Mine - Prologue | Chapter 1
Title: Mine
Author(s): kimtristh
Betas:
raven_mosely and gereiheimer
Pairing: John/Paul (more eventually :P)
Rating: PG for now
Timeframe: 1957 | 1958
Word count: 2,286 for both parts
Author Notes: Inspired from a prompt for the Ficathon*. I was stuck with this for over a month as you can see... I felt somewhat trapped with the POV and structure but then got some inspiration and I hope this won't be too confusing. I have rewritten the Prologue (not too many changes) as to make it work better. This fic will from now on be told in different POVs but it will hopefully stay clear enough. Here are the rewritten prologue and chapter one as to show how it'll go from here. God help me X_x
All comments greatly appreciated :) and huge thanks to my wonderful betas for all their help :D
* Prompt: John Lennon / Paul McCartney. ownership? Sub/dom?
Warning: this fic is meant to deal with Dominance and Submission, so it might get somewhat unsettling at times, while I am interested in keeping things historically accurate and within character there are changes/exaggerations that will be necessary for the story to work. Within the story they'll make sense in the end ;)
Prologue
I've been coming to the Fête every year for as long as I can remember, and it's getting less and less exciting the older I get.
This year is predictably the dullest and I can't even find a familiar face in the crowd or a cute bird to flirt with. I'm about to leave when Ivan from school, comes out of nowhere and invites me to see some "local legends" from "this band I've been playing with" who "will perform later today as well".
Lacking anything better to do, I head back home, grab my guitar and figure that whatever comes out of this is better than nothing coming down at all. I never expect it to be as big as it turns out to be, though.
From the moment I set eyes on the stage, I am fascinated.
He is just so beautiful... a young and self-assured rebel, almost posh and almost violent, all roughness and grease and half-spoken truths behind made-up words, and the sheer knowledge of being better than the rest while not even actually knowing what the fuck he is doing. From the minute I set eyes on him I am hooked. I've never met someone who could craft themselves to make an impression with such efficiency.
"The one singing is John, and the one in..." - poor Ivan, thinking I care about the rest.
I stop myself from shivering when he glances in my direction, wondering if he actually knows what I'm thinking, but I know he thinks he can fool me like he fools everyone else, and I set myself out to impress him back because I won't let him think of me as just some dummy in the audience.
"This is Paul, he likes rock 'n roll too."
Knowing the words and the cords and the moves, two songs would be and are enough to make a statement "I'm good enough for you"... and I can see he thinks so too.
As I tune their guitars and whisper to him he was playing that guitar "like an ukulele or sommat". A glint in his eyes tells me he agrees with my second veiled statement of the night "Even better than you, so much better that you won't even mind"... but I figure he won't let me win just yet.
"Would you like to join the band?" he says in a puff next to my neck, smelling of beer and sweat, and what surprises me the most is how hard-to-get is just one more thing I play better than he does.
Silence sets in. There is nothing else to say after that, not yet anyway. So we all go home. He walks back home with some Pete guy, and I notice they are still silent. Ivan and I don't talk either... I wonder if John knows what he's just gotten us into.
"G'night" I mumble to my dad and I rush to my room.
The moment I lie down in bed and close my eyes, everything comes back to me: more nerve-wrecking and mentally demanding than any other seduction in my short life; but much more thrilling too.
I'm just not used to get exactly what I want and need with such ease, even if I like pretending the contrary. I shiver as I wonder if he is thinking the same, and I wonder if he already knows my answer. I ponder all of this for what seems like hours... I look for a name for what I feel, all I know is that it's overwhelming and that it has a sense of finality, even though I know this is just the beginning, that it is so foreign and yet it seems so natural...
I choose to name it "admiration with a touch of envy" even as I stick my hand down my pants for the third time tonight being fully aware it's not a cute girl what I'm thinking of.
After being convinced for a while that I'll just never be able to sleep again, my last coherent thought for the night is that I can't wait 'til morning. There'll be a rehearsal, y'see?
Chapter 1
I'm walking fast down the street, it's dark, it's raining. I concentrate on simple facts so I won't get thinking about anything important. Today we had rehearsal; we'll rehearse tomorrow at 6. Pete won't be there tomorrow because his aunt is visiting from Camden. We are on summer holidays. The Queen's name is Elizabeth. Paul is left-handed. Paul, Paul, Paul...
I knew I was heading here from the minute I started walking, where else could I go anyway? Lights are off already. I can knock on his window, or just climb right in, I've done it before; but this is not what I want, not today; today I want him to open the door, I want him to make things right. So I bang on the front door, and it is him opening up after a minute or so. He looks at me and his expression lets me know that I look just the way I feel.
Without a word he takes me to his room, closes the door behind us and hands me a towel before sitting on the bed and waiting for me to talk first.
My voice falters and stumbles and breaks twice before I am able to choke out "I... I just figured you'd know what to do in this situation"
He frowns, obviously not quite understanding what I mean. I try to speak again with moderate success "J-Jul... umm, Julia..." and I suddenly feel his arms around my neck and I let out a shaky sigh that must have been stuck in my throat for hours by now.
"Shh... it's ok" he soothes me and pats my hair and back, like you would with a small child, and I finally hug him. As I see over his shoulder how the cold water soaks his back through the pyjama shirt I realize I'm dripping all over him, wet trails on his carpet and even a puddle forming underneath us, but he won't let go... "because he's a good friend" says my brain, using my mother's voice for some reason. And that's when I start crying.
He hugs me tighter and hums something I can't quite place as he runs his fingers through my hair massaging my scalp, steady and relentlessly; it helps me because it tells me he cares, and that at least for now, he's not leaving me. Smart little kid he is.
For some reason I nuzzle his cheek, and I'm surprised to feel he's still warm after holding my dripping, weeping form for God knows how long. We lock eyes with each other and then I simply say in a voice I can barely recognize as my own "I'm cold".
He just nods and says "okay, I can fix that" (not let's, not we, simply "I").
He waits for me to break the hug, and leads me to the bathroom holding my wrist. He opens the water taps to fill up the tub and makes me sit down, he kneels to be level with me and tells me slowly "wait for me here, will be just a minute, okay?". I croak an OK and he walks out.
I hear him rummaging in his wardrobe and I hear him knocking on his father's bedroom door and whispering something. Feels like an eternity but the bathtub isn't even half full when he returns. I immediately throw my arms around his waist and for some reason I breathe him in deeply.
He rubs my back and scalp the same way he did in his bedroom and I instantly feel slightly better. He whispers "It's okay Johnny, you're not alone anymore" and it breaks my heart that he says the right stuff; and that I believe him; it's terrifying how he anticipates my needs, even under this circumstances.
He taps my shoulder and I somehow know it is a sign for me to let go of him. He closes the water taps and then squats in front of me. He unzips my jacket and unbuttons my shirt and unbuckles my belt, leaving to me the actual removal of clothing, and I take each cue without him having to say a word. He takes off my boots and my socks and hangs everything to dry neatly as I am just sitting there in my underwear.
He taps my thigh and I stand up, he pulls down my pants and just lets it pool at my feet as he gives me a hand so I get into the bathtub. I lie into the warm water and he sits by while I rub my arms and legs back to life.
He wordlessly grabs a sponge and starts doing my back. He scrubs kindly and keeps humming softly... and I like it.
Suddenly it hits me how strange all this is and how it shouldn't feel as good or as natural as it does. He's treating me like a baby or a princess or some such and that's just not right. So I grasp his wrist hard as he's wetting the sponge, and I squeeze hard, hoping to hurt him for some reason.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"I'm taking care of you"
"Why?"
"Because you need me to"
I lose the last shred of strength I had at that and I seem to melt into the water, and just let him do. My hand gone limp but still around his wrist, and not stopping him in the least until he wriggles free to pull the tub plug.
Somehow we're back in his room in dry, warm, clean pyjamas. I sit on his bed and expect him to get the usual sleeping mat and blankets out but he simply says "Tonight you sleep on the bed". He doesn't say "with me" and it's not a question.
I'm between the wall and him, as he faces me and runs his hand through my hair. It works, it's distracting, it's familiar; it's awkward and it's simple. I alternate between thinking that he's treating me like a bird and thinking that he's behaving like a girlfriend would or something. I don't think about how my mum is gone forever though, I don't think about murdering that drunken cunt. I don't think about loneliness and despair. I don't think about how everyone I have ever loved leaves.
I don't think about anything else but him and now and how his eyes seem to look right through me, right through everything. I realize I trust him, and that's a first. He smiles softly at me and I wonder if he can indeed read my mind. I realize I can't read his when he whispers softly "Do you want a lullaby?"
I snort and it sounds like a mild chuckle before replying, "Sure". He starts singing and I realize it's what he was humming earlier, that silly song of his we recorded.
"In spite of all the danger,
In spite of all that may be
I'll do anything for you,
Anything you want me to"
I close my eyes and smile, thinking that if anybody were to find out about today, we'd be the butt of jokes for centuries. It would be expected of me to drink myself into a stupor and create havoc in a bout of anger. Go out and start a fight and fuck a stranger... but I'm lying in bed with my best mate and he's fucking singing a love song to help me sleep. It is ridiculous and sappy and borderline queer... but it helps. And I wonder if it would still help if it was anyone else. For starters they wouldn't be singing that song.
"I'll look after you
Like I've never done before
I'll keep all the demons
From knocking at your door"
Before I do something pathetic such as giggling I decide I should say something "Yep, put me right to sleep that will."
"Shurrup, at least it's an original."
"I prefer the B-Side."
"You would."
I smile and he ruffles my hair messily before whispering "G'night" and turning around to lie on his other side.
We stay in silence, and after a while I say without thinking "Macca, do you want a lullaby?" and I feel he catches my drift way better than I do. That`ll be the day... I wonder if all our songs will speak for us in the future like they do now.
I can picture him biting his lip just before he says "I promise you I'm never gonna leave your side, Johnny"
I laugh, yeah, I was heading there, oh boy... embarrassing. "You're a sappy git, you know that Macca?"
"Just for you, luv"
I realize I'm glad to have him, and that's a first, too. I realize this is probably a one-time occurrence as well, so I decide to go with it, and I slip my arm casually around his waist but keep my distance. He doesn't mind, his breathing doesn't so much as hitch. It's comfortable. "Macca?"
"Hmm?"
"If they ask, I'll say I spent the night at Barbara's."
"Fine by me."
Another stretch of silence during which I realize he left the lights on, because he knows. Another shaky sigh that must've been stuck for quite a while comes out. "Macca?"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks."
He wordlessly puts his hand on top of the one I still have across his waist and squeezes it for a second before letting it go. And it's enough, I'm able to sleep. And I come back the night after. And we never use the sleeping mat again.
Thanks for reading! :)
x
Author(s): kimtristh
Betas:
raven_mosely and gereiheimer
Pairing: John/Paul (more eventually :P)
Rating: PG for now
Timeframe: 1957 | 1958
Word count: 2,286 for both parts
Author Notes: Inspired from a prompt for the Ficathon*. I was stuck with this for over a month as you can see... I felt somewhat trapped with the POV and structure but then got some inspiration and I hope this won't be too confusing. I have rewritten the Prologue (not too many changes) as to make it work better. This fic will from now on be told in different POVs but it will hopefully stay clear enough. Here are the rewritten prologue and chapter one as to show how it'll go from here. God help me X_x
All comments greatly appreciated :) and huge thanks to my wonderful betas for all their help :D
* Prompt: John Lennon / Paul McCartney. ownership? Sub/dom?
Warning: this fic is meant to deal with Dominance and Submission, so it might get somewhat unsettling at times, while I am interested in keeping things historically accurate and within character there are changes/exaggerations that will be necessary for the story to work. Within the story they'll make sense in the end ;)
Prologue
I've been coming to the Fête every year for as long as I can remember, and it's getting less and less exciting the older I get.
This year is predictably the dullest and I can't even find a familiar face in the crowd or a cute bird to flirt with. I'm about to leave when Ivan from school, comes out of nowhere and invites me to see some "local legends" from "this band I've been playing with" who "will perform later today as well".
Lacking anything better to do, I head back home, grab my guitar and figure that whatever comes out of this is better than nothing coming down at all. I never expect it to be as big as it turns out to be, though.
From the moment I set eyes on the stage, I am fascinated.
He is just so beautiful... a young and self-assured rebel, almost posh and almost violent, all roughness and grease and half-spoken truths behind made-up words, and the sheer knowledge of being better than the rest while not even actually knowing what the fuck he is doing. From the minute I set eyes on him I am hooked. I've never met someone who could craft themselves to make an impression with such efficiency.
"The one singing is John, and the one in..." - poor Ivan, thinking I care about the rest.
I stop myself from shivering when he glances in my direction, wondering if he actually knows what I'm thinking, but I know he thinks he can fool me like he fools everyone else, and I set myself out to impress him back because I won't let him think of me as just some dummy in the audience.
"This is Paul, he likes rock 'n roll too."
Knowing the words and the cords and the moves, two songs would be and are enough to make a statement "I'm good enough for you"... and I can see he thinks so too.
As I tune their guitars and whisper to him he was playing that guitar "like an ukulele or sommat". A glint in his eyes tells me he agrees with my second veiled statement of the night "Even better than you, so much better that you won't even mind"... but I figure he won't let me win just yet.
"Would you like to join the band?" he says in a puff next to my neck, smelling of beer and sweat, and what surprises me the most is how hard-to-get is just one more thing I play better than he does.
Silence sets in. There is nothing else to say after that, not yet anyway. So we all go home. He walks back home with some Pete guy, and I notice they are still silent. Ivan and I don't talk either... I wonder if John knows what he's just gotten us into.
"G'night" I mumble to my dad and I rush to my room.
The moment I lie down in bed and close my eyes, everything comes back to me: more nerve-wrecking and mentally demanding than any other seduction in my short life; but much more thrilling too.
I'm just not used to get exactly what I want and need with such ease, even if I like pretending the contrary. I shiver as I wonder if he is thinking the same, and I wonder if he already knows my answer. I ponder all of this for what seems like hours... I look for a name for what I feel, all I know is that it's overwhelming and that it has a sense of finality, even though I know this is just the beginning, that it is so foreign and yet it seems so natural...
I choose to name it "admiration with a touch of envy" even as I stick my hand down my pants for the third time tonight being fully aware it's not a cute girl what I'm thinking of.
After being convinced for a while that I'll just never be able to sleep again, my last coherent thought for the night is that I can't wait 'til morning. There'll be a rehearsal, y'see?
Chapter 1
I'm walking fast down the street, it's dark, it's raining. I concentrate on simple facts so I won't get thinking about anything important. Today we had rehearsal; we'll rehearse tomorrow at 6. Pete won't be there tomorrow because his aunt is visiting from Camden. We are on summer holidays. The Queen's name is Elizabeth. Paul is left-handed. Paul, Paul, Paul...
I knew I was heading here from the minute I started walking, where else could I go anyway? Lights are off already. I can knock on his window, or just climb right in, I've done it before; but this is not what I want, not today; today I want him to open the door, I want him to make things right. So I bang on the front door, and it is him opening up after a minute or so. He looks at me and his expression lets me know that I look just the way I feel.
Without a word he takes me to his room, closes the door behind us and hands me a towel before sitting on the bed and waiting for me to talk first.
My voice falters and stumbles and breaks twice before I am able to choke out "I... I just figured you'd know what to do in this situation"
He frowns, obviously not quite understanding what I mean. I try to speak again with moderate success "J-Jul... umm, Julia..." and I suddenly feel his arms around my neck and I let out a shaky sigh that must have been stuck in my throat for hours by now.
"Shh... it's ok" he soothes me and pats my hair and back, like you would with a small child, and I finally hug him. As I see over his shoulder how the cold water soaks his back through the pyjama shirt I realize I'm dripping all over him, wet trails on his carpet and even a puddle forming underneath us, but he won't let go... "because he's a good friend" says my brain, using my mother's voice for some reason. And that's when I start crying.
He hugs me tighter and hums something I can't quite place as he runs his fingers through my hair massaging my scalp, steady and relentlessly; it helps me because it tells me he cares, and that at least for now, he's not leaving me. Smart little kid he is.
For some reason I nuzzle his cheek, and I'm surprised to feel he's still warm after holding my dripping, weeping form for God knows how long. We lock eyes with each other and then I simply say in a voice I can barely recognize as my own "I'm cold".
He just nods and says "okay, I can fix that" (not let's, not we, simply "I").
He waits for me to break the hug, and leads me to the bathroom holding my wrist. He opens the water taps to fill up the tub and makes me sit down, he kneels to be level with me and tells me slowly "wait for me here, will be just a minute, okay?". I croak an OK and he walks out.
I hear him rummaging in his wardrobe and I hear him knocking on his father's bedroom door and whispering something. Feels like an eternity but the bathtub isn't even half full when he returns. I immediately throw my arms around his waist and for some reason I breathe him in deeply.
He rubs my back and scalp the same way he did in his bedroom and I instantly feel slightly better. He whispers "It's okay Johnny, you're not alone anymore" and it breaks my heart that he says the right stuff; and that I believe him; it's terrifying how he anticipates my needs, even under this circumstances.
He taps my shoulder and I somehow know it is a sign for me to let go of him. He closes the water taps and then squats in front of me. He unzips my jacket and unbuttons my shirt and unbuckles my belt, leaving to me the actual removal of clothing, and I take each cue without him having to say a word. He takes off my boots and my socks and hangs everything to dry neatly as I am just sitting there in my underwear.
He taps my thigh and I stand up, he pulls down my pants and just lets it pool at my feet as he gives me a hand so I get into the bathtub. I lie into the warm water and he sits by while I rub my arms and legs back to life.
He wordlessly grabs a sponge and starts doing my back. He scrubs kindly and keeps humming softly... and I like it.
Suddenly it hits me how strange all this is and how it shouldn't feel as good or as natural as it does. He's treating me like a baby or a princess or some such and that's just not right. So I grasp his wrist hard as he's wetting the sponge, and I squeeze hard, hoping to hurt him for some reason.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"I'm taking care of you"
"Why?"
"Because you need me to"
I lose the last shred of strength I had at that and I seem to melt into the water, and just let him do. My hand gone limp but still around his wrist, and not stopping him in the least until he wriggles free to pull the tub plug.
Somehow we're back in his room in dry, warm, clean pyjamas. I sit on his bed and expect him to get the usual sleeping mat and blankets out but he simply says "Tonight you sleep on the bed". He doesn't say "with me" and it's not a question.
I'm between the wall and him, as he faces me and runs his hand through my hair. It works, it's distracting, it's familiar; it's awkward and it's simple. I alternate between thinking that he's treating me like a bird and thinking that he's behaving like a girlfriend would or something. I don't think about how my mum is gone forever though, I don't think about murdering that drunken cunt. I don't think about loneliness and despair. I don't think about how everyone I have ever loved leaves.
I don't think about anything else but him and now and how his eyes seem to look right through me, right through everything. I realize I trust him, and that's a first. He smiles softly at me and I wonder if he can indeed read my mind. I realize I can't read his when he whispers softly "Do you want a lullaby?"
I snort and it sounds like a mild chuckle before replying, "Sure". He starts singing and I realize it's what he was humming earlier, that silly song of his we recorded.
"In spite of all the danger,
In spite of all that may be
I'll do anything for you,
Anything you want me to"
I close my eyes and smile, thinking that if anybody were to find out about today, we'd be the butt of jokes for centuries. It would be expected of me to drink myself into a stupor and create havoc in a bout of anger. Go out and start a fight and fuck a stranger... but I'm lying in bed with my best mate and he's fucking singing a love song to help me sleep. It is ridiculous and sappy and borderline queer... but it helps. And I wonder if it would still help if it was anyone else. For starters they wouldn't be singing that song.
"I'll look after you
Like I've never done before
I'll keep all the demons
From knocking at your door"
Before I do something pathetic such as giggling I decide I should say something "Yep, put me right to sleep that will."
"Shurrup, at least it's an original."
"I prefer the B-Side."
"You would."
I smile and he ruffles my hair messily before whispering "G'night" and turning around to lie on his other side.
We stay in silence, and after a while I say without thinking "Macca, do you want a lullaby?" and I feel he catches my drift way better than I do. That`ll be the day... I wonder if all our songs will speak for us in the future like they do now.
I can picture him biting his lip just before he says "I promise you I'm never gonna leave your side, Johnny"
I laugh, yeah, I was heading there, oh boy... embarrassing. "You're a sappy git, you know that Macca?"
"Just for you, luv"
I realize I'm glad to have him, and that's a first, too. I realize this is probably a one-time occurrence as well, so I decide to go with it, and I slip my arm casually around his waist but keep my distance. He doesn't mind, his breathing doesn't so much as hitch. It's comfortable. "Macca?"
"Hmm?"
"If they ask, I'll say I spent the night at Barbara's."
"Fine by me."
Another stretch of silence during which I realize he left the lights on, because he knows. Another shaky sigh that must've been stuck for quite a while comes out. "Macca?"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks."
He wordlessly puts his hand on top of the one I still have across his waist and squeezes it for a second before letting it go. And it's enough, I'm able to sleep. And I come back the night after. And we never use the sleeping mat again.
Thanks for reading! :)
x