Fic: My Sweetest Downfall
Title: My Sweetest Downfall 1/3
Author: Lizzy!
Pairing: John/Paul with a teeny tiny bit of George/Ringo
Rating: I'd say PG-13 to R overall, but PG for this chapter
Warnings: Language, a little sex, general debauchery
Timeframe: Young Beatles to 1963-ish
Summary: John was the loveliest problem Paul ever had.
Author Notes: So, yeah. Been a long time since I made an attempt. I'm trying a three part story! Yeah!
This was inspired by a line from the song “Samson,” by Regina Spektor. You should listen to it sometime. It reminds me of J/P. *Insert required plea for comments here*
Disclaimer: Look, I do this for fun. Sick, twisted fun, yes, but still just fun. I know nothing, own no one, this shit didn't happen.
“Paul, we need to talk.”
Words every kid wants to hear from their father.
“Uh… okay…” Paul hummed uncertainly. He sat down at the kitchen table. He knew by Jim’s tone that there was a problem.
“Paul, I got your report card in the post today.”
Paul cringed inwardly. “Oh.”
“’Oh’ indeed.” Jim raised his eyebrows disapprovingly.
They sat there in an awkward silence. Paul knew Jim expected him to explain himself or something. He decided it was better to say as little as possible.
“I just don’t understand this, Paul. You’ve always done so well in school.” The tired-eyed man shook his head with a look of disappointment.
God, Paul hated that look. As much as he told himself he didn’t care, he hated feeling like he’d let his dad down. He felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. He remained silent.
Jim sighed. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
Paul’s long-suffering father sighed again. “Paul, last year you were at the top of your class. You were getting mostly A’s! Surely this year you could muster better than this. It can’t be that much harder. Not for a clever boy like you.”
“Hard?” Paul looked at his father incredulously. “It’s not hard, Dad, it’s dead boring.”
Jim looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and surprise. “Boring? That’s how you excuse barely passing your classes?”
“I dunno.” Paul grumbled, feeling that unpleasant blend of embarrassment and anger that bubbles up when you realize that you are indeed wrong but don’t really care if you’re right.
Jim was silent for a few moments. “I think we both know what’s going on here, Paul.”
‘Bloody hell, here we go.’ Paul thought. He knew this conversation was about to go downhill.
“You haven’t been yourself since last summer,” Jim explained carefully. “I think we both know that it has to do with all the time you spend with this John Lennon boy.”
Paul felt a sharp stab of anger flare in his chest. “Haven’t been myself?” he growled. “I don’t think I’m all that different.”
“Paul, I think you are. You used to be a responsible, thoughtful boy. Now you do all sorts of unadvisable things and don’t even think to apologize when things go badly.”
“Things don’t go badly, they go just fine,” Paul scowled.
“All I’m saying is that maybe if you spent a little less time fiddling with your guitar and running off God-knows-where with this boy, and a little more time studying, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
But to Paul, there was no problem.
His father was right, he was becoming a different person because of John. But it wasn’t that John was making him stupid or irresponsible. It was just that, with John in his life, everything else, everything that had at least been tolerable, was now devastatingly boring. When Paul was with John, it was as though the world went from black and white to color. The air felt clearer, the sky was bluer (or, in Liverpool, a less dull shade of gray), music made his heart pound even faster. Chocolate bars somehow tasted better when they were the ones that John nicked from a shop and broke in half to share. How could Paul ever take anything else as seriously as he had before? John was a revelation. He was Paul’s enlightenment, even if Paul wouldn’t know what that even meant for nearly a decade.
Somehow, to Paul, the fact that he was no longer the teacher’s pet, the grown-ups’ favorite, the golden boy, didn’t bother him. That had all been so false, so cheap compared to the feeling of being completely alive that he experienced when he was with his best mate.
Paul realized that his father had been talking.
“-So I think it’s best if you spend some time away from John. Just give it a few weeks. I know it sounds like an inconvenience, but I think after you… well, you take a step back from this friendship for a little while, you’ll realize that it might be better to let go of this.”
That was the last straw.
Paul stared at his father blankly for a few seconds. He felt pure rage infecting his blood.
“You just don’t get it,” He said coldly.
“I think I do, Paul. New friends are exciting, but John is interfering with-“
“No! Fuck that!” Paul shouted.
“Paul! Watch your mouth!”
“You really, really don’t get this. You think this is some kind of phase. I’m sure you liked it better when my friends were all nice, safe kids, right? Like George and Ivan, I know you just love them. So do I, but… John’s different. He’s-“
“Paul, don’t make me-“
“Make you what? Ground me? Forbid me from seeing John?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, fine.” Paul threw up his hands. “Go ahead, Dad. Tell me not to see my best friend. Do it.”
Jim looked shocked. “John isn’t your best friend,” he replied dumbly. There was a hint of pleading in his voice. A tone that begged the universe to make John NOT Paul’s best friend.
“Yes. Yes he is.” Paul said defiantly.
Jim glared. Ordinarily, he was a fairly forgiving and understanding father, but right now all he could feel was desperate rage. He couldn’t believe that his eldest son, always such a well-behaved boy, was completely ignoring his wishes. Surely, Paul was only acting this way to test him. John wasn’t Paul’s “best friend,” whatever that meant. It was George. Yes, of course, it would always be George, nice, quiet, polite George. Never the loud, obnoxious, rude John Lennon. Never.
“Paul,” he spoke evenly, “I forbid you from seeing John.”
Paul just sat there, disbelieving. He didn’t think his dad would actually do it.
Not that it mattered. He’d sooner sell his soul than obey his father now.
He bolted for the back door, rocketing down the rain-slicked street, ignoring Jim’s angry shouts.
~*~
Paul never thought that Mendips would look like heaven on Earth. Still, it almost glowed with the promise of the company of a sympathetic friend. He clung to the fence, catching his breath before pushing through and running up the door.
He heard a familiar cry within the house after he rang the bell.
“John! Your little friend is here!”
‘Little friend indeed,’ Paul thought somewhat bitterly. It occurred to him that neither his father nor John’s aunt approved of their friendship. His face flushed with surprise and embarrassment when he found himself comparing himself and his friend to Romeo and Juliet. He quickly forced the thought out of his head.
The door opened, revealing John, complete with a trademark cheeky grin and myopic gaze.
“’Lo, Macca!”
“Hey, John,” he smiled. A warm feeling of comfort crept through his body. He had almost felt as if his father’s disapproval would make the older boy disappear. There was a sort of ethereal relief in seeing that this wasn’t true.
“Christ, Paulie, you look like shite.”
“Thanks,” he rolled his eyes. “Come ‘ead, let’s go to the cemetery, eh?”
John grunted in agreement. He grabbed his leather jacket and felt around in his pockets for his glasses.
“Goin’ out, Mimi!” He cried.
“Going where?” Mimi replied.
“I juss’ told yeh, out!”
And with that he closed the door, dashing toward the cemetery with his “little mate.”
Their frantic sprint away from John’s house slowed to a comfortable saunter as both boys realized they were far too lazy to run the whole way.
“I had a fight with me Da’.” Paul sighed.
John frowned. “No shit? Thought you two never fought.”
“Yeah, we don’t.”
“What about?”
Paul laughed ruefully. “Me grades. Well, sort of. It was actually more about you.”
“Me?” John pulled a mock-innocent face.
“Yeah. ‘E thinks my grades ‘ve been bad cos I’ve been spendin’ lots of time around you. Thinks you’re a bad influence.” Paul grimaced. “He ends up forbidding me to see you.”
“Hm. That’s not workin’ too well, is it?” John chuckled.
“I ran as soon as he said it,” Paul said quietly. He shivered in the stinging February air. He hadn’t had a chance to get a coat.
“He’ll be well and pissed when you get home then, son.”
“I’m aware, yeah.”
There was a comfortable silence for a few minutes.
“Don’t worry about it. If ‘e disowns yeh, you can always go live with George, eh? His parents love yeh. I’d invite you, but, you know… Mimi.”
Paul smirked. “All this very easy for you to say. You’re used to Mimi chewin’ yeh out.”
John smirked with amusement, but said nothing. The two were quiet again for a moment.
Paul let out a deep sigh. “John, I never fight with my Dad.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll be the death of me, you will.”
“You love me.”
“Do not.”
“You do, you tart.”
Paul punched him in the arm jokingly. John smiled, one of his few true grins that radiated pure joy. Paul smiled too and wondered if John had always been so beautiful.
Author: Lizzy!
Pairing: John/Paul with a teeny tiny bit of George/Ringo
Rating: I'd say PG-13 to R overall, but PG for this chapter
Warnings: Language, a little sex, general debauchery
Timeframe: Young Beatles to 1963-ish
Summary: John was the loveliest problem Paul ever had.
Author Notes: So, yeah. Been a long time since I made an attempt. I'm trying a three part story! Yeah!
This was inspired by a line from the song “Samson,” by Regina Spektor. You should listen to it sometime. It reminds me of J/P. *Insert required plea for comments here*
Disclaimer: Look, I do this for fun. Sick, twisted fun, yes, but still just fun. I know nothing, own no one, this shit didn't happen.
“Paul, we need to talk.”
Words every kid wants to hear from their father.
“Uh… okay…” Paul hummed uncertainly. He sat down at the kitchen table. He knew by Jim’s tone that there was a problem.
“Paul, I got your report card in the post today.”
Paul cringed inwardly. “Oh.”
“’Oh’ indeed.” Jim raised his eyebrows disapprovingly.
They sat there in an awkward silence. Paul knew Jim expected him to explain himself or something. He decided it was better to say as little as possible.
“I just don’t understand this, Paul. You’ve always done so well in school.” The tired-eyed man shook his head with a look of disappointment.
God, Paul hated that look. As much as he told himself he didn’t care, he hated feeling like he’d let his dad down. He felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. He remained silent.
Jim sighed. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
Paul’s long-suffering father sighed again. “Paul, last year you were at the top of your class. You were getting mostly A’s! Surely this year you could muster better than this. It can’t be that much harder. Not for a clever boy like you.”
“Hard?” Paul looked at his father incredulously. “It’s not hard, Dad, it’s dead boring.”
Jim looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and surprise. “Boring? That’s how you excuse barely passing your classes?”
“I dunno.” Paul grumbled, feeling that unpleasant blend of embarrassment and anger that bubbles up when you realize that you are indeed wrong but don’t really care if you’re right.
Jim was silent for a few moments. “I think we both know what’s going on here, Paul.”
‘Bloody hell, here we go.’ Paul thought. He knew this conversation was about to go downhill.
“You haven’t been yourself since last summer,” Jim explained carefully. “I think we both know that it has to do with all the time you spend with this John Lennon boy.”
Paul felt a sharp stab of anger flare in his chest. “Haven’t been myself?” he growled. “I don’t think I’m all that different.”
“Paul, I think you are. You used to be a responsible, thoughtful boy. Now you do all sorts of unadvisable things and don’t even think to apologize when things go badly.”
“Things don’t go badly, they go just fine,” Paul scowled.
“All I’m saying is that maybe if you spent a little less time fiddling with your guitar and running off God-knows-where with this boy, and a little more time studying, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
But to Paul, there was no problem.
His father was right, he was becoming a different person because of John. But it wasn’t that John was making him stupid or irresponsible. It was just that, with John in his life, everything else, everything that had at least been tolerable, was now devastatingly boring. When Paul was with John, it was as though the world went from black and white to color. The air felt clearer, the sky was bluer (or, in Liverpool, a less dull shade of gray), music made his heart pound even faster. Chocolate bars somehow tasted better when they were the ones that John nicked from a shop and broke in half to share. How could Paul ever take anything else as seriously as he had before? John was a revelation. He was Paul’s enlightenment, even if Paul wouldn’t know what that even meant for nearly a decade.
Somehow, to Paul, the fact that he was no longer the teacher’s pet, the grown-ups’ favorite, the golden boy, didn’t bother him. That had all been so false, so cheap compared to the feeling of being completely alive that he experienced when he was with his best mate.
Paul realized that his father had been talking.
“-So I think it’s best if you spend some time away from John. Just give it a few weeks. I know it sounds like an inconvenience, but I think after you… well, you take a step back from this friendship for a little while, you’ll realize that it might be better to let go of this.”
That was the last straw.
Paul stared at his father blankly for a few seconds. He felt pure rage infecting his blood.
“You just don’t get it,” He said coldly.
“I think I do, Paul. New friends are exciting, but John is interfering with-“
“No! Fuck that!” Paul shouted.
“Paul! Watch your mouth!”
“You really, really don’t get this. You think this is some kind of phase. I’m sure you liked it better when my friends were all nice, safe kids, right? Like George and Ivan, I know you just love them. So do I, but… John’s different. He’s-“
“Paul, don’t make me-“
“Make you what? Ground me? Forbid me from seeing John?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, fine.” Paul threw up his hands. “Go ahead, Dad. Tell me not to see my best friend. Do it.”
Jim looked shocked. “John isn’t your best friend,” he replied dumbly. There was a hint of pleading in his voice. A tone that begged the universe to make John NOT Paul’s best friend.
“Yes. Yes he is.” Paul said defiantly.
Jim glared. Ordinarily, he was a fairly forgiving and understanding father, but right now all he could feel was desperate rage. He couldn’t believe that his eldest son, always such a well-behaved boy, was completely ignoring his wishes. Surely, Paul was only acting this way to test him. John wasn’t Paul’s “best friend,” whatever that meant. It was George. Yes, of course, it would always be George, nice, quiet, polite George. Never the loud, obnoxious, rude John Lennon. Never.
“Paul,” he spoke evenly, “I forbid you from seeing John.”
Paul just sat there, disbelieving. He didn’t think his dad would actually do it.
Not that it mattered. He’d sooner sell his soul than obey his father now.
He bolted for the back door, rocketing down the rain-slicked street, ignoring Jim’s angry shouts.
~*~
Paul never thought that Mendips would look like heaven on Earth. Still, it almost glowed with the promise of the company of a sympathetic friend. He clung to the fence, catching his breath before pushing through and running up the door.
He heard a familiar cry within the house after he rang the bell.
“John! Your little friend is here!”
‘Little friend indeed,’ Paul thought somewhat bitterly. It occurred to him that neither his father nor John’s aunt approved of their friendship. His face flushed with surprise and embarrassment when he found himself comparing himself and his friend to Romeo and Juliet. He quickly forced the thought out of his head.
The door opened, revealing John, complete with a trademark cheeky grin and myopic gaze.
“’Lo, Macca!”
“Hey, John,” he smiled. A warm feeling of comfort crept through his body. He had almost felt as if his father’s disapproval would make the older boy disappear. There was a sort of ethereal relief in seeing that this wasn’t true.
“Christ, Paulie, you look like shite.”
“Thanks,” he rolled his eyes. “Come ‘ead, let’s go to the cemetery, eh?”
John grunted in agreement. He grabbed his leather jacket and felt around in his pockets for his glasses.
“Goin’ out, Mimi!” He cried.
“Going where?” Mimi replied.
“I juss’ told yeh, out!”
And with that he closed the door, dashing toward the cemetery with his “little mate.”
Their frantic sprint away from John’s house slowed to a comfortable saunter as both boys realized they were far too lazy to run the whole way.
“I had a fight with me Da’.” Paul sighed.
John frowned. “No shit? Thought you two never fought.”
“Yeah, we don’t.”
“What about?”
Paul laughed ruefully. “Me grades. Well, sort of. It was actually more about you.”
“Me?” John pulled a mock-innocent face.
“Yeah. ‘E thinks my grades ‘ve been bad cos I’ve been spendin’ lots of time around you. Thinks you’re a bad influence.” Paul grimaced. “He ends up forbidding me to see you.”
“Hm. That’s not workin’ too well, is it?” John chuckled.
“I ran as soon as he said it,” Paul said quietly. He shivered in the stinging February air. He hadn’t had a chance to get a coat.
“He’ll be well and pissed when you get home then, son.”
“I’m aware, yeah.”
There was a comfortable silence for a few minutes.
“Don’t worry about it. If ‘e disowns yeh, you can always go live with George, eh? His parents love yeh. I’d invite you, but, you know… Mimi.”
Paul smirked. “All this very easy for you to say. You’re used to Mimi chewin’ yeh out.”
John smirked with amusement, but said nothing. The two were quiet again for a moment.
Paul let out a deep sigh. “John, I never fight with my Dad.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll be the death of me, you will.”
“You love me.”
“Do not.”
“You do, you tart.”
Paul punched him in the arm jokingly. John smiled, one of his few true grins that radiated pure joy. Paul smiled too and wondered if John had always been so beautiful.