(no subject)
[Borderline.]
Title: Borderline.
Author: Kathryn aka stickyhips___.
Fandom: Maxïmo Park.
Pairing: Paul Smith/Lukas Wooller.
Disclaimer: Oh, never happened.
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 920.
Summary: It’s difficult to tell where our relationship begins and ends.
Notes: Er, I got the idea after seeing them play at Edinburgh Corn Exchange last Thursday. They’re slashier than you’d originally think. Mmm. No actual action this time, although there could be a sequel to this.
It’s always been reasonably difficult to pinpoint where my relationship with Paul begins and ends. We’ve known one another for years, and after all this time it should be a field within which we are comfortable - within ourselves, each other. Good friends, we are, albeit relatively flirtatious under the influence. It hadn’t bothered me much until recently. Somehow, I’ve been unable to shake the thought from my head that his behaviour is unconventionally friendly, to the point where I sense an ulterior motive lurking beneath all the larking about. Paul’s never been one to bottle up his feelings and pretend like they don’t exist; he wears his heart on his sleeve, and that makes me nervous.
I feel his stare onstage, and his bodily presence within touching distance, and increasingly frequently these days, actual contact. Tonight even the crowd are aware of his openness, and screaming vulnerability. It’s not something that happens often. “It’s all good for the show,” is his normal line at times like this.
His hands slide over my clavicles, clinging tightly to my shoulders. His head is propped on my back. He stays there long enough for me to hear him breathing, feel the racing of his heart, just to know he’s making it obvious. I don’t respond. He lets go, and returns to centre-stage. He spends the rest of the show with head held high.
It’s over, and I stalk offstage with thoughts of Paul’s temperament erased from memory. By the looks of my t-shirt, it was a brilliant show.
“Nice performance, Mr Wooller.”
I about-turn, remain stationary as Paul approaches with a filthy grin. He slings an arm round my neck. I reply, choosing to ignore the possible double meaning in these words, full of subtlety.
“Cheers. Can’t say you did too badly yourself.”
“S’always good to know.”
Paul takes me by the arm, pulls me toward him in order to allow the other three to slide past and into the dressing room, mid-joke. Before I can bat an eyelid, I’m cornered. Immediately I notice the position of his left hand, hovering around my waist, hips…
“You…” he begins, his voice huskier and lower in pitch than it was during open conversation. The words are broken as he commences the motion of his tender hands over my forearms. “You… so long… couldn’t do it… I’ve waited… couldn’t do this without you, y’know…”
I don’t know quite what this means, and tilt my head back slightly. My gaze is wary, I’m wary of his actions and words and I keep my eyes warily fixated on him while he looks from me, to his hands, to the dressing room door. The arm stroking comes to a halt. Paul’s looking at my wrists. His tingling fingers glide over the veins on my inner wrist, descending further still into my palms… did this ever happen before? I fail to recall any previous instances, and hell, that’s it. His fingers creak, slip into the gaps between mine, clench tightly. We’re holding hands. My mind’s stooped deeper into doubt, driven crazy with bewilderment by this action. The meaning should be crystal clear to me by now, but I’m still uncertain and blind to his intentions.
Because we’re friends. We’re best mates.
…and friends hold hands, right?
Paul catches my eye, breaking into an innocent, childlike grin. The pit of my stomach feels like it’s on fire. Quickly he breaks eye contact, and for some peculiar reason my gaze snaps downward.
His jeans.
He’s got a fucking hard-on.
The show, I tell myself. The heat, the energy, the adrenalin… yes, that’s it. It was the show. It isn’t for any other reason, no, it can be anything but…
He lets out an embarrassed laugh, and my eyes are on his sweat-drenched face again. He’s got the shakes, he’s shaking his head and his whole body is a-quiver.
“Please…” Paul croaks. My gaze remains overtly wary, astounded by my nonchalance as I hear his words become entangled again. “Just once… everything… been waiting… Lukas, just, give me a chance, eh…”
I remain reluctant to respond.
Paul looks at my lips, my eyes, then back again. Our hands are still tightly bound within one another’s grasp, and he leans in. He’s panting by this point, panting hard and fast, loudly, and I can feel the heat graze the crook of my neck. His lips inch closer to mine, his head tilting - for a moment I reckon he’s going to kiss me - he’s mere centimetres away. He’s trying his hardest to coax my lips to his; he’s testing the water by the looks of things, taking what he sees as a massive risk for fear of being scalded, or going in too deep… neither of us are blinking. Confusion has overtaken me, rendering me speechless and motionless. In my lack of reciprocation of any sort he seems not even disappointed - just purely resigned to the fact that this was one big delusion, convincing himself that he’s convinced himself of a complete illusion that there was any sign I’d give anything back.
“No then.”
Paul’s soul-destroying green eyes are teeming with tears, the look upon his face a smoulderingly bitter one. Finally he blinks. His hands are snatched violently from mine. Again, I’m devoid of all motion whilst he hobbles off.
What’ve I just done to him?
Raised hopes, dashed hopes. Not that it was in the least bit necessary, either…
He vanishes into the dressing room, and I pace myself conveniently before following him.
Title: Borderline.
Author: Kathryn aka stickyhips___.
Fandom: Maxïmo Park.
Pairing: Paul Smith/Lukas Wooller.
Disclaimer: Oh, never happened.
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 920.
Summary: It’s difficult to tell where our relationship begins and ends.
Notes: Er, I got the idea after seeing them play at Edinburgh Corn Exchange last Thursday. They’re slashier than you’d originally think. Mmm. No actual action this time, although there could be a sequel to this.
It’s always been reasonably difficult to pinpoint where my relationship with Paul begins and ends. We’ve known one another for years, and after all this time it should be a field within which we are comfortable - within ourselves, each other. Good friends, we are, albeit relatively flirtatious under the influence. It hadn’t bothered me much until recently. Somehow, I’ve been unable to shake the thought from my head that his behaviour is unconventionally friendly, to the point where I sense an ulterior motive lurking beneath all the larking about. Paul’s never been one to bottle up his feelings and pretend like they don’t exist; he wears his heart on his sleeve, and that makes me nervous.
I feel his stare onstage, and his bodily presence within touching distance, and increasingly frequently these days, actual contact. Tonight even the crowd are aware of his openness, and screaming vulnerability. It’s not something that happens often. “It’s all good for the show,” is his normal line at times like this.
His hands slide over my clavicles, clinging tightly to my shoulders. His head is propped on my back. He stays there long enough for me to hear him breathing, feel the racing of his heart, just to know he’s making it obvious. I don’t respond. He lets go, and returns to centre-stage. He spends the rest of the show with head held high.
It’s over, and I stalk offstage with thoughts of Paul’s temperament erased from memory. By the looks of my t-shirt, it was a brilliant show.
“Nice performance, Mr Wooller.”
I about-turn, remain stationary as Paul approaches with a filthy grin. He slings an arm round my neck. I reply, choosing to ignore the possible double meaning in these words, full of subtlety.
“Cheers. Can’t say you did too badly yourself.”
“S’always good to know.”
Paul takes me by the arm, pulls me toward him in order to allow the other three to slide past and into the dressing room, mid-joke. Before I can bat an eyelid, I’m cornered. Immediately I notice the position of his left hand, hovering around my waist, hips…
“You…” he begins, his voice huskier and lower in pitch than it was during open conversation. The words are broken as he commences the motion of his tender hands over my forearms. “You… so long… couldn’t do it… I’ve waited… couldn’t do this without you, y’know…”
I don’t know quite what this means, and tilt my head back slightly. My gaze is wary, I’m wary of his actions and words and I keep my eyes warily fixated on him while he looks from me, to his hands, to the dressing room door. The arm stroking comes to a halt. Paul’s looking at my wrists. His tingling fingers glide over the veins on my inner wrist, descending further still into my palms… did this ever happen before? I fail to recall any previous instances, and hell, that’s it. His fingers creak, slip into the gaps between mine, clench tightly. We’re holding hands. My mind’s stooped deeper into doubt, driven crazy with bewilderment by this action. The meaning should be crystal clear to me by now, but I’m still uncertain and blind to his intentions.
Because we’re friends. We’re best mates.
…and friends hold hands, right?
Paul catches my eye, breaking into an innocent, childlike grin. The pit of my stomach feels like it’s on fire. Quickly he breaks eye contact, and for some peculiar reason my gaze snaps downward.
His jeans.
He’s got a fucking hard-on.
The show, I tell myself. The heat, the energy, the adrenalin… yes, that’s it. It was the show. It isn’t for any other reason, no, it can be anything but…
He lets out an embarrassed laugh, and my eyes are on his sweat-drenched face again. He’s got the shakes, he’s shaking his head and his whole body is a-quiver.
“Please…” Paul croaks. My gaze remains overtly wary, astounded by my nonchalance as I hear his words become entangled again. “Just once… everything… been waiting… Lukas, just, give me a chance, eh…”
I remain reluctant to respond.
Paul looks at my lips, my eyes, then back again. Our hands are still tightly bound within one another’s grasp, and he leans in. He’s panting by this point, panting hard and fast, loudly, and I can feel the heat graze the crook of my neck. His lips inch closer to mine, his head tilting - for a moment I reckon he’s going to kiss me - he’s mere centimetres away. He’s trying his hardest to coax my lips to his; he’s testing the water by the looks of things, taking what he sees as a massive risk for fear of being scalded, or going in too deep… neither of us are blinking. Confusion has overtaken me, rendering me speechless and motionless. In my lack of reciprocation of any sort he seems not even disappointed - just purely resigned to the fact that this was one big delusion, convincing himself that he’s convinced himself of a complete illusion that there was any sign I’d give anything back.
“No then.”
Paul’s soul-destroying green eyes are teeming with tears, the look upon his face a smoulderingly bitter one. Finally he blinks. His hands are snatched violently from mine. Again, I’m devoid of all motion whilst he hobbles off.
What’ve I just done to him?
Raised hopes, dashed hopes. Not that it was in the least bit necessary, either…
He vanishes into the dressing room, and I pace myself conveniently before following him.