what-she-means. this is probably not the time for shy, virginal confessions so they pretend they know what they're doing. they pretend they know a hundred girls like cécile, who are graceless and enthusiastic. who kiss open-mouthed, ripe red tongues, unashamed, who drape their bodies over them, clawing and crying. but they forget they are suave, and that there are a million other céciles, and john and paul claw and cry back at her.
he pretends not to notice when they brush arms but he does, and he notices paul's skin is damp and the little o of his mouth, and he groans. they snap at the same moment. there are no chaste acquaintance kisses, and john flicks his tongue against paul's, rough, o i bet he's tight he thinks, and smiles a quick, skeletal grin. he tugs at paul's lower lip with his teeth.
cécile allows it for all of a minute before she begins to make distressed noises. john and paul break the kiss and are only too happy to divulge her, because relief and charity make good bedfellows.
later, cécile is lying in paul's arms and john rests at her side, poking experimentally at her ribcage. there is a general air of drowsy contentment in the room. hot night air flows from the windows, and makes them feel cozy and stupid. no one feels much like talking. they cannot vocalize it anyway.
:::
paul knows the procedure. if ever you should wake up in bed with your mate, you are to die of crushing humiliation. he knows, but instead he just smiles at their tangled legs.
they take their time for the grey drone to lift. there is an easy set in their bones, and they know they could yawn and weave about all day if they chose. but after sort-of-lunch they grab their coats and happen across a bar they rather like. they hide in a corner and pretend they are cousins of jean-paul sartre. they talk about the universe. they talk about the greatest mysteries of life, and handily enough, they happen to know a great many of the answers. both cast exaggerated glares at whoever dares listen in. bastards think they're gonna get a little tip, eh? hardly!
but wait, says paul. they don't speak english.
oh, don't they? john leans in and waggles his eyebrows. i'll bet they do. i'll bet they can hear every word we speak, which is why we've got to be careful, because i'm going to tell you something, kid. something big.
tell me. paul leans closer, conspiratorial glint, and they notice they have a small audience.
but for chrissake, don't tell anyone.
paul nods, solemn.
the secret to life, he says in an obnoxiously loud whisper, is - and then he leans closer, lips brushing paul's ear, and he whispers something that sounds a bit like tits.
oh? paul rubs his chin thoughtfully.
it's true.
the man in the opposite corner is wrinkling his nose at them.
:::
the duck honks and nearly bites paul’s hand off.
i gave up my sandwich for that thing. charity gets you nowhere, says paul, nursing a raw finger.
never figured you for a cynic. john is lounging on a glade and shading his eyes. it’s one of those painfully blue autumn skies; it has genuine weight. the sky is falling, he remarks, matter-of-fact.
damn. paul flops onto the grass. john rests beside him and hums, disjointed, and pulls out strands of grass to bite the sweet tips off. the park has policies, surely, and he probably looks like a hobo, but john will not wake paul.
wandering, fucking, and lazing. john apologizes to france for ever doubting.
:::
guillaume, who occupies the room next door, has called the front desk three times. he does not enjoy the manic laughter and thumps and foreign music and unearthly cries that drift from the next room over. he is a man of action and will see to it that management does something about it for him.
a frightened boy knocks on their door and tells them excuse me sorry there’ve been complaints and would they please keep it down please sirs. the frightened boy does not speak a word of english but john and paul nod, hand him a tip, and slam the door in his face.
you can’t blame them, see. tonight they pass a joint back and forth and feel themselves shake, giddy, because they’ve been having ideas. what if they stayed? the idea of two scousers making their way in paris is too much, the look on stugeorgepeteeveryone's faces when they heard the news would be too ridiculous. enough to incite giggling in spades, but the great thing about this place is no one looks at you funny if you do, except, maybe, for fucking stodgy twisted-knickered guillaume.
no, no, seriously, what would it be like?
well, they would rouse around noon, and unlike like the 'pool, they would have all the time in the world to work out all 87 kinks in their necks. the knowledge that they don't have to hurry will make them eager to be on their way.
one or the other will have to do the shopping, each and every damn day. everything is fresh here, a wonderful sort of curse. from there, they could meet up in the luxembourg gardens, and maybe they could find a funny old man in a hat to teach them to play boules. then the three of them would smoke a pack until the sun went down and it was time to go to work.
"work"! they’d start playing in a bar, gigs for uncomprehending customers who nonetheless love zees eenglish boys. in between they could scrub muddy, opaque glasses for an extra franc and have a pint or five if business was slow. back onstage they'd catch the eye of a girl in a short skirt, and they cannot emphasize this enough: the sex would be magnifique. every night they'd have a girl, a boy, each other, and they wouldn't think of slowing down till the sky is pink-grey at dawn.
their ribs ache; they laugh because they've been smoking for hours, they're crazy, naive, only thing missing is a pair of berets. wouldn't it be great if they were serious.
yeah.
:::
when friday comes things will not be possible in the same way. he will pack slowly with heavy arms, or because he can, and john will watch him and wonder and bite his tongue. there's a train to catch and they will be too afraid to say anything.
end.
Rating: R/NC-17
Fandom: Beatles
Pairing: John/Paul
october revolution
john says spain and it sounds good. in theory. to think of it evokes hazy images of emerald palm fronds, sickly sweet liquor, and balmy heat, completely foreign to a couple of guys from the 'pool. sad thing is john's plans have a way of falling apart before their very eyes. in theory, spain sounded good. but in theory, spain is another six hours by train, and christ knows how many by hitchhiking. in theory, you might as well turn right around and ask auntie for another hundred quid. in theory, his arse is dragging and there are two gorgeous beds in the third-rate room they checked into.
oh, certainly there was concern - paris is entirely the wrong sort of exotic. spain is a colorful, carnal bed of dark-skinned flamenco dancers, whereas france is a clean, stark country where your grandparents will holiday, maybe even retire.
we have principles, johnny.
i'm aware, paul.
but when they stop for a think on a mass of gilded iron swirls that some people call a bench, things begin to take shape. so they told everyone it was spain. the fact that they had a plan sounds suspiciously like obligation. france here affords them license, which is freedom, and freedom is freedom even if you're in a hovel in kuala lumpur, eating vampire bats. this is what the one says to the other, anyway, and the other just smiles, reassuring.
fuck it, john says, waving a hand. the point is, it's my birthday and no one knows where we are. so paul buys him a hamburger to celebrate and presents it with all the pomp and circumstance one might expect from a good english boy, which is to say none. he says it's better than vampire bats, anyway, and john chokes a little.
:::
paul is stealing john’s cigarettes and watching the clouds break.
i’m not going to sit here all goddamn day and watch you blow smoke rings, says john.
no one’s asking you to.
they have nowhere to go so they go everywhere. for a wanderer john has a terrific lot of purpose. he strides along, never stumbling, and it’s paul who stops every few feet to take a photograph. then he points the camera at john.
he looks over his shoulder and gestures for paul to hurry. give the fucking thing a rest, he says.
john! damn near blasphemy, that is. our slides will not be complete without monsieur eiffel here, will they? he aims the camera and takes another shot for emphasis before john yanks the device from his eyes.
would you stop and actually look at the place?
his hands are still wrapped around paul’s.
he looks.
slowly as he dares john untangles their fingers. do you have his address?
:::
dieter is a friend of jurgen, and he wears pants that are entirely too tight. john feels too tiredhornydevious to berate himself for noticing and stares just a little bit. jurgen notices john noticing and misinterprets. he knows of a local place where john and paul can buy a pair themselves.
they do.
they regret. up and down an alley and they are tripping and flapping around on the absurdly wide legs, and from the knees on up they are being squeezed, made uncomfortably aware of their lower extremities. bell-bottoms? shit!
there goes my masculinity, says paul.
there's an obvious comment to be made but john doesn't make it. hotel? he suggests. for a change?
please.
so maybe they're not hip enough for jurgen's pants but they like jurgen's hair. neither can remember asking but soon they find themselves sitting in his apartment, flinching a bit at the snick snick snick of the scissors and the goddamn itchy hair that drifts from their heads and down the backs of their shirts.
when it's done their eyes meet in the mirror. they will agree that the newly shorn hair is perhaps a bit short, but what choice have they got anyway? perhaps, in a hilarious twist of irony, the look would catch.
later john will tell a select few people that somewhere, a chorus of angels began to sing, and white, pure sunlight flooded the window above his head. but the truth is it was raining.
:::
jurgen knows a few of them, yeah. they're nice enough boys. he himself hints but never says anything one way or the other.
john and paul don't know any.
that you know of, says jurgen.
the three of them sit in the corner of a cafe, two of them casting furtive glances about. jurgen is still grinning at these boys who do not know anything when he says: anyway, it's not a big deal. it’s not as though - but then a waitress spills a drink, jurgen is distracted, and they are too shy to ask him to continue. it's not like they're curious or anything. they are always sitting on their hands and feeling antsy as hell.
john scoots a few inches from them. a blush is creeping into his cheeks and he knows it and he wants to lose control.
:::
cécile’s english is halting but this does not stop her. she tells them all about her ailing father. she tells them this is the first night out she's had in four months, she's been taking care of him so long. she tells them her mother is dead and her sister is studying in america, but she doesn't care. when her father dies (god forgive her) she's going to follow her sister to america and marry pat boone.
john and paul admire a girl with priorities. they treat her to a drink, cop completely accidental feels, and invite her back to the hotel.
she seems slow but they like her, a lot, and she likes them too, both of them. and she is not most patient-type, if-they-know-what-she-means. this is probably not the time for shy, virginal confessions so they pretend they know what they're doing. they pretend they know a hundred girls like cécile, who are graceless and enthusiastic. who kiss open-mouthed, ripe red tongues, unashamed, who drape their bodies over them, clawing and crying. but they forget they are suave, and that there are a million other céciles, and john and paul claw and cry back at her.
he pretends not to notice when they brush arms but he does, and he notices paul's skin is damp and the little o of his mouth, and he groans. they snap at the same moment. there are no chaste acquaintance kisses, and john flicks his tongue against paul's, rough, o i bet he's tight he thinks, and smiles a quick, skeletal grin. he tugs at paul's lower lip with his teeth.
cécile allows it for all of a minute before she begins to make distressed noises. john and paul break the kiss and are only too happy to divulge her, because relief and charity make good bedfellows.
later, cécile is lying in paul's arms and john rests at her side, poking experimentally at her ribcage. there is a general air of drowsy contentment in the room. hot night air flows from the windows, and makes them feel cozy and stupid. no one feels much like talking. they cannot vocalize it anyway.
:::
paul knows the procedure. if ever you should wake up in bed with your mate, you are to die of crushing humiliation. he knows, but instead he just smiles at their tangled legs.
they take their time for the grey drone to lift. there is an easy set in their bones, and they know they could yawn and weave about all day if they chose. but after sort-of-lunch they grab their coats and happen across a bar they rather like. they hide in a corner and pretend they are cousins of jean-paul sartre. they talk about the universe. they talk about the greatest mysteries of life, and handily enough, they happen to know a great many of the answers. both cast exaggerated glares at whoever dares listen in. bastards think they're gonna get a little tip, eh? hardly!
but wait, says paul. they don't speak english.
oh, don't they? john leans in and waggles his eyebrows. i'll bet they do. i'll bet they can hear every word we speak, which is why we've got to be careful, because i'm going to tell you something, kid. something big.
tell me. paul leans closer, conspiratorial glint, and they notice they have a small audience.
but for chrissake, don't tell anyone.
paul nods, solemn.
the secret to life, he says in an obnoxiously loud whisper, is - and then he leans closer, lips brushing paul's ear, and he whispers something that sounds a bit like tits.
oh? paul rubs his chin thoughtfully.
it's true.
the man in the opposite corner is wrinkling his nose at them.
:::
the duck honks and nearly bites paul’s hand off.
i gave up my sandwich for that thing. charity gets you nowhere, says paul, nursing a raw finger.
never figured you for a cynic. john is lounging on a glade and shading his eyes. it’s one of those painfully blue autumn skies; it has genuine weight. the sky is falling, he remarks, matter-of-fact.
damn. paul flops onto the grass. john rests beside him and hums, disjointed, and pulls out strands of grass to bite the sweet tips off. the park has policies, surely, and he probably looks like a hobo, but john will not wake paul.
wandering, fucking, and lazing. john apologizes to france for ever doubting.
:::
guillaume, who occupies the room next door, has called the front desk three times. he does not enjoy the manic laughter and thumps and foreign music and unearthly cries that drift from the next room over. he is a man of action and will see to it that management does something about it for him.
a frightened boy knocks on their door and tells them excuse me sorry there’ve been complaints and would they please keep it down please sirs. the frightened boy does not speak a word of english but john and paul nod, hand him a tip, and slam the door in his face.
you can’t blame them, see. tonight they pass a joint back and forth and feel themselves shake, giddy, because they’ve been having ideas. what if they stayed? the idea of two scousers making their way in paris is too much, the look on stugeorgepeteeveryone's faces when they heard the news would be too ridiculous. enough to incite giggling in spades, but the great thing about this place is no one looks at you funny if you do, except, maybe, for fucking stodgy twisted-knickered guillaume.
no, no, seriously, what would it be like?
well, they would rouse around noon, and unlike like the 'pool, they would have all the time in the world to work out all 87 kinks in their necks. the knowledge that they don't have to hurry will make them eager to be on their way.
one or the other will have to do the shopping, each and every damn day. everything is fresh here, a wonderful sort of curse. from there, they could meet up in the luxembourg gardens, and maybe they could find a funny old man in a hat to teach them to play boules. then the three of them would smoke a pack until the sun went down and it was time to go to work.
"work"! they’d start playing in a bar, gigs for uncomprehending customers who nonetheless love zees eenglish boys. in between they could scrub muddy, opaque glasses for an extra franc and have a pint or five if business was slow. back onstage they'd catch the eye of a girl in a short skirt, and they cannot emphasize this enough: the sex would be magnifique. every night they'd have a girl, a boy, each other, and they wouldn't think of slowing down till the sky is pink-grey at dawn.
their ribs ache; they laugh because they've been smoking for hours, they're crazy, naive, only thing missing is a pair of berets. wouldn't it be great if they were serious.
yeah.
:::
when friday comes things will not be possible in the same way. he will pack slowly with heavy arms, or because he can, and john will watch him and wonder and bite his tongue. there's a train to catch and they will be too afraid to say anything.
end.