Day 6: Pants in France
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,491
Disclaimer: It's fiction, you dig?
“Wake up.”
Paul didn’t have much choice in the matter as a large, heavy, John-shaped lump landed sprawling across his stomach.
“What,” he asked as conversationally as someone who’d just been woken up by a hundred-something pounds of bandmate landing on his stomach could, “is your problem?”
“My problem,” imitated John, peering at him with myopic cheer, “is that I’ve been awake for two hours, and I’m hungry, and you haven’t so much as twitched since I kicked you out of bed last night. I’m going to get food. And, seeing as you’re me best friend and all, I took it upon meself to wake you up so that you can come with.”
“You’re too kind,” Paul tried to snarl, but it came out as a yawn. He blinked up at the ceiling for a moment, taking inventory. Limbs intact, head not too sore, and if it weren’t for John, he’d probably be breathing just fine. All in all, there were worse ways to start the day, although he needed to piss.
“’Ere, gerroff me,” he said, shoving at John’s shoulder, but John dug his limbs into the mattress and made himself inexplicably heavier.
“Why should I? There I was, all cold and languishing…”
“Languishing?” Paul snorted. John smacked his leg.
“Languishing, and so looooonesome, and now there’s you and you’re all warm and comfy, so I don’t see what’s in it for me, this ‘getting up’ venture.”
“I could think of something.”
“Like what? Gold? Silver? All the tea in Christendom?”
“Naw, mate. It’s just me bladder’s about to explode.”
John blinked at him. “Well, if you put it like that….”
“I do.” Paul agreed genially.
“Suit yerself.” John rolled off of him and Paul took the opportunity to spring for the bathroom. He hadn’t been kidding about his bladder.
By the time he emerged, he found John dressed and ready to go, bouncing impatiently on the soles of his feet.
“C’mon, hurry up, chop chop!” he said, throwing jeans and shoes and a fresh shirt haphazardly Paul’s way.
“What’s your hurry?” Paul asked as he dressed quickly, not bothering with the usual niceties of brushing his hair or teeth; it seemed pointless when they’d just get messed up again anyway, and besides, there was only John to notice, and he wouldn’t care.
“I’m starved,” John told him. He pouted which nearly sent Paul into giggles; there wasn’t a face in the world less suited to pouting. Thirty seconds to get his shoes on, and he marshalled John out the door.
“C’mon then,” he said, giving John an amiable shove toward the stairs. “Can’t leave you languishing, can we?”
***************************************************
Breakfast was a simple affair: sausage, crusty bread with jam, and hot tea served in a tiny café by a waitress who looked at them both as though they were insects, even after Paul flashed her his patented nice-guy smile.
“What’s her problem?” John grumbled as they emerged into the morning sunshine. The day promised some chill, a sharp wind sending high clouds scudding across the sky. Paul shivered and flipped his collar up.
“Probably had something to do with the bit where you stared down her tits for an hour before ordering.”
“It wasn’t an hour. And they were nice tits.”
Paul thought about it. They had been nice tits, and her shirt not designed to cover them, but he didn’t really feel like talking about them.
“What d’you want to do today?”
“Hmmmm,” John said, looking at the sky with a thoughtful expression. “Get laid.”
“Fair enough,” Paul found this notion agreeable, but “How do you plan on doing that?”
John stared at him. “Son,” he said, face very solemn, “When birds and bees get really fuckin’ horny, they go off alone together and-“
“I get it!” Paul interrupted hastily. “Thanks for the talk, Granddad. But until you find a bird that thinks you’re attractive, what d’you want to do today?”
“I don’t know.” John shrugged and glanced around. “We haven’t gone that way yet.” He nodded at a random street. “Let’s go find ourselves some birds.”
But two hours and quite a few arbitrary turns later, all they’d found was that they were very lost, and there wasn’t a single decent-looking girl around, and so they stood at the intersection of two streets with imposing French names-Rue de Something Twisty With Your Tongue and L’Avenue Les Unpronounceables-wondering what to do next.
“We could call a taxi,” Paul suggested half-heartedly. John snorted.
“And admit defeat? Let’s find ourselves a pub.” But a quick look around proved unpromising. They seemed to have found their way into a slightly-dilapidated residential section, and in a city that had more restaurants than people, there was precisely one café within sight, and its windows were shuttered tight.
“Maybe not,” said Paul. “We could just keep walking, see where we get to.” But John wasn’t paying attention. He elbowed Paul, and nodded at one of the houses where someone had just emerged.
“Check out the trousers.”
The man’s blue-jeans looked the same as Jurgen’s had yesterday, tight through the waist and thighs then flaring out below the knee, though these were spattered and stained with various substances. Probably paint, if the portfolio clutched under one arm was any indication.
“Looks like an art student” John said, moving forward to intercept him. Paul followed.
“How d’you reckon he’s a student?”
“Because he looks like one. Hey, pardon me. Excusez-moi.”
Paul didn’t have time to argue with John’s logic; the man turned around at John’s hail, trousers swooshing gently.
“Oui?”
“Ou est-oh hell, I dunno how to say it-ou est votre pantalons…?” John trailed off as the man gave him a bewildered look, so Paul gave it a go.
“S’il-vous-plait, ou achetez-vous ces pantalons?” The man’s expression cleared and he answered with a spate of French, out of which Paul could understand maybe two words, ‘Montmartre’ and ‘market.’
“How d’you get-Ou est Montmartre?”
It took several minutes and rather more gesturing and twisty French than Paul was comfortable with, but eventually they came away with a general idea of how to get to Montmartre-not too far away unless Paul was completely wrong, which was always possible. But a half-hour of walking and one more awkward request for directions later, they found Montmartre, an area of Paris that looked just about the same as any other area of Paris, at least to their English eyes.
“Isn’t it supposed to be…I dunno…more bohemian or something?” Paul wondered aloud. “You know, Le Moulin and Renoir and stuff?”
John shrugged. “Who cares? Let’s go find the market. We’ll get some of those pants.”
“Pants from France?”
“Perchance. Advance!” John marched forward smartly and Paul fell in beside him, grinning.
“But can you finance these pants from France?”
“My son, I think we have a chance….” They played their game all the way across the Place du Tertre, until they ran out of rhymes and found their trousers.
They were being sold at a simple outdoor kiosk, hanging from a rack, supervised by a young man only a little older than them who sported a pair himself. He looked up smiling as they approached and called to them.
“Vous l’achetez?” he asked gesturing at the rack. “Ils sont tres elegants, tres formidables!”
“Er,” said Paul. “Combien…?” He shrugged. “How much are they?” The young man’s smile grew wider.
“English?” He asked, apparently delighted. “But I speak the English! You wish to buy?”
“Maybe,” John said, back in the conversation since French wasn’t required. “They popular here, or what?”
“But of course!” The young man’s eyes were wide and guileless. “It is the thing for-how you say-les artists, les bohemes. Very stylish.”
“I dunno if we’re really artists,” Paul murmured doubtfully. The trousers were certainly interesting, but he didn’t know if he could wear them without feeling a fool. “I’d say we’re rock ‘n rollers if anything.”
“Art, rock and roll,” the vendor made a sweeping gesture, “It is all the same thing. And too, I think they will look good on you, non?” He looked Paul up and down, gaze lingering on his legs for a moment, and Paul felt himself blush. He stuttered for a moment, discomfited.
“He’ll look a complete queer!” John replied for him cheerfully. “How much for two?” The vendor named a price and they haggled for a minute, while Paul took the opportunity to calm himself down and wait for his blush to subside. He was grateful to John for providing a distraction. He knew the look that he’d gotten; he’d given it to more than one bird in his life, and he wasn’t at all sure he liked being on the receiving end. He studiously avoided the vendor’s eye as they completed their transaction and walked away, funny trousers tucked under their arms.
“Come again!”
Paul didn’t bother to reply.
*****************************************************************
A while later they were standing around in their hotel room, staring at each other. Paul’s lips kept twitching, and John’s face had acquired that stony stillness that meant he was trying desperately not to laugh.
“John, my friend,” Paul told him earnestly, “you look like a berk.”
“Macca, my dear sir,” John replied, just as solemn, “you look like a bird.”
“I do not!” Paul whirled about and ran for the bathroom, trying to stand so that he could catch a glimpse of himself in the tiny mirror over the sink. John followed him in.
“You do. Honestly.”
“No I don’t! How d’you reckon that?”
“Well, it’s your ass. You’ve got a delicious ass.” John’s voice went high and positively slimy, his eyes dancing with laughter. Paul glared at him.
Normally, he would find this sort of banter funny. He could give as good as he got and better. But right now, he was still discombobulated by the vendor’s obvious interest, and he didn’t want to look like a girl, and worst of all, lurking deep in his brain, he’d been thinking the same thing about John.
“It’s these bloody flaps,” he said, his glare melting into a more resigned expression. He kicked his leg back and forth to illustrate, accidentally-on-purpose whacking John in the shin. “They look like a dress. I’m wearing a dress.”
John gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Well you look just lovely. Come ‘ead.” He grabbed Paul’s arm and steered him toward the door.
“Are we really going out in these things?” Paul rather hoped he’d say no.
“’Course we are. Bought them didn’t we? Can’t let ‘em go to waste, now can we?” He steered Paul forcibly down the stairs, past Madame Aubert, who flushed and refused to meet their eyes, and propelled him out into the afternoon light.
“We’re out! Not so bad, was it?”
“Hmmm,” said Paul, refusing to commit to an answer. John rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be a shit. Let’s go.” There seemed to be nothing else for it. Paul went.
“’Least we don’t have to find any birds.”
“Why d’you say that?” John looked honestly puzzled, so Paul explained.
“We are the birds.”
They didn’t stay out for long. It wasn’t because they looked like girls, really, since they got enough appreciative glances from the real article to set those fears to rest. It was, as Paul had said, the “bloody flaps.” For two rock ‘n rollers accustomed to drainies, the bells on the trousers made something as simple as walking a distraction.
It was the swooshing, Paul finally decided. He couldn’t take a step without the edges of his trousers brushing so that each stride was accompanied by the annoying sound of denim rubbing together. He tried to compensate for it by walking differently, bringing one foot around almost directly in front of the other, but this was worse since it made his hips swing about in the oddest way, and it was bad enough looking like a bird without walking like one too. And to make matters worse, having nothing around his ankles made for a chilly outing; he could feel a draft of cold air swirl around his shins with every move he made. They’d been out for half an hour, and that, Paul decided, was enough. He stopped abruptly.
“John, these trousers need to go.” He waited for the inevitable teasing-“In public? You naughty boy!”-but it never came. Instead, John turned around with an expression that was half annoyance, and half rueful relief.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. I was about to go crazy meself, only I didn’t want to admit it.”
Paul snorted. “Well it’s a good thing that at least one of us had sense to say something. Come ‘ead, let’s go to our room. I think I brought needle and thread. Maybe we can do something with these things.”
“Aye, that’s fair enough. And then let’s find a pub. And some girls. I’m starved.” John leered and turned about, heading back down the street, and Paul noticed with a smirk that John’s walk had acquired a certain swing in the hips.
“John,” he said, not laughing though it was a near thing, “you walk like a girl.” He would have said more, except that he suddenly found himself with an armful of John Lennon, who sprang at him without warning, and wrapped leather-clad arms around his neck.
“Oh no!” John exclaimed in a wheezing falsetto. “You caught me! I’m exposed! Kiss me, you bad thing!” He fluttered his eyelashes and pursed his lips into an exaggerated pout, making horrid slurping noises that were probably meant to sound like kisses. Paul blinked at him.
“Sorry love,” he said trying to pry John’s arms from around his neck. “I’m already taken. Got me a strapping lad back home. I’d break his poor heart. Besides,” he continued, finally freeing himself, “I never knew you fancied the ladies.”
“Only you,” John regarded him with an expression so earnest it could only be fake. “Only you could make this old queer abandon his faggoty ways. And you so cruel as to refuse me! I’m going to swoon.”
“Swoon away.” Paul took two steps sideways and watched in bemusement as his friend toppled over.
“Ouch.” John’s voice was muffled against the concrete.
“Oh, was I supposed to catch you?” Paul said, all solicitude. “Shall I give my lady a hand up?” Two children passed by, giggling.
“I think,” said John with wounded dignity, “I can do it myself.” He got to his feet, brushing at his clothes. He cleared his throat, pointedly ignoring Paul’s amusement. “Shall we head back?”
“Rather. Shall my lady take my arm until she feels better?”
John sniffed. “I think she shall.” He threaded his arm through Paul’s, linking them firmly at the elbow. “In case I feel the need to faint again,” he explained.
“Of course.” Paul tipped him an imaginary hat, and they swooshed their way back to the hotel, arm in arm.
A/N: As you can see, this chapter ends sometime in the late afternoon. I have a terrible time writing endings (why do stories have to end anyway?), and so I figured it best to leave off where the action ends. I hope I’ve been vague enough to make for some easy continuity-I dunno if they ever got laid. Ah well. Either way, whatsherass, the ball’s in your court.
Oh, and errors in the French are all mine. I haven’t studied the language since my mandatory freshman semester. I think I remembered…mostly. ETA: having just checked myself on babelfish, John asks the art student something like "where is your trousers?" which is rather appropriate. >:D
I could not find MT, but that's not her fault; I got impatient, and it was overdue. In any case, akutenshi_akira is a betaing goddess, and I worship her feet. At. At her feet.
Word Count: 2,491
Disclaimer: It's fiction, you dig?
“Wake up.”
Paul didn’t have much choice in the matter as a large, heavy, John-shaped lump landed sprawling across his stomach.
“What,” he asked as conversationally as someone who’d just been woken up by a hundred-something pounds of bandmate landing on his stomach could, “is your problem?”
“My problem,” imitated John, peering at him with myopic cheer, “is that I’ve been awake for two hours, and I’m hungry, and you haven’t so much as twitched since I kicked you out of bed last night. I’m going to get food. And, seeing as you’re me best friend and all, I took it upon meself to wake you up so that you can come with.”
“You’re too kind,” Paul tried to snarl, but it came out as a yawn. He blinked up at the ceiling for a moment, taking inventory. Limbs intact, head not too sore, and if it weren’t for John, he’d probably be breathing just fine. All in all, there were worse ways to start the day, although he needed to piss.
“’Ere, gerroff me,” he said, shoving at John’s shoulder, but John dug his limbs into the mattress and made himself inexplicably heavier.
“Why should I? There I was, all cold and languishing…”
“Languishing?” Paul snorted. John smacked his leg.
“Languishing, and so looooonesome, and now there’s you and you’re all warm and comfy, so I don’t see what’s in it for me, this ‘getting up’ venture.”
“I could think of something.”
“Like what? Gold? Silver? All the tea in Christendom?”
“Naw, mate. It’s just me bladder’s about to explode.”
John blinked at him. “Well, if you put it like that….”
“I do.” Paul agreed genially.
“Suit yerself.” John rolled off of him and Paul took the opportunity to spring for the bathroom. He hadn’t been kidding about his bladder.
By the time he emerged, he found John dressed and ready to go, bouncing impatiently on the soles of his feet.
“C’mon, hurry up, chop chop!” he said, throwing jeans and shoes and a fresh shirt haphazardly Paul’s way.
“What’s your hurry?” Paul asked as he dressed quickly, not bothering with the usual niceties of brushing his hair or teeth; it seemed pointless when they’d just get messed up again anyway, and besides, there was only John to notice, and he wouldn’t care.
“I’m starved,” John told him. He pouted which nearly sent Paul into giggles; there wasn’t a face in the world less suited to pouting. Thirty seconds to get his shoes on, and he marshalled John out the door.
“C’mon then,” he said, giving John an amiable shove toward the stairs. “Can’t leave you languishing, can we?”
***************************************************
Breakfast was a simple affair: sausage, crusty bread with jam, and hot tea served in a tiny café by a waitress who looked at them both as though they were insects, even after Paul flashed her his patented nice-guy smile.
“What’s her problem?” John grumbled as they emerged into the morning sunshine. The day promised some chill, a sharp wind sending high clouds scudding across the sky. Paul shivered and flipped his collar up.
“Probably had something to do with the bit where you stared down her tits for an hour before ordering.”
“It wasn’t an hour. And they were nice tits.”
Paul thought about it. They had been nice tits, and her shirt not designed to cover them, but he didn’t really feel like talking about them.
“What d’you want to do today?”
“Hmmmm,” John said, looking at the sky with a thoughtful expression. “Get laid.”
“Fair enough,” Paul found this notion agreeable, but “How do you plan on doing that?”
John stared at him. “Son,” he said, face very solemn, “When birds and bees get really fuckin’ horny, they go off alone together and-“
“I get it!” Paul interrupted hastily. “Thanks for the talk, Granddad. But until you find a bird that thinks you’re attractive, what d’you want to do today?”
“I don’t know.” John shrugged and glanced around. “We haven’t gone that way yet.” He nodded at a random street. “Let’s go find ourselves some birds.”
But two hours and quite a few arbitrary turns later, all they’d found was that they were very lost, and there wasn’t a single decent-looking girl around, and so they stood at the intersection of two streets with imposing French names-Rue de Something Twisty With Your Tongue and L’Avenue Les Unpronounceables-wondering what to do next.
“We could call a taxi,” Paul suggested half-heartedly. John snorted.
“And admit defeat? Let’s find ourselves a pub.” But a quick look around proved unpromising. They seemed to have found their way into a slightly-dilapidated residential section, and in a city that had more restaurants than people, there was precisely one café within sight, and its windows were shuttered tight.
“Maybe not,” said Paul. “We could just keep walking, see where we get to.” But John wasn’t paying attention. He elbowed Paul, and nodded at one of the houses where someone had just emerged.
“Check out the trousers.”
The man’s blue-jeans looked the same as Jurgen’s had yesterday, tight through the waist and thighs then flaring out below the knee, though these were spattered and stained with various substances. Probably paint, if the portfolio clutched under one arm was any indication.
“Looks like an art student” John said, moving forward to intercept him. Paul followed.
“How d’you reckon he’s a student?”
“Because he looks like one. Hey, pardon me. Excusez-moi.”
Paul didn’t have time to argue with John’s logic; the man turned around at John’s hail, trousers swooshing gently.
“Oui?”
“Ou est-oh hell, I dunno how to say it-ou est votre pantalons…?” John trailed off as the man gave him a bewildered look, so Paul gave it a go.
“S’il-vous-plait, ou achetez-vous ces pantalons?” The man’s expression cleared and he answered with a spate of French, out of which Paul could understand maybe two words, ‘Montmartre’ and ‘market.’
“How d’you get-Ou est Montmartre?”
It took several minutes and rather more gesturing and twisty French than Paul was comfortable with, but eventually they came away with a general idea of how to get to Montmartre-not too far away unless Paul was completely wrong, which was always possible. But a half-hour of walking and one more awkward request for directions later, they found Montmartre, an area of Paris that looked just about the same as any other area of Paris, at least to their English eyes.
“Isn’t it supposed to be…I dunno…more bohemian or something?” Paul wondered aloud. “You know, Le Moulin and Renoir and stuff?”
John shrugged. “Who cares? Let’s go find the market. We’ll get some of those pants.”
“Pants from France?”
“Perchance. Advance!” John marched forward smartly and Paul fell in beside him, grinning.
“But can you finance these pants from France?”
“My son, I think we have a chance….” They played their game all the way across the Place du Tertre, until they ran out of rhymes and found their trousers.
They were being sold at a simple outdoor kiosk, hanging from a rack, supervised by a young man only a little older than them who sported a pair himself. He looked up smiling as they approached and called to them.
“Vous l’achetez?” he asked gesturing at the rack. “Ils sont tres elegants, tres formidables!”
“Er,” said Paul. “Combien…?” He shrugged. “How much are they?” The young man’s smile grew wider.
“English?” He asked, apparently delighted. “But I speak the English! You wish to buy?”
“Maybe,” John said, back in the conversation since French wasn’t required. “They popular here, or what?”
“But of course!” The young man’s eyes were wide and guileless. “It is the thing for-how you say-les artists, les bohemes. Very stylish.”
“I dunno if we’re really artists,” Paul murmured doubtfully. The trousers were certainly interesting, but he didn’t know if he could wear them without feeling a fool. “I’d say we’re rock ‘n rollers if anything.”
“Art, rock and roll,” the vendor made a sweeping gesture, “It is all the same thing. And too, I think they will look good on you, non?” He looked Paul up and down, gaze lingering on his legs for a moment, and Paul felt himself blush. He stuttered for a moment, discomfited.
“He’ll look a complete queer!” John replied for him cheerfully. “How much for two?” The vendor named a price and they haggled for a minute, while Paul took the opportunity to calm himself down and wait for his blush to subside. He was grateful to John for providing a distraction. He knew the look that he’d gotten; he’d given it to more than one bird in his life, and he wasn’t at all sure he liked being on the receiving end. He studiously avoided the vendor’s eye as they completed their transaction and walked away, funny trousers tucked under their arms.
“Come again!”
Paul didn’t bother to reply.
*****************************************************************
A while later they were standing around in their hotel room, staring at each other. Paul’s lips kept twitching, and John’s face had acquired that stony stillness that meant he was trying desperately not to laugh.
“John, my friend,” Paul told him earnestly, “you look like a berk.”
“Macca, my dear sir,” John replied, just as solemn, “you look like a bird.”
“I do not!” Paul whirled about and ran for the bathroom, trying to stand so that he could catch a glimpse of himself in the tiny mirror over the sink. John followed him in.
“You do. Honestly.”
“No I don’t! How d’you reckon that?”
“Well, it’s your ass. You’ve got a delicious ass.” John’s voice went high and positively slimy, his eyes dancing with laughter. Paul glared at him.
Normally, he would find this sort of banter funny. He could give as good as he got and better. But right now, he was still discombobulated by the vendor’s obvious interest, and he didn’t want to look like a girl, and worst of all, lurking deep in his brain, he’d been thinking the same thing about John.
“It’s these bloody flaps,” he said, his glare melting into a more resigned expression. He kicked his leg back and forth to illustrate, accidentally-on-purpose whacking John in the shin. “They look like a dress. I’m wearing a dress.”
John gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Well you look just lovely. Come ‘ead.” He grabbed Paul’s arm and steered him toward the door.
“Are we really going out in these things?” Paul rather hoped he’d say no.
“’Course we are. Bought them didn’t we? Can’t let ‘em go to waste, now can we?” He steered Paul forcibly down the stairs, past Madame Aubert, who flushed and refused to meet their eyes, and propelled him out into the afternoon light.
“We’re out! Not so bad, was it?”
“Hmmm,” said Paul, refusing to commit to an answer. John rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be a shit. Let’s go.” There seemed to be nothing else for it. Paul went.
“’Least we don’t have to find any birds.”
“Why d’you say that?” John looked honestly puzzled, so Paul explained.
“We are the birds.”
They didn’t stay out for long. It wasn’t because they looked like girls, really, since they got enough appreciative glances from the real article to set those fears to rest. It was, as Paul had said, the “bloody flaps.” For two rock ‘n rollers accustomed to drainies, the bells on the trousers made something as simple as walking a distraction.
It was the swooshing, Paul finally decided. He couldn’t take a step without the edges of his trousers brushing so that each stride was accompanied by the annoying sound of denim rubbing together. He tried to compensate for it by walking differently, bringing one foot around almost directly in front of the other, but this was worse since it made his hips swing about in the oddest way, and it was bad enough looking like a bird without walking like one too. And to make matters worse, having nothing around his ankles made for a chilly outing; he could feel a draft of cold air swirl around his shins with every move he made. They’d been out for half an hour, and that, Paul decided, was enough. He stopped abruptly.
“John, these trousers need to go.” He waited for the inevitable teasing-“In public? You naughty boy!”-but it never came. Instead, John turned around with an expression that was half annoyance, and half rueful relief.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. I was about to go crazy meself, only I didn’t want to admit it.”
Paul snorted. “Well it’s a good thing that at least one of us had sense to say something. Come ‘ead, let’s go to our room. I think I brought needle and thread. Maybe we can do something with these things.”
“Aye, that’s fair enough. And then let’s find a pub. And some girls. I’m starved.” John leered and turned about, heading back down the street, and Paul noticed with a smirk that John’s walk had acquired a certain swing in the hips.
“John,” he said, not laughing though it was a near thing, “you walk like a girl.” He would have said more, except that he suddenly found himself with an armful of John Lennon, who sprang at him without warning, and wrapped leather-clad arms around his neck.
“Oh no!” John exclaimed in a wheezing falsetto. “You caught me! I’m exposed! Kiss me, you bad thing!” He fluttered his eyelashes and pursed his lips into an exaggerated pout, making horrid slurping noises that were probably meant to sound like kisses. Paul blinked at him.
“Sorry love,” he said trying to pry John’s arms from around his neck. “I’m already taken. Got me a strapping lad back home. I’d break his poor heart. Besides,” he continued, finally freeing himself, “I never knew you fancied the ladies.”
“Only you,” John regarded him with an expression so earnest it could only be fake. “Only you could make this old queer abandon his faggoty ways. And you so cruel as to refuse me! I’m going to swoon.”
“Swoon away.” Paul took two steps sideways and watched in bemusement as his friend toppled over.
“Ouch.” John’s voice was muffled against the concrete.
“Oh, was I supposed to catch you?” Paul said, all solicitude. “Shall I give my lady a hand up?” Two children passed by, giggling.
“I think,” said John with wounded dignity, “I can do it myself.” He got to his feet, brushing at his clothes. He cleared his throat, pointedly ignoring Paul’s amusement. “Shall we head back?”
“Rather. Shall my lady take my arm until she feels better?”
John sniffed. “I think she shall.” He threaded his arm through Paul’s, linking them firmly at the elbow. “In case I feel the need to faint again,” he explained.
“Of course.” Paul tipped him an imaginary hat, and they swooshed their way back to the hotel, arm in arm.
A/N: As you can see, this chapter ends sometime in the late afternoon. I have a terrible time writing endings (why do stories have to end anyway?), and so I figured it best to leave off where the action ends. I hope I’ve been vague enough to make for some easy continuity-I dunno if they ever got laid. Ah well. Either way, whatsherass, the ball’s in your court.
Oh, and errors in the French are all mine. I haven’t studied the language since my mandatory freshman semester. I think I remembered…mostly. ETA: having just checked myself on babelfish, John asks the art student something like "where is your trousers?" which is rather appropriate. >:D
I could not find MT, but that's not her fault; I got impatient, and it was overdue. In any case, akutenshi_akira is a betaing goddess, and I worship her feet. At. At her feet.