|Fic for Prompt One
||[Mar. 4th, 2008|05:03 pm]
George & Paul
My response to the first prompt. It's delightfully short (in my opinion).
Prompt One: Guitar
Paul was playing with my Rickenbacker again. He loved that guitar. Every chance he got, he would steal away with it, sometimes for hours on end. At first it was annoying, even infuriating, but it was impossible to stay mad at Paul for long. With his fingers dancing across the strings of my guitar, the instrument snug under his arm, a waft of sunshine would break across his face-blinding light that outshone all else. It made him happy, so I couldn’t complain.
“Hey, George,” he called. “Listen to this.”
I sidled over to Paul, where he was sitting on my hotel bed, hugging the Rickenbacker to his chest. As soon as I had taken a seat beside him, he launched into a song. I was immediately stuck by the melancholy the tune carried, but gradually the notes uplifted, only to fall back again, creating this lilting slope of chords that had me glued to my seat from start to finish. With modestly downcast eyes, and a half-smile, Paul asked: “You like it?” I nodded dumbly, mouth rendered useless.
When my senses had returned, I addressed him. “What do you call it?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “It doesn’t have a name.”
“It’s really good. We should put it on the LP.”
“No,” Paul said virulently. “I don’t want anyone to hear it.”
Dumbstruck, I stared at him. “But, why?”
There was the tapping of Paul’s fingertips against the guitar’s soundboard, and the jiggling of his knee. Both nervous reflexes.
“What’s up, Paul?” I asked. “Why can’t we record the song?”
“Forget about it,” Paul said, strumming the guitar. “It was just a little something I thought of this morning. It only sounds so good because I played on the Rickenbacker.”
My stomach fluttered a little, pleased that my very own guitar had given a voice to Paul’s exquisite song. I watched Paul some more, trying to capture every little detail. He looked his best when he was songwriting, and the Rickenbacker brought out that smile that I loved so much. It was not quite a pout, and almost a frown, but had those ponderous, upturned lips that suggested deep concentration.
The lights in the hotel were dim, and cast shadows across Paul’s face. His dark eyes were complimented, as were his soft features and tousled hair. In this intimate setting, on a warm bed, in the dark, the Rickenbacker playing like background music to a porno, I wanted to fall back on the nearest surface and make love. Or fuck-whichever.
Sliding closer to Paul, I strummed a few fingers down the guitar strings, delighting in the ominous, yet lighthearted sound. It fit our Zen-like setting perfectly. Paul’s fingers danced next to mine on the strings until we were creating a silly, nonsensical tune, and laughing with our heads bowed, cheeks brushing, legs bumping, elbows jabbing into each other’s sides. I felt like a teenager again, without a care in the world, my universe consisting of only me and Paul, on this hotel bed, creating a joyous music together. My body felt young, as well; a tingling rush shot through me, the sensation similar to that of the uncontrollable, all-encompassing hormones from long ago. Feeling more alive than I had in years, I grinned at Paul and ran a thumb across the back of his hand.
The texture of the other man’s skin, silky soft and oily, had barely registered in my mind when lips brushed against my own. For a split second, time stilled. I was aware only of the slow beating of my heart, and the fingerboard of the Rickenbacker, as it dug into my ribcage. Then, panic settled in.
“Paul,” I yelped, ducking out of the kiss. Paul said nothing, bright-eyed and tightlipped. He looked a little forlorn, but determined nonetheless, his hand gripping my guitar so tightly that his knuckles turned white. I may have been frightened, and a little repulsed, but my skin felt stretched, aroused, and my lips were lonely as they basked in memory of that little kiss. Passive, I stared disbelievingly at Paul, half-hoping he would try something, half-afraid of what would happen if he did.
The sheets rustled as Paul set down my Rickenbacker with loving and considerate hands. He turned to me with open arms and a steady gaze that banished all doubt from my mind. If Paul had been as nervous and as shaken as I was, my first reaction would have been to flee. I never would have scooted into his lap and put inexperienced hands on his chest. I was entrusting everything with this man-my soul, my sanity-and he accepted with a caress, and an explorative tug on my hair.
I was serenaded with kisses, not sweet or sensitive, but rough and wet, chapped lips swiping across mine, stubble burning my cheeks and throat. Falling back on the bed, my head bumped against the guitar. I sat up to push it aside, but Paul stopped me. He paid such close attention to the Rickenbacker, with worshipful eyes and gentle fingers, that I became a little jealous.
“Keep it here,” he said. I hooked an arm around his neck and crushed him to me, angry in spite of myself. Finally, we were skin to skin, chest to chest, and groin to groin. Paul’s raggedy, uneven breath was sweeter to my ears than his song.
“You don’t need the guitar anymore,” I muttered. “You have me.”