Synopsis: (A Beatles one-shot John/Paul slash implied.) Paul's meandering thoughts on his insecurities about their relationship.
Misery
By
Eleanor Rigby
"I'll remember all the little things we've done
Can't she see she'll always be the only one, only one.
Send her back to me,
'Cause everyone can see
Without her I will be in misery…"
-"Misery"Lennon/McCartney
After the door shuts and the footsteps die, it's just me, alone with my thoughts. I hate him a little then, for leaving me that way, exposed and helpless, trapped inside my head. Questions swirl through my numbed mind like leaves in a whirlwind; questions I'm too afraid to ask that I don't really want the answers to anyway. I roll over onto my stomach and lean over the edge of the bed scavenging around the floor for my boxers in the darkness. I don't know why but it makes me feel a little better, slipping them back on, less exposed, and not just literally. Then I press my face into the sheets, the sheets that smell of him, of John, and I drift off to sleep, too tired to think anymore.
I awake again to the smell of cigarettes and lift my face out of the mattress; the only light in the room is the dimly glowing ember at the end of his cigarette and its reflection in his catlike eyes. He's freshly showered smelling of soap and aftershave and it makes me feel dirty. He doesn't mean it to of course but it does, and when he reaches over to stroke my hair I pull away instinctively. He exhales his smoke in an agitated sigh and pulls his hand back, drumming his knee, "what's the matter Paulie?"
Now he's mad at me, fab. "Pass us a fag would you luv?" I say, shrugging off his question and sitting up. It's so much easier if I just pretend that everything is alright, that I don't care.
He seems relieved and passes me one, I put it between my lips and he lights it for me, I inhale and feel a little better myself, I lean back against the headboard and don't flinch this time when he puts his arm around me again. But it isn't the same, his grip is loose, his touch strange and cold, and I know he's only doing it to appease me. It's like two entirely different people; pre-coital John, passionate and hungry, willing to do anything—even go slow and gentle or sweet and tender—if it will get him what he wants. And he gets what he wants every time. Then there was post-coital John, satiated at last but not content, he's used you up, spent you, and having no more use for you he discards you like a broken toy…
I might've cried if I'd been alone, it helps for some reason, but I couldn't cry in front of John not when he's like this, he'd laugh at me, and there's something about that laugh of his, that particular laugh that's soul-crushing at least to me. I remove the cigarette and turn my face into his arm kissing his shoulder lightly, breathing in deeply. He smells of soap and aftershave as I mentioned, but something else too, something distinct but indefinable except as John, just John. "Are you bored of me John?" I ask, my voice comes out small, I hate that.
"No," he says, his voice bored, we've had this conversation before, "of course not Macca."
It sounds like a yes to me and I feel panicked, helpless, because no matter what I do he's like water, slipping through my fingers. I turn fully into him then, curling up against him like a child, and wonder how I got to this place.
A.N.- Please R&R. I know slash isn't everyone's thing, I'm not even sure it's my thing, just experimenting here. Also I didn't know which catagory to put this under, as there isn't a "Music" section, but I still feel it is a fanfiction piece. I put it under misc movies because The Beatles made movies...I dunno...if you know a better catagory let me know!