'Draft' - John/George
Not exactly thrilled with this one, but the prospect just wouldn't stay out of my head.
Draft
John/George
It was rather drafty to simply cover himself with a guitar, but he didn't particularly care.
They were lounging about, smoke rising from ashtrays. It was a lazy little weekend, Saturday or Sunday, they didn't know which. More than likely Saturday, as John didn't feel a sense of foreboding. Sundays were simple, religious for some, carousing for others - yet they always preceded Mondays. Beginning of the workweek. It surely must have been Saturday, he believed, for he was twenty quid poorer than Friday and weekends made him muse as such.
George didn't need to think about mundane details such as these. He was perfectly comfortable, you see, having an acoustic guitar draped over his lap. Not a stitch of clothing, hair a bird's nest and cigarette perched on the corner of his lip. Leaning forward on the couch, George strummed a few chords, and then frowned.
"It's out of tune."
He began to tune it, vaguely concentrated. John could only stare at his work, taking a long drag on his cigarette. John felt as if he were the captain of his own ship, the ship being his bed. Sails were sheets, wrapped and twisted around his waist and legs. Calm yet restless, much like the ocean. If he hadn't thrown his hat on the dresser, he'd pull it on and make a comment or two in a snobbish voice. Just to get a laugh out of George. The boy seemed too serious sometimes.
At this, John felt a pang of guilt. He noticed how they said nothing much to George - they being the press, others. George did mention how he'd rather think and form his own opinion rather than blurting out answers. And well, better off for him that the press didn't nag him so much. He didn't care for them either. He didn't need them; they needed him for stories and checks from said stories.
The label "quiet Beatle" amused John, but he could see it either way.
In this moment, it applied, but many times, it did not.
"What is it?" George asked, raising an eyebrow. He caught John staring at him, who was still in the process of taking a drag of smoke. John's cheeks were concave, before he released the slithery slip of air, then preceded to cough dramatically.
"Nothing, nothing," John said weakly, leaning down over the front end of the bed. A hand clutched a clump of bed sheets for support as the other put out his cigarette in the ashtray below. John pulled himself back on the bed, leaning on his back for a moment. George strummed the guitar for a few more moments, then looked up at John. His fringe had grown longer, as well as his hair. It touched his collar in little curves that George would brush accidentally while touching John's back.
John didn't mind that at all.
They were slightly older now, twenty-five and twenty two. Twenty-five years of cursing and rocking, that which was John, leaned on an elbow, staring intently at George. He felt as though he was intruding in George's space. Quiet and intense music that trailed off, started up again. Interrupt him, perhaps?
He'd have to think about that.
--
It was times like these that George felt nervous, absentmindedly plucking the strings. Did he bother John, or did he please him? Then again, either way, it didn't matter. George played for himself above all else.
Well, except not above John, as of late.
He could blame the way John was on the bed, on his side, bed sheet barely covering his waist and legs. White material snaked over curves, body relaxed. John leaned down a little, then shook his head to get his fringe out of his eyes.
Fingers stopped strumming, and George got up then. John looked up, feigning innocence despite the fact that without the guitar, George was completely bare.
George moved on his knees to the edge of the bed, easily holding the guitar by its neck in one hand. A long drag on the cigarette followed before two plumes of smoke came from his nostrils. George put down the guitar, held the cigarette and proceeded to give a John a simple kiss.
"Any requests, John?"
John considered this for a moment, before looking back at George. Even though he had to look up, John still managed to look down his nose at George. As per usual - and it wasn't too bothersome, for he was, well-
"You'd think I want that guitar coverin' you? Fuckin' hell."
-John.
"'Spect you'd say that much." George grabbed his guitar once more, popping the cigarette into his mouth again. In a sarcastic tone, he added, "I'll do it anyway."
John closed his eyes and began to hum Deutschland uber alles, cracking one eye open. "Now, what chord would that be?"
"Hum it again for-"
"Get at it! I won't have you layin' about when there's work to be done. Lazy sod."
"Get on!" George strummed the guitar quickly, eyes half open and mocking. A rousing melody, the backdrop for John's laughing.
It was fun now, and there would be more fun later.
So that was why he liked the bed.
"Give us another one!"
"I'll be expectin' me payment later."
And the payment.
"You've enough of that."
"Getting' predictable are we, John?"
"Never. Now, on with it!"
END
Draft
John/George
It was rather drafty to simply cover himself with a guitar, but he didn't particularly care.
They were lounging about, smoke rising from ashtrays. It was a lazy little weekend, Saturday or Sunday, they didn't know which. More than likely Saturday, as John didn't feel a sense of foreboding. Sundays were simple, religious for some, carousing for others - yet they always preceded Mondays. Beginning of the workweek. It surely must have been Saturday, he believed, for he was twenty quid poorer than Friday and weekends made him muse as such.
George didn't need to think about mundane details such as these. He was perfectly comfortable, you see, having an acoustic guitar draped over his lap. Not a stitch of clothing, hair a bird's nest and cigarette perched on the corner of his lip. Leaning forward on the couch, George strummed a few chords, and then frowned.
"It's out of tune."
He began to tune it, vaguely concentrated. John could only stare at his work, taking a long drag on his cigarette. John felt as if he were the captain of his own ship, the ship being his bed. Sails were sheets, wrapped and twisted around his waist and legs. Calm yet restless, much like the ocean. If he hadn't thrown his hat on the dresser, he'd pull it on and make a comment or two in a snobbish voice. Just to get a laugh out of George. The boy seemed too serious sometimes.
At this, John felt a pang of guilt. He noticed how they said nothing much to George - they being the press, others. George did mention how he'd rather think and form his own opinion rather than blurting out answers. And well, better off for him that the press didn't nag him so much. He didn't care for them either. He didn't need them; they needed him for stories and checks from said stories.
The label "quiet Beatle" amused John, but he could see it either way.
In this moment, it applied, but many times, it did not.
"What is it?" George asked, raising an eyebrow. He caught John staring at him, who was still in the process of taking a drag of smoke. John's cheeks were concave, before he released the slithery slip of air, then preceded to cough dramatically.
"Nothing, nothing," John said weakly, leaning down over the front end of the bed. A hand clutched a clump of bed sheets for support as the other put out his cigarette in the ashtray below. John pulled himself back on the bed, leaning on his back for a moment. George strummed the guitar for a few more moments, then looked up at John. His fringe had grown longer, as well as his hair. It touched his collar in little curves that George would brush accidentally while touching John's back.
John didn't mind that at all.
They were slightly older now, twenty-five and twenty two. Twenty-five years of cursing and rocking, that which was John, leaned on an elbow, staring intently at George. He felt as though he was intruding in George's space. Quiet and intense music that trailed off, started up again. Interrupt him, perhaps?
He'd have to think about that.
--
It was times like these that George felt nervous, absentmindedly plucking the strings. Did he bother John, or did he please him? Then again, either way, it didn't matter. George played for himself above all else.
Well, except not above John, as of late.
He could blame the way John was on the bed, on his side, bed sheet barely covering his waist and legs. White material snaked over curves, body relaxed. John leaned down a little, then shook his head to get his fringe out of his eyes.
Fingers stopped strumming, and George got up then. John looked up, feigning innocence despite the fact that without the guitar, George was completely bare.
George moved on his knees to the edge of the bed, easily holding the guitar by its neck in one hand. A long drag on the cigarette followed before two plumes of smoke came from his nostrils. George put down the guitar, held the cigarette and proceeded to give a John a simple kiss.
"Any requests, John?"
John considered this for a moment, before looking back at George. Even though he had to look up, John still managed to look down his nose at George. As per usual - and it wasn't too bothersome, for he was, well-
"You'd think I want that guitar coverin' you? Fuckin' hell."
-John.
"'Spect you'd say that much." George grabbed his guitar once more, popping the cigarette into his mouth again. In a sarcastic tone, he added, "I'll do it anyway."
John closed his eyes and began to hum Deutschland uber alles, cracking one eye open. "Now, what chord would that be?"
"Hum it again for-"
"Get at it! I won't have you layin' about when there's work to be done. Lazy sod."
"Get on!" George strummed the guitar quickly, eyes half open and mocking. A rousing melody, the backdrop for John's laughing.
It was fun now, and there would be more fun later.
So that was why he liked the bed.
"Give us another one!"
"I'll be expectin' me payment later."
And the payment.
"You've enough of that."
"Getting' predictable are we, John?"
"Never. Now, on with it!"
END