ficlet: Some Kind of Happiness
Dec. 28th, 2012 11:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrixDo not be misled by the title, the entire concept behind this ficlet is not really happy times. Is it, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tini_91? ;)
Some Kind of Happiness, ~1k, John/Paul, PG if anything. Fortini_91, who wanted heavenly reunions. :)? SORRY FOR THE UNFORGIVABLY SACCHARINE NATURE OF THIS FICLET, but they are at least not actually on a cloud playing harps, so there's that. Also, I think every possible other personage crept into this fic with the exception of Ringo, who is known to be immortal.
It must have been close to three o'clock in the morning when Paul woke up. Usually, especially of late, he'd had a disinclination to get out of bed in the middle of the night if he could possibly help it; his back ached with all the fidgeting around and the floorboards were always cold underfoot. But on this particular morning, for some reason, it didn't occur to him to wait. He wanted -- he needed to get up, and so up he got.
He padded out of his bedroom and down the upper hallway of the house. It took him until the top of the stairs to notice that the floor didn't feel cold at all -- in fact, the floor didn't really feel like much of anything, and neither did his achey old back. It took him until almost the bottom of the stairwell to realise he was stepping off into the front hall at 20 Forthlin Road, when he could have sworn he'd woken up in Cavendish Avenue, in bed with his lovely wife.
Or perhaps he was mistaken? A sudden sense of vagueness overtook him, which, even these days, was uncharacteristic. What had he got out of bed for, anyway? He took another step, and another. With each step, it seemed to matter less, the knowing. Understanding. His bare feet looked pale and bony against the floor, the flannel of his striped pyjamas tickling his ankle bone where he'd grown an inch or two too tall for them.
Christ, when had he last worn these pyjamas? His mum had bought them, he remembered now, for Christmas one year, the last year. And yet the kitchen, when Paul peeped in -- the little kitchen at Forthlin Road, with its tiny stove and shelves full of pots and pans -- had a lived-in neatness to it that hadn't been there when there were only a load of blokes messing about in there, muddling through as best they could. Had there been a last Christmas? Last before what?
Paul couldn't recall. In the dim light that filtered through the window, Paul made out the shape of a covered dish on the table, the sort mum kept leftovers in after a big meal. Yes, George had stayed for tea, Paul remembered now. George had stayed for tea and Linda had made macaroons, and complained good-naturedly about the ink stains on George's shirtcuffs.
Paul stopped, hesitant, hand outstretched towards the table. Could that be right? It seemed off, somehow; something was a muddle. He scrunched up his face, trying to remember. Where had he been going? Why was he out of bed so late? Dad was strict about curfew; Paul was going to catch what for. Perhaps he'd left his homework in the pantry again.
"Oh, stuff your homework," came a familiar voice out of the darkness, a little scoffing, a little fond. "And stop thinking so much; you'll strain something, Macca."
John stepped forward, the light glinting off the lenses of his glasses, and for a second they shone like coins, little round moon-spectacles, before John turned and they resolved themselves into his heavy, Buddy Holly frames. Paul didn't know what the hell John was doing in their kitchen (in all his clothes at this time of night, and yet without his hair quiffed up), but it somehow seemed perfectly natural and expected that he should be there. Paul laughed slightly, reached a hand out for him. He didn't know why he was doing that, either, but it, too, seemed natural.
"Trust you," he said, "to wear your damn glasses at night, when even us seeing folk can't see."
"Famous first words," John said, mouth quirking up at the corners. He had a good smile, John; Paul'd always liked it. It dazzled and beguiled and made the angular face into something beautiful. Paul wanted to touch it.
"Go on then, you daft clot," John told him, as if he'd heard, and Paul didn't bother to query why as he stepped up close, cupped John's jaw between both his hands. He was still too busy thinking about John's prior comment.
"First words?" He leaned up, just slightly, to kiss John's mouth. Why was he leaning up? John was an inch or so taller than him. It seemed off, Paul thought; something was wrong.
"Oh, curse your eye for detail," John muttered under his breath, shrinking. That was better. Paul kissed him again while he waited and John let him, pushed Paul's hair back from his face. He tasted of toothpaste and stolen tobacco and kisses snatched behind the Inny where they'd gone so many times, long ago, not yet. In Paul's head. In John's.
"What's wrong with my first words?" Paul pressed, pulling back, and John laughed and shrugged his shoulders, broad and bony where his teenage frame had yet to quite fill them out.
"Nothing, lover. Could've been worse. George asked me if I'd seen his tin opener."
"Obviously he'd reached enlightenment," Paul joked, then wondered why he had. Then forgot again. Then -- "John?"
"What, pet?" John's mouth was at his temple, on his cheek, soft little kisses. John never kissed him in the kitchen like this, did he? With his mum upstairs...Paul tried to picture them together, failed, wondered why. Remembered.
"John," he said, more urgently. A shaft of understanding opened up in his mind like a skylight, and a new slew of images muddled in. His mum, cycling home on her bicycle in the snow. Linda, up to her elbows in flour; Linda much older with her yellow hair cropped. John, fatter, thinner, with long hair, with truly unforgivable mutton chip sideboards, with a fringe swept across his forehead like a fall of autumn leaves. "Is this...?"
"Ssssh, hey," John said. He kissed Paul again, and this time there was something a little urgent in it, as if he thought Paul might remember something else in a minute and stop him. As if Paul could. John's hands gripped him at the waist, and Paul remembered those hands on his bare skin, everywhere.
"Don't try too hard to make sense of it," John said. "It's like Wonderland down here, man. Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow, looking glass people and rocking horse pies, but if you just let it flow, it's good, babe, little bits of everything, anything you want. It's..."
"Home," Paul said, in a sudden flush of understanding, and kissed John on the mouth. "One way or another."
tini_91? ;) Some Kind of Happiness, ~1k, John/Paul, PG if anything. For
tini_91, who wanted heavenly reunions. :)? SORRY FOR THE UNFORGIVABLY SACCHARINE NATURE OF THIS FICLET, but they are at least not actually on a cloud playing harps, so there's that. Also, I think every possible other personage crept into this fic with the exception of Ringo, who is known to be immortal. It must have been close to three o'clock in the morning when Paul woke up. Usually, especially of late, he'd had a disinclination to get out of bed in the middle of the night if he could possibly help it; his back ached with all the fidgeting around and the floorboards were always cold underfoot. But on this particular morning, for some reason, it didn't occur to him to wait. He wanted -- he needed to get up, and so up he got.
He padded out of his bedroom and down the upper hallway of the house. It took him until the top of the stairs to notice that the floor didn't feel cold at all -- in fact, the floor didn't really feel like much of anything, and neither did his achey old back. It took him until almost the bottom of the stairwell to realise he was stepping off into the front hall at 20 Forthlin Road, when he could have sworn he'd woken up in Cavendish Avenue, in bed with his lovely wife.
Or perhaps he was mistaken? A sudden sense of vagueness overtook him, which, even these days, was uncharacteristic. What had he got out of bed for, anyway? He took another step, and another. With each step, it seemed to matter less, the knowing. Understanding. His bare feet looked pale and bony against the floor, the flannel of his striped pyjamas tickling his ankle bone where he'd grown an inch or two too tall for them.
Christ, when had he last worn these pyjamas? His mum had bought them, he remembered now, for Christmas one year, the last year. And yet the kitchen, when Paul peeped in -- the little kitchen at Forthlin Road, with its tiny stove and shelves full of pots and pans -- had a lived-in neatness to it that hadn't been there when there were only a load of blokes messing about in there, muddling through as best they could. Had there been a last Christmas? Last before what?
Paul couldn't recall. In the dim light that filtered through the window, Paul made out the shape of a covered dish on the table, the sort mum kept leftovers in after a big meal. Yes, George had stayed for tea, Paul remembered now. George had stayed for tea and Linda had made macaroons, and complained good-naturedly about the ink stains on George's shirtcuffs.
Paul stopped, hesitant, hand outstretched towards the table. Could that be right? It seemed off, somehow; something was a muddle. He scrunched up his face, trying to remember. Where had he been going? Why was he out of bed so late? Dad was strict about curfew; Paul was going to catch what for. Perhaps he'd left his homework in the pantry again.
"Oh, stuff your homework," came a familiar voice out of the darkness, a little scoffing, a little fond. "And stop thinking so much; you'll strain something, Macca."
John stepped forward, the light glinting off the lenses of his glasses, and for a second they shone like coins, little round moon-spectacles, before John turned and they resolved themselves into his heavy, Buddy Holly frames. Paul didn't know what the hell John was doing in their kitchen (in all his clothes at this time of night, and yet without his hair quiffed up), but it somehow seemed perfectly natural and expected that he should be there. Paul laughed slightly, reached a hand out for him. He didn't know why he was doing that, either, but it, too, seemed natural.
"Trust you," he said, "to wear your damn glasses at night, when even us seeing folk can't see."
"Famous first words," John said, mouth quirking up at the corners. He had a good smile, John; Paul'd always liked it. It dazzled and beguiled and made the angular face into something beautiful. Paul wanted to touch it.
"Go on then, you daft clot," John told him, as if he'd heard, and Paul didn't bother to query why as he stepped up close, cupped John's jaw between both his hands. He was still too busy thinking about John's prior comment.
"First words?" He leaned up, just slightly, to kiss John's mouth. Why was he leaning up? John was an inch or so taller than him. It seemed off, Paul thought; something was wrong.
"Oh, curse your eye for detail," John muttered under his breath, shrinking. That was better. Paul kissed him again while he waited and John let him, pushed Paul's hair back from his face. He tasted of toothpaste and stolen tobacco and kisses snatched behind the Inny where they'd gone so many times, long ago, not yet. In Paul's head. In John's.
"What's wrong with my first words?" Paul pressed, pulling back, and John laughed and shrugged his shoulders, broad and bony where his teenage frame had yet to quite fill them out.
"Nothing, lover. Could've been worse. George asked me if I'd seen his tin opener."
"Obviously he'd reached enlightenment," Paul joked, then wondered why he had. Then forgot again. Then -- "John?"
"What, pet?" John's mouth was at his temple, on his cheek, soft little kisses. John never kissed him in the kitchen like this, did he? With his mum upstairs...Paul tried to picture them together, failed, wondered why. Remembered.
"John," he said, more urgently. A shaft of understanding opened up in his mind like a skylight, and a new slew of images muddled in. His mum, cycling home on her bicycle in the snow. Linda, up to her elbows in flour; Linda much older with her yellow hair cropped. John, fatter, thinner, with long hair, with truly unforgivable mutton chip sideboards, with a fringe swept across his forehead like a fall of autumn leaves. "Is this...?"
"Ssssh, hey," John said. He kissed Paul again, and this time there was something a little urgent in it, as if he thought Paul might remember something else in a minute and stop him. As if Paul could. John's hands gripped him at the waist, and Paul remembered those hands on his bare skin, everywhere.
"Don't try too hard to make sense of it," John said. "It's like Wonderland down here, man. Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow, looking glass people and rocking horse pies, but if you just let it flow, it's good, babe, little bits of everything, anything you want. It's..."
"Home," Paul said, in a sudden flush of understanding, and kissed John on the mouth. "One way or another."
