'Throwaway' - John/George
Been a while for fics from me. This came last night. No beta, and therefore, I apologize.
Throwaway
John/George
by ignited
He offers the most appalling film commentary, but George relishes it. They are simply sitting, Beatle boots up, ashtrays full. John’s at the left, George on the right, heads at angles. It isn’t the bed, John’s preferred place - sleeping, reading, fucking - but close enough: the love seat. They’re a perfect picture of hard work, having their ties loosened and top buttons undone. John’s head is on George’s shoulder, which is rather hilarious, really.
“I’m no queer,” John would say, but he moans and twitches against George’s skin. On this occasion, his eyes are half open, horizontal slits in a placid face. Ruffled light brown hair on George’s shoulder, he who coughs and is restless. A shove against John, which only makes him sprawl all the more on George.
George does not say a word, merely letting John lie on him. He leans his head on John’s in response.
--
They do not hold hands or kiss.
--
“Going to get up and change the thing?” John says, a mumble. He examines the glass in his hands, long since full.
“It’s fine where it is,” George responds plainly, staring at the telly. It is a half hour into this terrible film, a weekend throwaway that they waste their time upon. Twenty three jokes from Mr. Lennon later, George is still watching, and makes no move to get up.
“I’d rather not waste my time on such rubbish,” John says, affecting a stuffy female voice. He holds up an imaginary pair of opera binoculars, eyebrows up and eyes still slits.
A pause. George shrugs a little.
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Lennon.” George looks heavenward, his tone droll. “I meant no harm in exposin’ you to some culture.”
“Exposing!” John hoots, then giggles madly, sounding nothing like a lady. “There you go, dirtyin’ up everythin’, George.”
It’s a familiar remark, but John does feel a sense of frustration. Three hundred and sixty fuckin’ days of the year, it seems, they’re all working. Days off are precious and rare, and have no need to be wasted. Especially with this cinematic dreck. You’d think George would’ve caught the whiff of rubbish by now.
A moment passes, John shifting his weight away from George for a moment. Then back again, leaning his head on the couch back. “Turn it off, will you?”
“That would involve getting up,” George starts, then shrugs. He takes the glass out of John’s hand, leaning to put in on the table near the armrest. “And I don’t want to.”
“Lazy sod.”
“Of course.”
John groans, rolling his eyes at the static that’s popped up on the telly. He makes gagging noises, a quip or two in a different voice, before leaning once more.
“...I take offense to being the missus,” John says, referring to George’s earlier comment.
George rolls his eyes. “I’d much prefer this.”
--
They do not hold hands or kiss.
--
The static continues, but other than that, it is silence and body heat and love seat and ciggies. Indignation, complaining, and that’s all John, bristling and tired, heavy and sarcastic. Yet John understands, therefore, he says nothing. It is when that happens that he sees this day is not wasted.
So it all suits George just fine, something he quietly likes. Shit film or not, this is basic.
Comfortable.
“Cheeky,” John finally says, and proceeds to offer his running commentary still. Leans a bit more on George, shoves him, cackling madly.
“Of course.”
END
Throwaway
John/George
by ignited
He offers the most appalling film commentary, but George relishes it. They are simply sitting, Beatle boots up, ashtrays full. John’s at the left, George on the right, heads at angles. It isn’t the bed, John’s preferred place - sleeping, reading, fucking - but close enough: the love seat. They’re a perfect picture of hard work, having their ties loosened and top buttons undone. John’s head is on George’s shoulder, which is rather hilarious, really.
“I’m no queer,” John would say, but he moans and twitches against George’s skin. On this occasion, his eyes are half open, horizontal slits in a placid face. Ruffled light brown hair on George’s shoulder, he who coughs and is restless. A shove against John, which only makes him sprawl all the more on George.
George does not say a word, merely letting John lie on him. He leans his head on John’s in response.
--
They do not hold hands or kiss.
--
“Going to get up and change the thing?” John says, a mumble. He examines the glass in his hands, long since full.
“It’s fine where it is,” George responds plainly, staring at the telly. It is a half hour into this terrible film, a weekend throwaway that they waste their time upon. Twenty three jokes from Mr. Lennon later, George is still watching, and makes no move to get up.
“I’d rather not waste my time on such rubbish,” John says, affecting a stuffy female voice. He holds up an imaginary pair of opera binoculars, eyebrows up and eyes still slits.
A pause. George shrugs a little.
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Lennon.” George looks heavenward, his tone droll. “I meant no harm in exposin’ you to some culture.”
“Exposing!” John hoots, then giggles madly, sounding nothing like a lady. “There you go, dirtyin’ up everythin’, George.”
It’s a familiar remark, but John does feel a sense of frustration. Three hundred and sixty fuckin’ days of the year, it seems, they’re all working. Days off are precious and rare, and have no need to be wasted. Especially with this cinematic dreck. You’d think George would’ve caught the whiff of rubbish by now.
A moment passes, John shifting his weight away from George for a moment. Then back again, leaning his head on the couch back. “Turn it off, will you?”
“That would involve getting up,” George starts, then shrugs. He takes the glass out of John’s hand, leaning to put in on the table near the armrest. “And I don’t want to.”
“Lazy sod.”
“Of course.”
John groans, rolling his eyes at the static that’s popped up on the telly. He makes gagging noises, a quip or two in a different voice, before leaning once more.
“...I take offense to being the missus,” John says, referring to George’s earlier comment.
George rolls his eyes. “I’d much prefer this.”
--
They do not hold hands or kiss.
--
The static continues, but other than that, it is silence and body heat and love seat and ciggies. Indignation, complaining, and that’s all John, bristling and tired, heavy and sarcastic. Yet John understands, therefore, he says nothing. It is when that happens that he sees this day is not wasted.
So it all suits George just fine, something he quietly likes. Shit film or not, this is basic.
Comfortable.
“Cheeky,” John finally says, and proceeds to offer his running commentary still. Leans a bit more on George, shoves him, cackling madly.
“Of course.”
END