What a Tangled Web We Weave [s/a]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no one gets hurt.
Summary: Although, when enough time went by, the analogies started to get old; overused, as an understatement, fitting them about as comfortably as their suits and ties, collared shirts and trousers as opposed to sleek leather and sweat from a dimly lit stage.
When it first started, when the first instigation was made, an analogy (several, really) that had been cliched and used so many times before had only seemed fitting to their situation. The Lion and the Jackal. The Music and the Lyrics. The pair among ultimate pairs. Although, when enough time went by, the analogies started to get old; overused, as an understatement, fitting them about as comfortably as their suits and ties, collared shirts and trousers as opposed to sleek leather and sweat from a dimly lit stage.
That's when the new, more up to date, more accurate analogies began to form: The Bird and the Worm. The Lion and the Lamb. The Spider and the Fly. Predator and Prey was always in the cards as a possible combination of words. The most obvious among these, however, the most comfortable tied around their necks, had to be the simple comparison of John and Paul, sometimes without even a space between the names. Lennon-McCartney. As time went on, though, people seemed to be running out of things to compare them to; more or less beginning to compare other things to them, in the event comparisons involving them were even a necessity to begin with.
John never wore his glasses in those days, not even when it was only he and Paul in the small studio, the air perverted with a certain amount of cigarette smoke, vision obstructed with a certain sense of delusion, senses deluded with certain pangs of apathy; only, of course, found at that certain time of night between these two certain people.
Really, though, ignoring usage of the word itself, neither of them were very certain of anything at that point in time.
"Do you think this is really going anywhere Paul?" The younger of the two raised his head from his sea of misplaced papers and nonsensical words at the mention of his name.
Without his glasses, Paul noticed, John could never really see what was right in front of his face. His minds' eye, though, however many there happened to be, always able to extract the deeper meaning in almost everything (although he would never show it) was always open; giving John an almost permanent pensive expression. He adopted the look often, more often than not, really, much like he was doing then. Paul responded like he always did, although the apprehensive -- hesitant, even -- undertones twisted almost harmoniously with the smoke and the electric atmosphere above them.
"Yeah, of course it is. We've already made it, haven't we?" John turned to look at him, and even though Paul knew the picture was distorted at best, the older boy looked as if he was staring straight through him, his eyes clear and determined.
Shaking his head, John replied, "No, I think we'll know when we've made it. I don't think this," He gestured to his white shirt, wrinkled with lack of care, yellowed with a surplus of smoke, "is all we're here for. We need something bigger." John's words, only in this time of night, only in this state of mind, weaved webs in the air. They were truly intricate shining spindles, fibers fabricated of the sheer uneasiness and anxiety hiding deep in the conscious thought of someone with as careful of a mask of confidence as John Lennon.
The Spider and the Fly.
As if he saw what Paul saw, John's eyes swept over his webs, gleaming the way only his philosophical thoughts could, and he seemed to be waiting for Paul to fall in; to be trapped, wrapped up in the older boy just like he needed to be, just like he knew he always did -- straight into his trap.
Tangled in a web -- John's web -- was where Paul always seemed to find himself in those days. Head over heels, unable to help himself; Infatuated. Starry-eyed. The blood was rushing into Paul's head as he replied, and John held his gaze with almost a mirrored expression of fascination.
"What do you think it is, then?" John smiled softly, not in the least disturbing the thoughtful shade to his eyes. He spoke quietly in response, scooting closer to the Paul, but Paul didn't dare move an inch.
"Something spectacular, you know?"
The Bird and the Worm.
John leaned over, guitar sitting yet uncomfortably in his lap, and he let his hand trail to the youngers' hair, toying with it absently. Paul's eyes sought for those hazel ones of his counterpart, but John was too fixated on the smallest of details concerning Paul to notice.
"Something bigger than Hamburg and Shea Stadium and America." Paul wondered with vague concentration what could possibly bigger than all of those things. John's lips turned upward, though, as his fingers trailed carefully across Paul's face, his lips, his eyelids as he closed them; scrutinizing in such a way that the younger might as well have been some magnificent being from somewhere far and outlandish even to think about. He answered Paul's thoughts as if he could see them floating in the air. They spoke carefully, as though the moment would shatter at any moment; raining to the ground in shards of broken ideas, sparkling iridescently in the dim beam of light coming from that dusty window that no one had bothered to clean since they got there.
"Something grand but...small." His fingers stopped when they traveled to the middle of Paul's cheek. His eyes were closed, still, breathing steady, and John marveled at his tranquil demeanor for a few brief moments before continuing. "I think we'll know when we really succeed," He said, his voice no louder than a murmer, more of a therapuding sound than normal dialogue, "When we've found happiness. Contentment, you know?" With this, both of their minds reflected for a sparse amount of time on the the world in which they lived -- the lives they thought they wanted more than anything else -- more than humble dreams and Liverpool nights.
When Paul opened his eyes again, John's fingers were still barely t here on his cheek, making it tingle very slightly, sweet venom running through his veins.
The Snake and the Rabbit.
Both hearts remained calm in each chest as their eyes finally found each others', weaving their thoughts to one and the same; tangling, knotting together like the hands of lovers long since past their time.
"Well," Paul said, no more altering the sound waves than John had, a smile painted delicately on his lips, "I feel pretty content right now." John returned his smile, more so a vacant expression, an obligation than a real smile. He continued scrutinizing, analyzing the younger boy, and each tiny movement that Paul made only wrapped the spindles tighter around his heart.
John chuckled, noting the vibrato in Paul's voice as he spoke, how tremulous he seemed in the smallest of actions, and he locked their eyes together again. The younger of the two was able to tell when John's smile acquired some sort of depth to it.
"No you're not," He said, dragging his fingers over soft skin and hooking his index under Paul's chin, tilting it up slightly. "You're scared, aren't you?"
Paul took a breath that shook more than the others had.
Another failed analogy mixing in with the smoke and anxiety.
"What are you scared of, Paul?" Even if Paul's eyes were closed, he would have been able to place the smirk on John's face. He looked at the older boy, his gaze not wavering in the slightest as he spoke a soft reply, the strings that John was pulling wrapping tighter, tighter, tighter...
"I'm not afraid of you, John." He said, with only the slightest tint of patronization in his voice. The aforementioned boy raised his eyebrows as if in amusement. His smile grew, an expression of some sort of oddly achieved joy in his features. John leaned over, then whispering in Paul's ear something of an ultimatum, polluting the youngers' mind -- disorienting him -- with the smoke that filled his lungs, the fog in the words that a small masochist side of Paul wanted to hear.
"Maybe you should be, Macca."
Lennon-McCartney.
"Paul?" Paul awoke in a cold sweat, faced with not so much the dank studio he was so accustomed to, but the sheets of his bed. The dark of the night. John's voice, a concerned tone lacing the single syllable which caused Paul to wake from his dream in the first place.
"John?" Paul sounded a little more than disoriented in his response. He felt John next to him, leaning over him, trying to adjust his eyes to the unforgiving blackness.
"Bad dream?" The older asked simply, sounding again more tired, bored, even, than worried upon deciding that Paul had been fine. The boy in question fidgeted, rubbing one of his wrists, nearly surprised that there were no bruises from the webs. No binding. No mark, no feeling, no evidence.
JohnAndPaul.
Paul nodded, then, glad to feel clear thoughts in his head, clean air through his lungs. John's gaze never left him, though, that was one thing he could feel in the darkness, one thing he could always feel; eyes, eyes seeking him out, eyes watching his every move.
"Yeah," He said weakly, "I'm fine, I guess."
"You sure?"
"Very sure."
"Surely sure?"
"John." Paul frowned, and John laughed. The younger, though, was eager enough either to get more sleep or to continue with his dream, the dream that wouldn't stop coming back; eager enough to fly straight back into John's web.
"Fine. Goodnight, Paul." The older boy said, and Paul sensed him turn back over, could hear his breathing slow, in a telling sign of sleep. Turning in the opposite direction, Paul decided he would try to accomplish the same.
"G'night, John." No matter how many times Paul would counter it in his mind, disregarding all of the events in which he would refuse himself the opportunity to do so, he could never fully deny that he loved the feeling of going to sleep entangled.
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no one gets hurt.
Summary: Although, when enough time went by, the analogies started to get old; overused, as an understatement, fitting them about as comfortably as their suits and ties, collared shirts and trousers as opposed to sleek leather and sweat from a dimly lit stage.
When it first started, when the first instigation was made, an analogy (several, really) that had been cliched and used so many times before had only seemed fitting to their situation. The Lion and the Jackal. The Music and the Lyrics. The pair among ultimate pairs. Although, when enough time went by, the analogies started to get old; overused, as an understatement, fitting them about as comfortably as their suits and ties, collared shirts and trousers as opposed to sleek leather and sweat from a dimly lit stage.
That's when the new, more up to date, more accurate analogies began to form: The Bird and the Worm. The Lion and the Lamb. The Spider and the Fly. Predator and Prey was always in the cards as a possible combination of words. The most obvious among these, however, the most comfortable tied around their necks, had to be the simple comparison of John and Paul, sometimes without even a space between the names. Lennon-McCartney. As time went on, though, people seemed to be running out of things to compare them to; more or less beginning to compare other things to them, in the event comparisons involving them were even a necessity to begin with.
John never wore his glasses in those days, not even when it was only he and Paul in the small studio, the air perverted with a certain amount of cigarette smoke, vision obstructed with a certain sense of delusion, senses deluded with certain pangs of apathy; only, of course, found at that certain time of night between these two certain people.
Really, though, ignoring usage of the word itself, neither of them were very certain of anything at that point in time.
"Do you think this is really going anywhere Paul?" The younger of the two raised his head from his sea of misplaced papers and nonsensical words at the mention of his name.
Without his glasses, Paul noticed, John could never really see what was right in front of his face. His minds' eye, though, however many there happened to be, always able to extract the deeper meaning in almost everything (although he would never show it) was always open; giving John an almost permanent pensive expression. He adopted the look often, more often than not, really, much like he was doing then. Paul responded like he always did, although the apprehensive -- hesitant, even -- undertones twisted almost harmoniously with the smoke and the electric atmosphere above them.
"Yeah, of course it is. We've already made it, haven't we?" John turned to look at him, and even though Paul knew the picture was distorted at best, the older boy looked as if he was staring straight through him, his eyes clear and determined.
Shaking his head, John replied, "No, I think we'll know when we've made it. I don't think this," He gestured to his white shirt, wrinkled with lack of care, yellowed with a surplus of smoke, "is all we're here for. We need something bigger." John's words, only in this time of night, only in this state of mind, weaved webs in the air. They were truly intricate shining spindles, fibers fabricated of the sheer uneasiness and anxiety hiding deep in the conscious thought of someone with as careful of a mask of confidence as John Lennon.
The Spider and the Fly.
As if he saw what Paul saw, John's eyes swept over his webs, gleaming the way only his philosophical thoughts could, and he seemed to be waiting for Paul to fall in; to be trapped, wrapped up in the older boy just like he needed to be, just like he knew he always did -- straight into his trap.
Tangled in a web -- John's web -- was where Paul always seemed to find himself in those days. Head over heels, unable to help himself; Infatuated. Starry-eyed. The blood was rushing into Paul's head as he replied, and John held his gaze with almost a mirrored expression of fascination.
"What do you think it is, then?" John smiled softly, not in the least disturbing the thoughtful shade to his eyes. He spoke quietly in response, scooting closer to the Paul, but Paul didn't dare move an inch.
"Something spectacular, you know?"
The Bird and the Worm.
John leaned over, guitar sitting yet uncomfortably in his lap, and he let his hand trail to the youngers' hair, toying with it absently. Paul's eyes sought for those hazel ones of his counterpart, but John was too fixated on the smallest of details concerning Paul to notice.
"Something bigger than Hamburg and Shea Stadium and America." Paul wondered with vague concentration what could possibly bigger than all of those things. John's lips turned upward, though, as his fingers trailed carefully across Paul's face, his lips, his eyelids as he closed them; scrutinizing in such a way that the younger might as well have been some magnificent being from somewhere far and outlandish even to think about. He answered Paul's thoughts as if he could see them floating in the air. They spoke carefully, as though the moment would shatter at any moment; raining to the ground in shards of broken ideas, sparkling iridescently in the dim beam of light coming from that dusty window that no one had bothered to clean since they got there.
"Something grand but...small." His fingers stopped when they traveled to the middle of Paul's cheek. His eyes were closed, still, breathing steady, and John marveled at his tranquil demeanor for a few brief moments before continuing. "I think we'll know when we really succeed," He said, his voice no louder than a murmer, more of a therapuding sound than normal dialogue, "When we've found happiness. Contentment, you know?" With this, both of their minds reflected for a sparse amount of time on the the world in which they lived -- the lives they thought they wanted more than anything else -- more than humble dreams and Liverpool nights.
When Paul opened his eyes again, John's fingers were still barely t here on his cheek, making it tingle very slightly, sweet venom running through his veins.
The Snake and the Rabbit.
Both hearts remained calm in each chest as their eyes finally found each others', weaving their thoughts to one and the same; tangling, knotting together like the hands of lovers long since past their time.
"Well," Paul said, no more altering the sound waves than John had, a smile painted delicately on his lips, "I feel pretty content right now." John returned his smile, more so a vacant expression, an obligation than a real smile. He continued scrutinizing, analyzing the younger boy, and each tiny movement that Paul made only wrapped the spindles tighter around his heart.
John chuckled, noting the vibrato in Paul's voice as he spoke, how tremulous he seemed in the smallest of actions, and he locked their eyes together again. The younger of the two was able to tell when John's smile acquired some sort of depth to it.
"No you're not," He said, dragging his fingers over soft skin and hooking his index under Paul's chin, tilting it up slightly. "You're scared, aren't you?"
Paul took a breath that shook more than the others had.
Another failed analogy mixing in with the smoke and anxiety.
"What are you scared of, Paul?" Even if Paul's eyes were closed, he would have been able to place the smirk on John's face. He looked at the older boy, his gaze not wavering in the slightest as he spoke a soft reply, the strings that John was pulling wrapping tighter, tighter, tighter...
"I'm not afraid of you, John." He said, with only the slightest tint of patronization in his voice. The aforementioned boy raised his eyebrows as if in amusement. His smile grew, an expression of some sort of oddly achieved joy in his features. John leaned over, then whispering in Paul's ear something of an ultimatum, polluting the youngers' mind -- disorienting him -- with the smoke that filled his lungs, the fog in the words that a small masochist side of Paul wanted to hear.
"Maybe you should be, Macca."
Lennon-McCartney.
"Paul?" Paul awoke in a cold sweat, faced with not so much the dank studio he was so accustomed to, but the sheets of his bed. The dark of the night. John's voice, a concerned tone lacing the single syllable which caused Paul to wake from his dream in the first place.
"John?" Paul sounded a little more than disoriented in his response. He felt John next to him, leaning over him, trying to adjust his eyes to the unforgiving blackness.
"Bad dream?" The older asked simply, sounding again more tired, bored, even, than worried upon deciding that Paul had been fine. The boy in question fidgeted, rubbing one of his wrists, nearly surprised that there were no bruises from the webs. No binding. No mark, no feeling, no evidence.
JohnAndPaul.
Paul nodded, then, glad to feel clear thoughts in his head, clean air through his lungs. John's gaze never left him, though, that was one thing he could feel in the darkness, one thing he could always feel; eyes, eyes seeking him out, eyes watching his every move.
"Yeah," He said weakly, "I'm fine, I guess."
"You sure?"
"Very sure."
"Surely sure?"
"John." Paul frowned, and John laughed. The younger, though, was eager enough either to get more sleep or to continue with his dream, the dream that wouldn't stop coming back; eager enough to fly straight back into John's web.
"Fine. Goodnight, Paul." The older boy said, and Paul sensed him turn back over, could hear his breathing slow, in a telling sign of sleep. Turning in the opposite direction, Paul decided he would try to accomplish the same.
"G'night, John." No matter how many times Paul would counter it in his mind, disregarding all of the events in which he would refuse himself the opportunity to do so, he could never fully deny that he loved the feeling of going to sleep entangled.