Dead Men Tell No Tales [s/a]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no one gets hurt.
Summary: He took another drag in between words, while the ticking of the clock, to Paul, was somewhat reminiscent of a poem he once read. “What’s the meaning in meaning when it outlives who it means something to?”
John looked at Paul. Paul looked at John, but neither said a word, their tongues each resting apprehensively in their places. The clock above their heads though, it yelled as loud as if it were saying the things each boy had held inside their hearts for far too long.
John seemed pale and vulnerable, but at the same time carefree and elated; he seemed almost fake, like the John in the movies and magazines, but as real as Paul had ever known him to be - seeming to scrutinize everything with the looks he cast, uncompromising in the beliefs set in the veins lining his pale arms, always a cheeky grin complimenting his pale face.
He was so pale.
Paul would try to envelop him in a warm embrace, saying to himself that John had just walked in from the harsh rain and simply wasn’t feeling well - but upon wrapping his arms around the boy’s neck, he was met with nothing-transparency, isolation. John was across the room before Paul could blink more than once.
Tick, tock.
“John, where have you been?” John grinned. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, sending chills running along the contours of Paul’s spine.
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Macca?”
John looked young, younger than Paul had always remembered him - younger than in The Cavern, younger than in Hamburg, younger than he had ever been; revived, replenished, even, of something he had always seemed to be lacking in. He held his shoulders high, and the gleam that was in those windows of his (eyes, as some would put it, but Paul had never merely seen them as such) was unmistakably ones having not a damper known to them.
“I’ve missed you.”
Tick, tock.
The grin never dropped from John’s face as his silence resonated throughout the room.
“Why, I’ve been here all along; there was never anything to miss.”
Paul stepped closer to him, but John backed away, untouchable.
Tick, tock.
John was everywhere, now, filling the room with a barely tangible image; a memory, perhaps, a projection of years strewn across his young, lean figure. His glasses were on his face, now, and Paul was left to wonder when the change had occurred.
“Is this real?”
Tick, tock.
John shrugged and he sat cross legged on Paul’s floor. Paul stared at him, his stunning, black and white projection image a stark contrast to the dull color of Paul’s world in which he often said he lived.
“Nothing is real when you think about it, you know - everything that everyone has ever thought, it’s all in their heads.”
John’s presence, it hardly look as if it affected the room at all; but at the same time, he made the moment, this moment, that Paul was so exceedingly focused on, almost trying to grab it and secure it in his pocket, so (almost unbearably) monumental.
Seeing a concentrated expression on Paul’s face, John looked at the boy curiously, adopting a somewhat childish expression.
Tick, tock.
John looked at Paul. Paul looked at John. They communicated, but if anyone else were in the room, they wouldn’t hear a sound wave, save for Paul’s shuffling as he sat cautiously in front of the older boy, as if were he to move with a certain velocity or speak in a certain way, John would disappear.
“I love you,” Paul said, soft and deliberate. John’s likeness seemed to waver, if only slightly, before once again becoming solid.
Tick, tock.
Paul reached out to run his fingers over the frames of John’s glasses, but he couldn’t feel anything spark his nerves.
“Love is a funny word, isn’t it, Paul?” John smiled again, and it was contagious, like a more deadly form of cholera. Paul lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag, offering one to the older boy, but he declined with a polite shake of the head. Smiling, mirroring John in all his vibrancy, he responded. The hour was nearly 11:15, and time was not something that chose to take their sides that night.
“On the contrary, I don’t find it funny at all,” Paul said, “I find it very meaningful.” John took out a cigarette of his own, nearly transparent in his long fingers, and he shook his head with that grin plastered firmly to his face.
Tick, tock.
John wore a hat when Paul looked at him again, as if he were preparing for departure. A wave of nausea came over the younger boy then, and his face twisted to that of unobstructed sorrow. As John was still lighting his cigarette, he didn’t see Paul as he responded, the object held firmly between his lips as he spoke.
“That’s what makes it such a larf,” He said, and the smoke he exhaled twisted gracefully through the air. “The whole business of meaning.” He took another drag in between words, while the ticking of the clock, to Paul, was somewhat reminiscent of a poem he once read. “What’s the meaning in meaning when it outlives who it means something to?”
Paul looked at John, and John looked at Paul.
Tick, tock.
The younger boy forced a smile. “You’ve grown up since I’ve last seen you, haven’t you?” John reciprocated the upward twist of the lips and he put out his cigarette on the carpeted floor; it didn’t leave a mark, and Paul was surprised to realize that that, opposed to the alternative, was what bothered him more. He would much rather have more than a memory to hang onto of the older boy, that black and white slide show sitting cross legged and speaking riddles in his living room - even if it were a cigarette burn.
Tick.
“Do I look older to you?” He said with mock hurt in his voice, and Paul nearly stuck his tongue out.
“You look younger, and that’s what makes me suspicious.” John nodded. He stood up, and Paul followed his action, his face contorting into an expression of hurt again. John looked at him oddly, but Paul turned away.
Tock.
“What’s the matter? I carn’t be that ‘orrible to look at.” John put a finger under Paul’s chin to try and turn his head, but Paul didn’t feel it.
Tick.
Paul looked at John again, determined to hide the tears in his eyes. “Please, John, tell me everything, would you? I miss you so.”
Tock.
“I miss holding you and being with you. John, please, tell me what it’s like, so maybe I’d have something to look forward to.” The clock on the wall seemed to go faster, make its way only more swiftly towards the finish line that only the older of the two could see; it was reflected in his eyes, though, that growing sense of anxiety when one knows he has only a limited amount of time on this Earth to spend with whom he loves most. Paul saw it, as clear as if John’s eyes were pools with which one saw the near future, and his heart sank, giving those floorboards that pulse he was trying to place before.
Tick.
John smiled, despite himself. He leaned over to touch Paul’s nose, and this time, both of them felt a connection - a connection of a lack of connection from which they both suffered.
Paul let a single tear roll down his cheek. John knew what would happen if he tried to wipe it away, so he didn’t.
The older boy tipped his hat and let his façade of jubilation slip for just a moment before repositioning it correctly on his face.
Tock.
“Dead men tell no tales, luv.” He said with a sad smile in his voice, and Paul’s eyes lowered in grief. “But trust me, me without you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no one gets hurt.
Summary: He took another drag in between words, while the ticking of the clock, to Paul, was somewhat reminiscent of a poem he once read. “What’s the meaning in meaning when it outlives who it means something to?”
John looked at Paul. Paul looked at John, but neither said a word, their tongues each resting apprehensively in their places. The clock above their heads though, it yelled as loud as if it were saying the things each boy had held inside their hearts for far too long.
John seemed pale and vulnerable, but at the same time carefree and elated; he seemed almost fake, like the John in the movies and magazines, but as real as Paul had ever known him to be - seeming to scrutinize everything with the looks he cast, uncompromising in the beliefs set in the veins lining his pale arms, always a cheeky grin complimenting his pale face.
He was so pale.
Paul would try to envelop him in a warm embrace, saying to himself that John had just walked in from the harsh rain and simply wasn’t feeling well - but upon wrapping his arms around the boy’s neck, he was met with nothing-transparency, isolation. John was across the room before Paul could blink more than once.
Tick, tock.
“John, where have you been?” John grinned. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, sending chills running along the contours of Paul’s spine.
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Macca?”
John looked young, younger than Paul had always remembered him - younger than in The Cavern, younger than in Hamburg, younger than he had ever been; revived, replenished, even, of something he had always seemed to be lacking in. He held his shoulders high, and the gleam that was in those windows of his (eyes, as some would put it, but Paul had never merely seen them as such) was unmistakably ones having not a damper known to them.
“I’ve missed you.”
Tick, tock.
The grin never dropped from John’s face as his silence resonated throughout the room.
“Why, I’ve been here all along; there was never anything to miss.”
Paul stepped closer to him, but John backed away, untouchable.
Tick, tock.
John was everywhere, now, filling the room with a barely tangible image; a memory, perhaps, a projection of years strewn across his young, lean figure. His glasses were on his face, now, and Paul was left to wonder when the change had occurred.
“Is this real?”
Tick, tock.
John shrugged and he sat cross legged on Paul’s floor. Paul stared at him, his stunning, black and white projection image a stark contrast to the dull color of Paul’s world in which he often said he lived.
“Nothing is real when you think about it, you know - everything that everyone has ever thought, it’s all in their heads.”
John’s presence, it hardly look as if it affected the room at all; but at the same time, he made the moment, this moment, that Paul was so exceedingly focused on, almost trying to grab it and secure it in his pocket, so (almost unbearably) monumental.
Seeing a concentrated expression on Paul’s face, John looked at the boy curiously, adopting a somewhat childish expression.
Tick, tock.
John looked at Paul. Paul looked at John. They communicated, but if anyone else were in the room, they wouldn’t hear a sound wave, save for Paul’s shuffling as he sat cautiously in front of the older boy, as if were he to move with a certain velocity or speak in a certain way, John would disappear.
“I love you,” Paul said, soft and deliberate. John’s likeness seemed to waver, if only slightly, before once again becoming solid.
Tick, tock.
Paul reached out to run his fingers over the frames of John’s glasses, but he couldn’t feel anything spark his nerves.
“Love is a funny word, isn’t it, Paul?” John smiled again, and it was contagious, like a more deadly form of cholera. Paul lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag, offering one to the older boy, but he declined with a polite shake of the head. Smiling, mirroring John in all his vibrancy, he responded. The hour was nearly 11:15, and time was not something that chose to take their sides that night.
“On the contrary, I don’t find it funny at all,” Paul said, “I find it very meaningful.” John took out a cigarette of his own, nearly transparent in his long fingers, and he shook his head with that grin plastered firmly to his face.
Tick, tock.
John wore a hat when Paul looked at him again, as if he were preparing for departure. A wave of nausea came over the younger boy then, and his face twisted to that of unobstructed sorrow. As John was still lighting his cigarette, he didn’t see Paul as he responded, the object held firmly between his lips as he spoke.
“That’s what makes it such a larf,” He said, and the smoke he exhaled twisted gracefully through the air. “The whole business of meaning.” He took another drag in between words, while the ticking of the clock, to Paul, was somewhat reminiscent of a poem he once read. “What’s the meaning in meaning when it outlives who it means something to?”
Paul looked at John, and John looked at Paul.
Tick, tock.
The younger boy forced a smile. “You’ve grown up since I’ve last seen you, haven’t you?” John reciprocated the upward twist of the lips and he put out his cigarette on the carpeted floor; it didn’t leave a mark, and Paul was surprised to realize that that, opposed to the alternative, was what bothered him more. He would much rather have more than a memory to hang onto of the older boy, that black and white slide show sitting cross legged and speaking riddles in his living room - even if it were a cigarette burn.
Tick.
“Do I look older to you?” He said with mock hurt in his voice, and Paul nearly stuck his tongue out.
“You look younger, and that’s what makes me suspicious.” John nodded. He stood up, and Paul followed his action, his face contorting into an expression of hurt again. John looked at him oddly, but Paul turned away.
Tock.
“What’s the matter? I carn’t be that ‘orrible to look at.” John put a finger under Paul’s chin to try and turn his head, but Paul didn’t feel it.
Tick.
Paul looked at John again, determined to hide the tears in his eyes. “Please, John, tell me everything, would you? I miss you so.”
Tock.
“I miss holding you and being with you. John, please, tell me what it’s like, so maybe I’d have something to look forward to.” The clock on the wall seemed to go faster, make its way only more swiftly towards the finish line that only the older of the two could see; it was reflected in his eyes, though, that growing sense of anxiety when one knows he has only a limited amount of time on this Earth to spend with whom he loves most. Paul saw it, as clear as if John’s eyes were pools with which one saw the near future, and his heart sank, giving those floorboards that pulse he was trying to place before.
Tick.
John smiled, despite himself. He leaned over to touch Paul’s nose, and this time, both of them felt a connection - a connection of a lack of connection from which they both suffered.
Paul let a single tear roll down his cheek. John knew what would happen if he tried to wipe it away, so he didn’t.
The older boy tipped his hat and let his façade of jubilation slip for just a moment before repositioning it correctly on his face.
Tock.
“Dead men tell no tales, luv.” He said with a sad smile in his voice, and Paul’s eyes lowered in grief. “But trust me, me without you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”