'Not Today' (John/Paul, PG-13)
Only Rae can make me write John/Paul (omgwtfbbq!1!!). Happy graduation, chica. I am woefully late, but it's John and Paul and maybe that'll make up for it? ;) Ficlet, whee! Crossposted to the_lint_trap as well.
Not Today
by ignited
John/Paul, sleeping in. With a dash of angst. Because really, I cannot help it. This is what happens when your bed is a mess and you think of two naked men lying on top of it. Err.
You're thinking of me, the same old way
You were above me, but not today
-- "I'm Looking Through You", The Beatles
At promptly seven 'o clock in the morning, John pushes Paul off the bed.
It isn't out of anger; it's disgust.
It's disgust at the way Paul fucking sleeps, the quiet hush of his breath against the skin of John's forearm. The slight roughness of his unshaven cheek and tousled hair. The long lashed splayed against his cheeks, the slight moisture that beads on the bridge of his nose. Delicate. Delicate and feminine. John forces himself to think this way. It isn't his excuse -- just like a girl, it's fine, isn't it? -- it's merely his anger. Fucking perfect, all of him, his skin and his breath and the way he fits his head right near John's shoulder.
John hates it.
John hates it, hates how he finds himself becoming into a harsh and snappish idiot because of Paul. He'll laugh one minute, scream the next, and it's all Paul's fault. It's the way he laughs at his jokes that sends John into a violent tirade, anything to shake off that laughter, right before it turns into arguing and disapproval. He hates the way Paul disapproves of John's excessive drinking, the LSD, all the while not bothering to have a taste. And when Paul's going into that pout, that shake of his head, John feels as though he's a fucking dog, head bowed and tail between his legs. He hates that Paul makes him feel like this, whatever it is, and therefore he hates himself even more than before.
So he pushes Paul unceremoniously off the bed and wraps his limbs with the now free covers. He's like a fucking mummy when Paul's head pokes up at the edge of the bed. His hair's a bird's nest. Another thing to hate.
"…wha--John. John?" Now Paul tugs at the sheets, still wrapped in one. He reminds John of the time he was done up in that Wrigley's gum wrapper for Help!. John decides to hate Paul for making him remember that terrible waste as well.
Paul continues tugging before he climbs back onto the bed. "Are you awake?"
"No, you bloody idiot," John growls. "Can't a man have a kip in peace?"
"…But I thought--"
John tells Paul he thinks too much, and turns about, so he's on his back and staring at the ceiling. And then Paul, who at other times would curse and leave, settles himself right near John's side in silence, and puts his head right there, at the shoulder, kissing John's skin.
"I'll give it a go if you want. The LSD. S'what's botherin' you, isn't it? One of them, anyway." Another kiss. "Day off," he adds, muffled against John's shoulder, a sleepy sentence that dissolves into a full yawn. Paul curls up against John, just like some puppy, some puppy that's probably had one too many smokes the night before.
John hates Paul for making him feel as though he's in love -- all thundering and obsessive, consuming and what a waste of time, too many strings -- and that he's terrified -- utterly, completely, helpless, a useless thing -- at the prospect of it.
Paul smiles in his sleep, John notices.
He decides to push Paul right off him in about a half-hour or so. Then he'll ask him to go for a drink or two later, after which they'll have another drunken fling. It's only fair.
END
Not Today
by ignited
John/Paul, sleeping in. With a dash of angst. Because really, I cannot help it. This is what happens when your bed is a mess and you think of two naked men lying on top of it. Err.
You're thinking of me, the same old way
You were above me, but not today
-- "I'm Looking Through You", The Beatles
At promptly seven 'o clock in the morning, John pushes Paul off the bed.
It isn't out of anger; it's disgust.
It's disgust at the way Paul fucking sleeps, the quiet hush of his breath against the skin of John's forearm. The slight roughness of his unshaven cheek and tousled hair. The long lashed splayed against his cheeks, the slight moisture that beads on the bridge of his nose. Delicate. Delicate and feminine. John forces himself to think this way. It isn't his excuse -- just like a girl, it's fine, isn't it? -- it's merely his anger. Fucking perfect, all of him, his skin and his breath and the way he fits his head right near John's shoulder.
John hates it.
John hates it, hates how he finds himself becoming into a harsh and snappish idiot because of Paul. He'll laugh one minute, scream the next, and it's all Paul's fault. It's the way he laughs at his jokes that sends John into a violent tirade, anything to shake off that laughter, right before it turns into arguing and disapproval. He hates the way Paul disapproves of John's excessive drinking, the LSD, all the while not bothering to have a taste. And when Paul's going into that pout, that shake of his head, John feels as though he's a fucking dog, head bowed and tail between his legs. He hates that Paul makes him feel like this, whatever it is, and therefore he hates himself even more than before.
So he pushes Paul unceremoniously off the bed and wraps his limbs with the now free covers. He's like a fucking mummy when Paul's head pokes up at the edge of the bed. His hair's a bird's nest. Another thing to hate.
"…wha--John. John?" Now Paul tugs at the sheets, still wrapped in one. He reminds John of the time he was done up in that Wrigley's gum wrapper for Help!. John decides to hate Paul for making him remember that terrible waste as well.
Paul continues tugging before he climbs back onto the bed. "Are you awake?"
"No, you bloody idiot," John growls. "Can't a man have a kip in peace?"
"…But I thought--"
John tells Paul he thinks too much, and turns about, so he's on his back and staring at the ceiling. And then Paul, who at other times would curse and leave, settles himself right near John's side in silence, and puts his head right there, at the shoulder, kissing John's skin.
"I'll give it a go if you want. The LSD. S'what's botherin' you, isn't it? One of them, anyway." Another kiss. "Day off," he adds, muffled against John's shoulder, a sleepy sentence that dissolves into a full yawn. Paul curls up against John, just like some puppy, some puppy that's probably had one too many smokes the night before.
John hates Paul for making him feel as though he's in love -- all thundering and obsessive, consuming and what a waste of time, too many strings -- and that he's terrified -- utterly, completely, helpless, a useless thing -- at the prospect of it.
Paul smiles in his sleep, John notices.
He decides to push Paul right off him in about a half-hour or so. Then he'll ask him to go for a drink or two later, after which they'll have another drunken fling. It's only fair.
END