Totally GQ this time. Remember the red PUMA jacket and training pants combo? That was the worst.

goonerkiki: goonerkiki: I just found out Oli’s...

Is he the chef brother of Olive’s?

So 3 people asked me that: you, @3-q-anon and @itsaporcupine so I will answer everyone in this one! :D

I like Neymar, I really like him but I think that one problem that we have here in Brazil is that when we have a good player, the media start talking about them as they are going to be the new saviors and that they will win everything for Brazil NT. It was (and still is) like that with Neymar and it is now the same thing with Gabriel Jesus, for example. Sometimes this starts when they are very young and sometimes they don’t know how to deal with this. It is a lot to put on their shoulders because as we know, football is not played with only one person.

I think that Neymar is a brilliant player. When Tite started being the Brazil NT coach the journalists asked him why Neymar was on the team if he said bad things about him not long time ago. Tite said that he didn’t like some of his attitudes on the pitch, like when he dives a lot or when he stays with the ball because he knows someone will try to touch him. He also said that Neymar was much better now, because he is getting older and he is learning. I think that what really Neymar needs is maturity, inside and outside the pitch.

He is already creating history because he was on the team that won the first Olympic Gold Medal in football for Brazil. I am already getting tears on my eyes while I am writing this because I will never, never, never forget that semi final that I went to Maracanã and I watched that amazing match against Honduras. 

I know that this seems confusing but this is my opinion about him: sometimes I like him and sometimes I am WHY NEYMAR WHY. He has the skills to be even much better - but he needs the wisdom to use them well.

I think it is easier to get a Flames picture than a Girouchy one HAHAHA! Hopefully we will get both - but probably Girouchy will think “Nah, now they are waiting for it, we won’t give any photos”. 

YEEEES HE IIIIIS

SEND HIM A KISS FROM ME 

Paul doesn’t know why the interviewer’s question makes him freeze, but it does.

Everyone is having a good time, smiling for the cameras and making jokes and having good clean fun with each other. The journalist seems to be a good man, and Ken never tries to make any nasty biting jokes at their expense. But then Ken asks the one question that Paul hasn’t yet learned how to answer for the press, the one question that can make his brain short-circuit. It’s innocent, really; there’s no way Ken could have known about his mother, and really, even if he had, Paul thinks he should be over it by now. It’s been seven years, for goodness sake. Surely he ought to have stopped feeling the sting of it by now.

“You’ve got your mam there, haven’t ya? And your da?” Ken asks, and Paul suddenly hates this harmless comedian with a fire he can’t understand, something that feels suspiciously like jealousy. That he can just ask that question without a second thought, that there are people in the world who can’t comprehend the pain that takes his breath away when he least expects it - it makes Paul want to snarl and scream and cry. He is surrounded by people, but he is alone.

He almost says it. He opens his mouth, and the words fill his throat - “My mother’s dead” - it flashes through his mind for just a moment, the imagined shock on Ken’s face giving Paul a second of savage vindictive pleasure.

But then John, who has always been quicker on his feet, glances down at Paul for the briefest second and says dismissively, “We’ve got friends.”

Paul somehow manages to keep a neutral expression, but he goes wobbly with relief as Ken and the journalist move smoothly away from the subject, suddenly grateful for the stool they gave him to sit on. The jealous fire fades and leaves him feeling coldly guilty for hating Ken’s innocence. He wants to thank John, for saving them all a lot of awkwardness, for reminding him in such a simple concise way that he isn’t alone, that John is here and understands.

But he can’t. So he takes a deep breath, puts on his best smile for the cameras, and forgets it.

-

This was supposed to be fun, John thought to himself as he sprawled on the flower-printed duvet, alone.

The day had started so well; waking up next to Paul was one of John’s favourite things, though wild horses couldn’t have dragged that confession out of him. He loved watching Paul’s chest as it rose and fell with each soft breath, the way his mouth hung open just slightly. He loved how Paul’s eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks, how his usually picture-perfect hair matted down and curled over his forehead. And to John’s vague disgust, he found that he even loved the sound of Paul snoring, which he only did when he had a cold. And perhaps John was still drunk from last night’s adventures, or just drunk on Paris alone, but when Paul had opened his eyes that morning, lashes sticking together endearingly, John had spoken his feelings aloud for the first time.

It seemed so natural that he should say it, here, in Paris, in the weak grey light of pre-dawn, pleasantly dizzy and half-drunk on French wine and romance. But when Paul’s eyes flew the rest of the way open, his body tensing, John knew he’d been wrong. He had opened his mouth to apologize or take it back, or make it into a joke, but it was too late; Paul was already climbing out of bed, his shoulders hunched near his ears. He threw jeans and his new jacket on, mumbled something about taking a walk, and practically ran out of the room. John had hissed “Coward” at him, but he was already gone.

That had been hours ago. John stared at the door, willing it to open and reveal Paul, but it remained firmly closed. John was sure that Paul had decided to go home without him, had just walked out to the street and headed straight for the nearest train station. The band was over now for certain. Paul would never play with him again, would never write another song with him. He would never look at John with that secret smirk, would never throw his arm around John’s shoulders, never steal John’s glasses or stumble home drunk with him or go on holiday with him, not ever again.

John wondered if throwing himself from the top of the Eiffel Toward was too dramatic.

He had begun to cry quietly when Paul burst through the door around noon, arms laden with bags, a nervy, determined look on his face. He dropped the bags on the little table by the door, and John watched, astonished, as he strode toward the bed. High spots of color stained Paul’s cheeks; tiny beads of sweat stood out on his temples, and he was breathing as though he had just run a long distance.

John was too shocked to even wipe his face as Paul sat down on the edge of the bed. He sat still and waited as Paul got his breath back.

“I thought you’d be gone,” Paul gasped at last.

“I thought you’d never come back,” John said. He threw the words at Paul, more an accusation than an admission, and they hit their mark. 

Paul flushed even deeper red and shifted on the bed so they were face to face, inches away from touching each other. Bracing himself with one hand on the bed, he leaned forward and touched John’s face with the backs of his fingers. He swept his fingers over the drying tear tracks, infinitely gentle. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “You were right. I am a coward.” Then he leaned in closer, turning his hand around so that he was palming John’s jawline, stroking lightly with his thumb. “Can I make it up to you?” he said in a shivery whisper.

John nodded dumbly, too stunned to remember how to form words, and then Paul was kissing him, soft and inquisitive, and John forgot how to breathe.

It was everything he had wanted, everything he had never known he could want. Paul’s lips were warm and malleable; his hand trembled a little as he shifted it to nestle his fingers in John’s hair. John pulled him closer, kissing a little harder than he meant to, but Paul responded with just as much enthusiasm, even making a small noise of pleasure in the back of his throat. John thought it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

John pulled away first, and they breathed each other’s air for a moment, totally overwhelmed. Paul’s hand was still in John’s hair, and John found one of his hands had reached up of its own accord and was stroking Paul’s jawline, idly tracing over his skin. John recovered first and tapped Paul’s ear with his pointer finger. “What did ya bring me, then?” he said quietly, indicating the bags that Paul had so unceremoniously dropped by the door. He grinned mischievously, expecting a couple of sandwiches for lunch, but Paul blushed and averted his eyes.

“Um, I may have... I may have bought you flowers,” he mumbled. “I don’t know, they were cheap and they smelled nice and I thou--mmph!” John cut him off with another kiss, this one lighter, grateful and sweet and silly. He kissed Paul’s mouth, his cheeks, his nose, his eyebrows, all over his face until Paul was pulling away, giggling with fake disgust. John shook his head and tackled him to the bed.

“You bought me flowers,” John said in his sing-song voice. “You bought me flowers in Paris, you sap!”

“Oh, bugger off,” Paul said, shoving John off of him, but John caught him smiling to himself.

-

I go back and forth on this, honestly. My immediate instinct is to say Paris 1961; if it ever did happen, the conditions were right at that point in time. Or maybe on their LSD trips together. I can definitely see that being the case.