(no subject)
Title: Rain in Spain
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Beatles, as always
Pairing: J/P, sort of, as always
Author's Notes: Based on events that apparently happened. I didn't even get that slashy, really.
The crown was askew. Everything about John was a little askew: his small, childlike teeth; the sharp curve of his nose (the only aquiline nose Paul has ever seen); narrow, deceptively dull eyes....
"Lovely cap," he mutters, and is marginally surprised to realize he spoke aloud.
"Cap," John repeats. Mimics. "Cap?"
"Crown," Paul corrects himself.
"Crown? Crown, now?" John doesn't understand. He needs to understand.
"It's like this," Paul begins. "You-"
One word and he has already destroyed it! He cannot even begin to explain what John cannot even begin to understand. But he must understand. Start over, start over.
He tries again. "You-"
Jesus, this inarticulacy! The right words elude him, and he falls into some familiar and not-so-familiar territory (blue acid empire clown drown down trip shit bad idea where are these words coming from and why can't he tell it like it is?). He cannot say what he means unless he says it precisely as he means.
Here's to hoping his eyes will say more than his worthless featherweight words will.
:::
This is what crowns should look like: heavily molded, caked with gems of amber, green turquoise, violet. It ought to have a plump velvet center (blood red) and the whole thing should be so heavy your neck stiffens from the weight of it.
Paul thinks John wears his crown spectacularly but of course he will not tell him. First he'd have to explain John's universal monarchy, and if by some miracle chance John understood, he'd feel condescended having it explained to him. Second, what are the chances John would deign to accept praise from him, so lowly? He wouldn't. Black = white, up = down, that's what'd happen, and that would not do.
"No, it wouldn't!" Paul says decisively.
John thinks he's being spoken to; 'course he does, they've only been staring at each for a week or an hour, whichever. "No, it won't," he agrees. "Never has and it never will. Now what were you saying, child?"
Insane! He's a good king, yes, benevolent, but his kind gaze is killing him. How does John tolerate someone like him for so long? His good humor will collapse and he does not want to be around when it does.
"May I go out?" Paul asks politely. He says "may" because does a king want to hear the word "can" in that context?
:::
The garden is lonely and cold. It is not his imagination, no, can't be, when the irises start creeping closer with his every glance in their direction. The three biggest blooms are the leaders. One is silver, one is peach, one is pure white. Funny thing is he hears them talking. Of course, they're not speaking as you or I would, but they're definitely communicating. He hears their rustles (so windy tonight!) and knows that's how they do it, that's how the irises make their way. Have to talk somehow, don't they? But that's not the funny thing. The funny thing is he knows every word they're saying and they're all bad.
The garden isn't safe.
For a moment he thought the daffodils would block his path (they were laughing at him) but they only just allowed him to pass back into the house.
John would have silenced them with a glance.
:::
Back inside, all twenty-seven rooms are at John's beck and call, which is even more impressive than the known world falling at its feet before him. It’s fantastic, because every corner, every shadow, every carpet fiber moves and sways with John. Each menial, overlooked detail bows to him. They know him.
"Sit," John orders, and of course you have to obey.
And again they stare, not for the first time. And not for the first time does he notice the same peculiarities of his mate’s eyes: the delicate pink vein that runs parallel to the edge of his iris, the blue webs that take a long while to announce themselves against the mundane backdrop of grey, a redness so faint along his lashes he wonders if he’s imagining it (and he probably is isn't is).
"I have to tell you something," Paul confesses, and then he laughs almost maniacally. "But I can't. You wouldn't understand but somehow, you know it already." It will have to suffice. This and everything about tonight is horrible, really, really is, but he can’t say why or how. Or why it leaves him speechless in awe.
When he can’t go on, John regales him with terrifying stories (maybe they’re not stories! Paul thinks, which is even worse). John is not aware just how terrifying they are. The stories have seeing walls and severed hands and empty, aching red fields. In the worst parts he pauses and lets Paul decide for himself how it ends. Horrible.
:::
It's very late when Paul says he's had enough.
"You won't sleep," John says, and smiles lazily. The smile says I know something you don't know, which is a fucking lie, intentional or no.
"I know I won't," says Paul, and he has a hard time masking the downright impudence in his voice (so unbecoming of a subject, stop it, make a good impression). "But I have to, John," he explains, and it's as important as anything. More than anything, even. Everything!
Later, in bed. John was right. Too right.
Maybe it didn't happen in this order, but he sees-dreams John swimming on a star, his blanket eats him alive, Mal checks on him, and then John is just John again, no more, no less. No crown. No king.
:::
Good thing he couldn't find the words after all.
"What did you see?" asks John.
"Flowers," Paul says lamely.
What follows is the usual prodding, pleading and eventual exclusion when Paul refuses to take it again. Peer pressure, they'll later call it. A simple summation of something that is anything but. "Why'd you do it?" "Peer pressure." "Oh. Well, okay, then."
The reasons for his refusal are unclear even to Paul, and positively mind boggling to John. You don't deny a miracle because it's strange or you don't understand it. Isn't that the point of a miracle?
Nothing, says Paul.
He says a whole lot of nothing, in fact. Nothing about the spectral monarchy nor its uneasy effect on him. In private he consults a dream dictionary (thinking it could not be so very different after all). He disagrees. The only person who exercises power over Paul is Paul.
:::
It's particularly lonely being on his bad side. For several trying days John will have nothing to do with square Paul.
For his part, to fall back into good graces, Paul is only too happy to treat John like the spoiled child he plays so well. He bargains and distracts. He indulges. He humors John's apparent notion that everyone always cares about everything he ever does. He thinks he has the proverbial upper hand.
The only thing missing was the crown.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Beatles, as always
Pairing: J/P, sort of, as always
Author's Notes: Based on events that apparently happened. I didn't even get that slashy, really.
The crown was askew. Everything about John was a little askew: his small, childlike teeth; the sharp curve of his nose (the only aquiline nose Paul has ever seen); narrow, deceptively dull eyes....
"Lovely cap," he mutters, and is marginally surprised to realize he spoke aloud.
"Cap," John repeats. Mimics. "Cap?"
"Crown," Paul corrects himself.
"Crown? Crown, now?" John doesn't understand. He needs to understand.
"It's like this," Paul begins. "You-"
One word and he has already destroyed it! He cannot even begin to explain what John cannot even begin to understand. But he must understand. Start over, start over.
He tries again. "You-"
Jesus, this inarticulacy! The right words elude him, and he falls into some familiar and not-so-familiar territory (blue acid empire clown drown down trip shit bad idea where are these words coming from and why can't he tell it like it is?). He cannot say what he means unless he says it precisely as he means.
Here's to hoping his eyes will say more than his worthless featherweight words will.
:::
This is what crowns should look like: heavily molded, caked with gems of amber, green turquoise, violet. It ought to have a plump velvet center (blood red) and the whole thing should be so heavy your neck stiffens from the weight of it.
Paul thinks John wears his crown spectacularly but of course he will not tell him. First he'd have to explain John's universal monarchy, and if by some miracle chance John understood, he'd feel condescended having it explained to him. Second, what are the chances John would deign to accept praise from him, so lowly? He wouldn't. Black = white, up = down, that's what'd happen, and that would not do.
"No, it wouldn't!" Paul says decisively.
John thinks he's being spoken to; 'course he does, they've only been staring at each for a week or an hour, whichever. "No, it won't," he agrees. "Never has and it never will. Now what were you saying, child?"
Insane! He's a good king, yes, benevolent, but his kind gaze is killing him. How does John tolerate someone like him for so long? His good humor will collapse and he does not want to be around when it does.
"May I go out?" Paul asks politely. He says "may" because does a king want to hear the word "can" in that context?
:::
The garden is lonely and cold. It is not his imagination, no, can't be, when the irises start creeping closer with his every glance in their direction. The three biggest blooms are the leaders. One is silver, one is peach, one is pure white. Funny thing is he hears them talking. Of course, they're not speaking as you or I would, but they're definitely communicating. He hears their rustles (so windy tonight!) and knows that's how they do it, that's how the irises make their way. Have to talk somehow, don't they? But that's not the funny thing. The funny thing is he knows every word they're saying and they're all bad.
The garden isn't safe.
For a moment he thought the daffodils would block his path (they were laughing at him) but they only just allowed him to pass back into the house.
John would have silenced them with a glance.
:::
Back inside, all twenty-seven rooms are at John's beck and call, which is even more impressive than the known world falling at its feet before him. It’s fantastic, because every corner, every shadow, every carpet fiber moves and sways with John. Each menial, overlooked detail bows to him. They know him.
"Sit," John orders, and of course you have to obey.
And again they stare, not for the first time. And not for the first time does he notice the same peculiarities of his mate’s eyes: the delicate pink vein that runs parallel to the edge of his iris, the blue webs that take a long while to announce themselves against the mundane backdrop of grey, a redness so faint along his lashes he wonders if he’s imagining it (and he probably is isn't is).
"I have to tell you something," Paul confesses, and then he laughs almost maniacally. "But I can't. You wouldn't understand but somehow, you know it already." It will have to suffice. This and everything about tonight is horrible, really, really is, but he can’t say why or how. Or why it leaves him speechless in awe.
When he can’t go on, John regales him with terrifying stories (maybe they’re not stories! Paul thinks, which is even worse). John is not aware just how terrifying they are. The stories have seeing walls and severed hands and empty, aching red fields. In the worst parts he pauses and lets Paul decide for himself how it ends. Horrible.
:::
It's very late when Paul says he's had enough.
"You won't sleep," John says, and smiles lazily. The smile says I know something you don't know, which is a fucking lie, intentional or no.
"I know I won't," says Paul, and he has a hard time masking the downright impudence in his voice (so unbecoming of a subject, stop it, make a good impression). "But I have to, John," he explains, and it's as important as anything. More than anything, even. Everything!
Later, in bed. John was right. Too right.
Maybe it didn't happen in this order, but he sees-dreams John swimming on a star, his blanket eats him alive, Mal checks on him, and then John is just John again, no more, no less. No crown. No king.
:::
Good thing he couldn't find the words after all.
"What did you see?" asks John.
"Flowers," Paul says lamely.
What follows is the usual prodding, pleading and eventual exclusion when Paul refuses to take it again. Peer pressure, they'll later call it. A simple summation of something that is anything but. "Why'd you do it?" "Peer pressure." "Oh. Well, okay, then."
The reasons for his refusal are unclear even to Paul, and positively mind boggling to John. You don't deny a miracle because it's strange or you don't understand it. Isn't that the point of a miracle?
Nothing, says Paul.
He says a whole lot of nothing, in fact. Nothing about the spectral monarchy nor its uneasy effect on him. In private he consults a dream dictionary (thinking it could not be so very different after all). He disagrees. The only person who exercises power over Paul is Paul.
:::
It's particularly lonely being on his bad side. For several trying days John will have nothing to do with square Paul.
For his part, to fall back into good graces, Paul is only too happy to treat John like the spoiled child he plays so well. He bargains and distracts. He indulges. He humors John's apparent notion that everyone always cares about everything he ever does. He thinks he has the proverbial upper hand.
The only thing missing was the crown.