(no subject)
So, I don't know if any of you read Francesea Lia Block's work, her most famous books would be the Dangerous Angels (or Weetzie Bat) quintet or I Was A Teenage Fairy, though she's written a lot more. I have a love/hate relationship with her, on one hand it's all so pretty and fluffy and lovely (and some of the first gay characters I ever read). On the other hand there's never any plot, and if you weeded out the metaphor per sentence from the page long paragraphs, the book would be like three pages long. I rec it only if you're the kind of person that reads prose, otherwise you'd probably find it annoying.
Title: I Was A Pop Punk Fairy
Pairings: essentially gen, but with a Pete/Mikey vibe
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1051
Warnings: I tried to challenge myself to write in the style of Francesca Lia Block, so this contains a fair bit of metaphor.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Summary: Pete is the King of the Fairies. But that can get lonely, so he likes talking to the Giants all around him, even the ones that can't hear or see him.
Author's Notes: There was a prompt on anon_lovememe requesting something in the 'verse of Francesea Lia Block, I couldn't pass it up. I originally intended to just write Pete in I Was A Teenage Fairy, but somehow Mikey sneaked in.
Aside from the anon prompt, I also wrote this for my AU crossover bingo table, to fill the "personal life of a character changed" square.
Pete considers himself King of the Fairies, by virtue that he’s never met another. But even if he did, if he had a dozen kinsmen with low slung belts weaved from the thinnest blades of glimmering grass and iridescent wings almost as shining as his own, he’d still be king. Royalty suits him.
As kings are wont to do, he follows his whims. He should probably be concerned about being found, being studied. After all, he’s much smaller than the average human, and none of them have wings. He admires the ones at the raves with their sculptured wings of wire and pantyhose and glitter, likes that they’re trying to be as pretty and perfect as he is. But theirs aren’t attached, and unless he could pluck his from his back, scientists would probably be interested in capturing him. He doesn’t let the knowledge that he could become someone’s experiment stop him from talking to who he wants to, moving on when he gets bored.
There are so many faces. The city is covered with slow koalas with buzzed hair and big teeth, quirky dolphins smarter than most humans but still getting caught in cruel traps, lanky lizards oddly dyed and scaled with tattoos. There are so many voices, growls like garbage trucks, words over enunciated like the syllables are shattering into sharp edged glass, accents like a hundred pails in an ice cream shop. It could take forever to see them all, talk to everyone. Pete doesn’t know how long gauze winged royalty lasts, but he needs to help everyone. All kings have duties, his is to give them all a sentence to tie to their souls. Everyone needs a phrase to help them transform into their truest self, words that wipe off the excess like cold cream on a night dancer’s smooth shaven face.
A lot of the Giants don’t see him, but Pete talks to them anyway. Their sight can create shields that close over an eye like the steel cage which protects stores from five fingered violations in the middle of the night, but that doesn’t mean ears will do the same. Ears can’t blink, there’s no easy way to hold him back. Sometimes it seems futile, but Pete always rallies back from his despondency with a renewed sense of purpose. The ones who can’t see him need him more than children who run with their arms out trying to catch him in poorly rinsed peanut butter jars. Still, it’s the ones who can see him that make Pete stick around longer. It’s not just slapping golden pieces of knowledge or beauty into someone’s ear if they can answer him.
Pete likes talking to people who understand music best. There are no guitars for people of his stature, but Pete’s met enough guitarists spinning with chemicals that think he’s a product borne of too much speed or rum or pot to know if he was Giant sized he would be playing one. On occasion entire tours come to his city, buses big enough to fit a thousand Petes, lined in a mechanical row. Those are his favourite days amongst the countless he’s lived. He can flit amongst the fans and musicians and whisper his shimmering words, waiting for someone to catch them in a transparent net. The broken people that need these angry rhythms and lyrics and wardrobe, the dreamers that take in the expensive tars to get away from themselves, they’re all far more likely to see him, or attend his words. Pete’s royal, he needs his fix of attention. If he had brothers and sisters he would have a court, as it stands all he has is those that stare at him with makeup smeared eyes. Pete squeezes flowers and rubs the liquid on his eyes, sometimes he wants nothing more than to know if any of them notice.
Of the musicians back stage this night, one called Mikey Way is the first to talk to him. Mikey’s face is glass, shining and crystal clear, and devoid of any meaning. He keeps shaking his head as he talks to Pete, and so Pete speaks more, plugging Mikey’s ears with his words. Later he watches the show Mikey belongs in from the wings. On certain riffs, certain lyrics he can’t help but surge forward, fists the size of crumbs raised up. He can’t mosh, he would splatter against the back of someone’s shirt in moments, but he can let himself move. When he notices he’s on stage he flies back, until the next snippet that demands he react. He’s not worried about fans spotting him, they can’t possibly see anything except the singer’s passion, the whirling dervish of a guitarist, the man shredding and the man creating the heartbeat. Pete himself can hardly look away from the way Mikey stands long and stiff like a tree so often taken for granted. There’s a constant flash of illegally smuggled cameras and cell phones, but still Pete doesn’t restrain himself. If a thousand cameras capture him maybe five or ten won’t Photoshop the annoying speck out of the corner of the photo, maybe one person on an anonymous blog will see him while reading a concert review with envy and wonder.
It’s over too soon. Music always is, the threads that bind the musicians and audience together brutally cleaved by the sullen bitch Time. But he’s not willing to let this end, not for him. The Giants, they might have to go home and wash the sweat off, find the bruises and pain underneath. But he’s different. He’s not a Giant, he is a king, and he can do what he wants.
Pete leaves his city for the first time to follow Mikey. He says goodbye to the people shaped like animals, the animals that have more humanity than some people. He begs the stones and the trees and the flowers to keep spreading his messages, and flies into the steel box Mikey lives in before it can drive away. He quickly finds out Mikey’s self destructive, tinged with madness and both alleviating and making it worse with alcohol and drugs. He thinks Pete is a hallucination that he’s drawing closer instead of pushing away, and sometimes laughs at his own ridiculousness. Pete doesn’t mind the accusation, especially from lips bitten raw. He’s been called worse.
Title: I Was A Pop Punk Fairy
Pairings: essentially gen, but with a Pete/Mikey vibe
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1051
Warnings: I tried to challenge myself to write in the style of Francesca Lia Block, so this contains a fair bit of metaphor.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Summary: Pete is the King of the Fairies. But that can get lonely, so he likes talking to the Giants all around him, even the ones that can't hear or see him.
Author's Notes: There was a prompt on anon_lovememe requesting something in the 'verse of Francesea Lia Block, I couldn't pass it up. I originally intended to just write Pete in I Was A Teenage Fairy, but somehow Mikey sneaked in.
Aside from the anon prompt, I also wrote this for my AU crossover bingo table, to fill the "personal life of a character changed" square.
Pete considers himself King of the Fairies, by virtue that he’s never met another. But even if he did, if he had a dozen kinsmen with low slung belts weaved from the thinnest blades of glimmering grass and iridescent wings almost as shining as his own, he’d still be king. Royalty suits him.
As kings are wont to do, he follows his whims. He should probably be concerned about being found, being studied. After all, he’s much smaller than the average human, and none of them have wings. He admires the ones at the raves with their sculptured wings of wire and pantyhose and glitter, likes that they’re trying to be as pretty and perfect as he is. But theirs aren’t attached, and unless he could pluck his from his back, scientists would probably be interested in capturing him. He doesn’t let the knowledge that he could become someone’s experiment stop him from talking to who he wants to, moving on when he gets bored.
There are so many faces. The city is covered with slow koalas with buzzed hair and big teeth, quirky dolphins smarter than most humans but still getting caught in cruel traps, lanky lizards oddly dyed and scaled with tattoos. There are so many voices, growls like garbage trucks, words over enunciated like the syllables are shattering into sharp edged glass, accents like a hundred pails in an ice cream shop. It could take forever to see them all, talk to everyone. Pete doesn’t know how long gauze winged royalty lasts, but he needs to help everyone. All kings have duties, his is to give them all a sentence to tie to their souls. Everyone needs a phrase to help them transform into their truest self, words that wipe off the excess like cold cream on a night dancer’s smooth shaven face.
A lot of the Giants don’t see him, but Pete talks to them anyway. Their sight can create shields that close over an eye like the steel cage which protects stores from five fingered violations in the middle of the night, but that doesn’t mean ears will do the same. Ears can’t blink, there’s no easy way to hold him back. Sometimes it seems futile, but Pete always rallies back from his despondency with a renewed sense of purpose. The ones who can’t see him need him more than children who run with their arms out trying to catch him in poorly rinsed peanut butter jars. Still, it’s the ones who can see him that make Pete stick around longer. It’s not just slapping golden pieces of knowledge or beauty into someone’s ear if they can answer him.
Pete likes talking to people who understand music best. There are no guitars for people of his stature, but Pete’s met enough guitarists spinning with chemicals that think he’s a product borne of too much speed or rum or pot to know if he was Giant sized he would be playing one. On occasion entire tours come to his city, buses big enough to fit a thousand Petes, lined in a mechanical row. Those are his favourite days amongst the countless he’s lived. He can flit amongst the fans and musicians and whisper his shimmering words, waiting for someone to catch them in a transparent net. The broken people that need these angry rhythms and lyrics and wardrobe, the dreamers that take in the expensive tars to get away from themselves, they’re all far more likely to see him, or attend his words. Pete’s royal, he needs his fix of attention. If he had brothers and sisters he would have a court, as it stands all he has is those that stare at him with makeup smeared eyes. Pete squeezes flowers and rubs the liquid on his eyes, sometimes he wants nothing more than to know if any of them notice.
Of the musicians back stage this night, one called Mikey Way is the first to talk to him. Mikey’s face is glass, shining and crystal clear, and devoid of any meaning. He keeps shaking his head as he talks to Pete, and so Pete speaks more, plugging Mikey’s ears with his words. Later he watches the show Mikey belongs in from the wings. On certain riffs, certain lyrics he can’t help but surge forward, fists the size of crumbs raised up. He can’t mosh, he would splatter against the back of someone’s shirt in moments, but he can let himself move. When he notices he’s on stage he flies back, until the next snippet that demands he react. He’s not worried about fans spotting him, they can’t possibly see anything except the singer’s passion, the whirling dervish of a guitarist, the man shredding and the man creating the heartbeat. Pete himself can hardly look away from the way Mikey stands long and stiff like a tree so often taken for granted. There’s a constant flash of illegally smuggled cameras and cell phones, but still Pete doesn’t restrain himself. If a thousand cameras capture him maybe five or ten won’t Photoshop the annoying speck out of the corner of the photo, maybe one person on an anonymous blog will see him while reading a concert review with envy and wonder.
It’s over too soon. Music always is, the threads that bind the musicians and audience together brutally cleaved by the sullen bitch Time. But he’s not willing to let this end, not for him. The Giants, they might have to go home and wash the sweat off, find the bruises and pain underneath. But he’s different. He’s not a Giant, he is a king, and he can do what he wants.
Pete leaves his city for the first time to follow Mikey. He says goodbye to the people shaped like animals, the animals that have more humanity than some people. He begs the stones and the trees and the flowers to keep spreading his messages, and flies into the steel box Mikey lives in before it can drive away. He quickly finds out Mikey’s self destructive, tinged with madness and both alleviating and making it worse with alcohol and drugs. He thinks Pete is a hallucination that he’s drawing closer instead of pushing away, and sometimes laughs at his own ridiculousness. Pete doesn’t mind the accusation, especially from lips bitten raw. He’s been called worse.