We're Both Such Magnificent Liars. [s/a]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: As fake as my hate of NCIS; title and cut belong to Taking Back Sunday.
Summary: Paul could have sworn to anyone that it was an infantile phase. (Also, all the words in italics are things that Paul thinks John will or should be saying to him; while reading it over, I feared it would be a little confusing.)
His body was but a thin frame, only a shadow of the man that used to inhabit it, and that, in itself was supported with frail bones, jutting out and drawing Paul’s attention like a focal point. Fascination was often a word that reverberated throughout his mind as he tried to distinguish just what it was that brought out the worst in him every time John came around; infatuation with a firsthand (secondhand?) experience on just how dramatically a man could change, it was always in the cards as a possible list of nouns. But when John’s arm was slung almost carelessly around that mass of human nothing, nothing compared to what they used to be, Paul almost had to gag to keep the short and pointed syllables of jealousy from creeping into the cycle of thoughts he deemed as rational.
Paul could have sworn to anyone that it was an infantile phase, something which John would only use against Paul later; to tease Paul with for when the next time that their lips pulled together and their clothes pulled off, ‘I love you’s extracted from the depths of their beings, only by that one magnetic force that neither really knew too much about.
“Remember when I was with Yoko?” John would say with a laugh in his voice, and he would pull Paul closer. Paul would cringe almost dramatically.
“Oh please, don’t remind me.” And the thoughts wading around, sifting about in their pooled minds would echo throughout the night, that time when only they could be important enough to pay attention to.
Somehow, above everything else, John’s teeth had stayed the same. Under the watchful eye of the stars, clenched behind thin lips, they were the only thing that Paul could recognize in him anymore, feeling the same underneath his tongue as he grazed over them for the thousandth time, just to make sure this was still John he was kissing; John that still occupied that sunken cave of a chest, a stark contrast to what Paul had always imagined him looking like in years to come.
“I never loved her.” John would state matter of factly, and Paul would nod, resting their foreheads together, wrapping his arms around John’s neck like he always had.
“I know.” He would reply, and that would be the end of that.
Admittedly, Paul had thought up some pretty radical ideas in his adolescence about what his counterpart would look like in the years to come. In different fantasies, he had long hair, short hair, he was skinny, pudgy, (never fat, not by any means), and so many other things that Paul was certain one day that he had to be right about at least one of them; he had imagined it all. But no, not this, there was never a day when this had crossed his mind.
John had become skinny, frighteningly so, his hair hanging stringy around his face, where Paul just wanted to run his fingers through that mop top from yesteryear one more time. His clothes hung loose around his limp body, and his smile could never do his life justice. The glasses that only Paul used to be able to see on the darkest of nights, they were worn proud on the tip of his nose, leaving Paul to wonder what was really secret about him anymore.
Certainly not his craze with her; and that’s all really Paul could describe it as, inching around that one word that he was avoiding sticking to his own forehead, because it certainly couldn’t be love. No, Paul had decided the moment that John had announced his engagement to that shrew that John had absolutely no idea what love was; the moment John had left Paul, Paul had stubbornly assumed he had no idea what the word meant.
Perhaps Paul was childish- it was a better word than that other one that he would wave away with his hand, often earning strange looks from oh so innocent passerby’s. He was childish because he couldn’t accept the fact that just when he was getting into the groove, the rhythm of things (no pun intended), John had just taken it all back with the snap of those guitar playing fingers. He had pledged allegiance and that four letter word to Paul, whispered beneath the same moon under which he now uttered her name; frankly, it made Paul sick.
It was John’s idea in the first place, really, which just made Paul’s blood boil, because every time she would invade their studio and put in her two cents (Did she even know what that meant?) it was as if John was rubbing it in his face. Every time it happened, he stood by, doing nothing, and every time, it cut Paul just a little bit deeper.
But then, then there were the times when Paul would remember what made him agree to John’s ridiculous whim in the first place. Every time that he would see that simple smile, hear one of those witty remarks (not as an insult for a change), he would be reminded of that stupid feeling in his stomach as the word “love” grew way overrated. Every time Paul would see those teeth, that simple smirk or quirk of the lips, Paul would be assured that it was John again- John he wanted, and, with a pang he could only identify as sadness, John he’ll never have again.
In reality, Paul was sick of it; sick of the feelings, sick of the nausea that always enveloped him with a whispered “I told you so” every time that he would watch the so called romance flow between John and his latest fling. He would come back, Paul was sure if it; he had to, right? It was what true love had always promised him it would be, back in the dirt and sweat of Hamburg, back in the initial promise that America had brought to their wary souls. Maybe John had forgotten what love was, in the dark eyes of that woman, but Paul would show him again- one day they’d reinvent it.
Paul closed his eyes, drumming his fingers on the beaten down wood of his bass as he ignored all the noise around him; the noise of John, the shrieks of Yoko, of George and Ringo trying to call him out of his trance.
“I’m sorry Paul,” John would, say, “I’ll never leave you again.”
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: As fake as my hate of NCIS; title and cut belong to Taking Back Sunday.
Summary: Paul could have sworn to anyone that it was an infantile phase. (Also, all the words in italics are things that Paul thinks John will or should be saying to him; while reading it over, I feared it would be a little confusing.)
His body was but a thin frame, only a shadow of the man that used to inhabit it, and that, in itself was supported with frail bones, jutting out and drawing Paul’s attention like a focal point. Fascination was often a word that reverberated throughout his mind as he tried to distinguish just what it was that brought out the worst in him every time John came around; infatuation with a firsthand (secondhand?) experience on just how dramatically a man could change, it was always in the cards as a possible list of nouns. But when John’s arm was slung almost carelessly around that mass of human nothing, nothing compared to what they used to be, Paul almost had to gag to keep the short and pointed syllables of jealousy from creeping into the cycle of thoughts he deemed as rational.
Paul could have sworn to anyone that it was an infantile phase, something which John would only use against Paul later; to tease Paul with for when the next time that their lips pulled together and their clothes pulled off, ‘I love you’s extracted from the depths of their beings, only by that one magnetic force that neither really knew too much about.
“Remember when I was with Yoko?” John would say with a laugh in his voice, and he would pull Paul closer. Paul would cringe almost dramatically.
“Oh please, don’t remind me.” And the thoughts wading around, sifting about in their pooled minds would echo throughout the night, that time when only they could be important enough to pay attention to.
Somehow, above everything else, John’s teeth had stayed the same. Under the watchful eye of the stars, clenched behind thin lips, they were the only thing that Paul could recognize in him anymore, feeling the same underneath his tongue as he grazed over them for the thousandth time, just to make sure this was still John he was kissing; John that still occupied that sunken cave of a chest, a stark contrast to what Paul had always imagined him looking like in years to come.
“I never loved her.” John would state matter of factly, and Paul would nod, resting their foreheads together, wrapping his arms around John’s neck like he always had.
“I know.” He would reply, and that would be the end of that.
Admittedly, Paul had thought up some pretty radical ideas in his adolescence about what his counterpart would look like in the years to come. In different fantasies, he had long hair, short hair, he was skinny, pudgy, (never fat, not by any means), and so many other things that Paul was certain one day that he had to be right about at least one of them; he had imagined it all. But no, not this, there was never a day when this had crossed his mind.
John had become skinny, frighteningly so, his hair hanging stringy around his face, where Paul just wanted to run his fingers through that mop top from yesteryear one more time. His clothes hung loose around his limp body, and his smile could never do his life justice. The glasses that only Paul used to be able to see on the darkest of nights, they were worn proud on the tip of his nose, leaving Paul to wonder what was really secret about him anymore.
Certainly not his craze with her; and that’s all really Paul could describe it as, inching around that one word that he was avoiding sticking to his own forehead, because it certainly couldn’t be love. No, Paul had decided the moment that John had announced his engagement to that shrew that John had absolutely no idea what love was; the moment John had left Paul, Paul had stubbornly assumed he had no idea what the word meant.
Perhaps Paul was childish- it was a better word than that other one that he would wave away with his hand, often earning strange looks from oh so innocent passerby’s. He was childish because he couldn’t accept the fact that just when he was getting into the groove, the rhythm of things (no pun intended), John had just taken it all back with the snap of those guitar playing fingers. He had pledged allegiance and that four letter word to Paul, whispered beneath the same moon under which he now uttered her name; frankly, it made Paul sick.
It was John’s idea in the first place, really, which just made Paul’s blood boil, because every time she would invade their studio and put in her two cents (Did she even know what that meant?) it was as if John was rubbing it in his face. Every time it happened, he stood by, doing nothing, and every time, it cut Paul just a little bit deeper.
But then, then there were the times when Paul would remember what made him agree to John’s ridiculous whim in the first place. Every time that he would see that simple smile, hear one of those witty remarks (not as an insult for a change), he would be reminded of that stupid feeling in his stomach as the word “love” grew way overrated. Every time Paul would see those teeth, that simple smirk or quirk of the lips, Paul would be assured that it was John again- John he wanted, and, with a pang he could only identify as sadness, John he’ll never have again.
In reality, Paul was sick of it; sick of the feelings, sick of the nausea that always enveloped him with a whispered “I told you so” every time that he would watch the so called romance flow between John and his latest fling. He would come back, Paul was sure if it; he had to, right? It was what true love had always promised him it would be, back in the dirt and sweat of Hamburg, back in the initial promise that America had brought to their wary souls. Maybe John had forgotten what love was, in the dark eyes of that woman, but Paul would show him again- one day they’d reinvent it.
Paul closed his eyes, drumming his fingers on the beaten down wood of his bass as he ignored all the noise around him; the noise of John, the shrieks of Yoko, of George and Ringo trying to call him out of his trance.
“I’m sorry Paul,” John would, say, “I’ll never leave you again.”