The Ballad of the Glass Marionette [s/a]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: As fake as my awesome state of health.
Summary: It would only be later, though, when Paul tells John that he looked uncannily like the spitting image of a future king past. John would nod in response, but he would hold his tongue about how Paul looked (still looks?) like a constellation, John's own sparkling panacea to his tendency to shatter. Weakness is not a trait of which John is very proud.
"I don't get it," John says, and when he has the impetuousness to stare the sky in the face to question the judgment of whoever, the rain chink-chink-chinks against his skin.
"Get what?" The stars ask in return, passing the ball back to John's court, and John has to sit down on the grass when the rain starts to seep into the hole in his head; it weighs him down, first filling the tips of his toes with a bitter cold before he feels it rise to congest his hollow bones with something utterly unfamiliar.
"Why would you make a marionette out of glass?"
John sees neigh translucent strings shimmer, rain soaked, like the veins of the heavens come down to give him life. The lightning illuminates these strings, and with each clap of thunder overhead, they start to fall beside him, one by one, cut. The rain slowly fills his body, cradling his ice cube entrails.
The stars chuckle, at least those whose baby faces and doe eyes aren't obstructed by storm clouds, and for a second, John almost feels some odd sense of familiarity before he threads the broken threads between his fingers and turns away. The ends of the objects in question are frayed, like the ends of your hair in the summer heat.
The sky just pats him on the back and says something that John can't hear, as the rain floods his ear canals with the sobering cold, his mouth snapping shut to keep the water in, his vision blurring from the pressure.
Chink-chink-chink against John's glass skin, the rain drops, and through the downpour and the flooding of his eyes, he realizes that the stars aren't stars at all, but Paul sure looks like heaven at that moment; his eyes are polluted with a certain glimmer of concern rather than that astringent rain, and he pats John on the back again.
"John? What do you see?"
John looks at all the threads beside him and he sees their labels, 'George', 'Julia', 'Alf' (that was his name, right?). Dead, gone, or never attached in the first place, these spindles were, and when they fall through the crevices of John's fingers, they shrivel and sink into the grass, no longer affiliated with the little grass puppet on the ground. The last strings keeping John upright are labeled 'Stuart', and when those snap in Swingin' '62, John falls dormant on the ground, shattered, and the heavens, the mass portrait of wisdom they are, heave a heavy sigh and hand him a roll of tape.
Paul is convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that John is tripping on something laced with something else when he cascades back down to earth and makes the muffled sound affects of glass breaking, but John doesn't notice his suspicion, only notices how bright Paul burns in the dark; a shooting star.
Even though it's only raining in John's mind, he can feel the water spill back down his head, over his face, out of his glass(y) eyes, with it having no other possible organ to defile. The grass is like a blanket that each little severed part of him sinks into, and his insides turn to ice which promptly melts when Paul ventures to rest a hand on John's forehead. He wipes the damp hair away from John's face, noting with vague curiosity how smooth the skin feels beneath his fingertips. From his counterpart, he supposes he had expected something far rougher, more coarse; definitely less refined, though, less vulnerable.
Just to soothe his aching curiosity, then, Paul runs his hands all over this puppet, feeling each and every tremor and goose bump, and at a loss for any other action, John watches him, with his chest rising and falling as if none of this was going on. Paul's fingers, his palms are relentless, each action in which he partakes adulterated with a form of a childlike sense of adventure. John is certainly quite the circus act. The best part, though, is wherever Paul trails his curious hands over John's ligaments, he makes a seal, sewing John back together where he had fallen apart.
There weren't even any strings attached.
It would only be later, though, when Paul tells John that he looked uncannily like the spitting image of a future king past. John would nod in response, but he would hold his tongue about how Paul looked (still looks?) like a constellation, John's own sparkling panacea to his tendency to shatter. Weakness is not a trait of which John is very proud.
For now, though, they lay silent, with their dilated pupils mirroring each other, each depicting something far larger than either of them could imagine.
"I mean, I know I'm not the most logical fucker around, Macca, but I just don't understand it. Why make something so bloody fragile, only to expect it to carry the entire world on its shoulders?" Paul rests his hands on John's forearms, then, pausing his investigative actions, and spindles of abstract thought that fall from their eyes entwine together like the fingers of estranged lovers; in that moment, they connect.
"I suppose," Paul responds, and he's closer now, so close that John can feel his breath against his closed mouth, "I suppose it's because if the marionette didn't need fixing, then a few repair men would be out of jobs, right?"
John heaves a sigh with his mouth sewed shut, still, and as each minute passes, he feels his empty glass frame become more solid, more human; warmer, even, as Paul uses consistent pressure against his forearms.
"Well," He manages through his flooded lungs and lips that refuse to break his facade with a spew reminiscent of a waterfall, "It's not as if they get paid very much, anyway." John is almost surprised when Paul releases him from a vice-like grip and simply lays down beside him, but he can't say that he's disappointed when their hands almost brush together and John begins to feel human again.
"Sometimes getting something you like fixed and watching it function properly is enough, you know?
"Yeah, I guess."
"Besides, strings are fucking stupid. Talk about taking away something's freedom."
"Bloody right."
The two lay in silence until John counts twenty breaths and runs a hand through his hair to make sure that the hole in his head is gone. The stars turn inanimate once more after a while, but John can't help but think they still smile when no one is looking. Paul returns to a normal state, although the older of the two swears he glows, anyway, and he turns to face the younger.
"Paul?"
"Yeah, John?" Paul sounds as if he'd just woken up from a long nap, and John looks at him as if his eyes are opening for the first time.
"I'm really glad that I didn't die before I met you." It was a rare glimpse of vulnerability from the older boy. Paul had seen just enough of these shooting stars, northern lights, to not be so stunned by them, but they came so infrequently that like a warm summer breeze, just enough to tousle your hair, Paul appreciated them.
"Yeah, John," He says, and both of them can just barely see the sun start to come up over the horizon, a palette of soft colors beginning to warm their skin, "me, too."
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: As fake as my awesome state of health.
Summary: It would only be later, though, when Paul tells John that he looked uncannily like the spitting image of a future king past. John would nod in response, but he would hold his tongue about how Paul looked (still looks?) like a constellation, John's own sparkling panacea to his tendency to shatter. Weakness is not a trait of which John is very proud.
"I don't get it," John says, and when he has the impetuousness to stare the sky in the face to question the judgment of whoever, the rain chink-chink-chinks against his skin.
"Get what?" The stars ask in return, passing the ball back to John's court, and John has to sit down on the grass when the rain starts to seep into the hole in his head; it weighs him down, first filling the tips of his toes with a bitter cold before he feels it rise to congest his hollow bones with something utterly unfamiliar.
"Why would you make a marionette out of glass?"
John sees neigh translucent strings shimmer, rain soaked, like the veins of the heavens come down to give him life. The lightning illuminates these strings, and with each clap of thunder overhead, they start to fall beside him, one by one, cut. The rain slowly fills his body, cradling his ice cube entrails.
The stars chuckle, at least those whose baby faces and doe eyes aren't obstructed by storm clouds, and for a second, John almost feels some odd sense of familiarity before he threads the broken threads between his fingers and turns away. The ends of the objects in question are frayed, like the ends of your hair in the summer heat.
The sky just pats him on the back and says something that John can't hear, as the rain floods his ear canals with the sobering cold, his mouth snapping shut to keep the water in, his vision blurring from the pressure.
Chink-chink-chink against John's glass skin, the rain drops, and through the downpour and the flooding of his eyes, he realizes that the stars aren't stars at all, but Paul sure looks like heaven at that moment; his eyes are polluted with a certain glimmer of concern rather than that astringent rain, and he pats John on the back again.
"John? What do you see?"
John looks at all the threads beside him and he sees their labels, 'George', 'Julia', 'Alf' (that was his name, right?). Dead, gone, or never attached in the first place, these spindles were, and when they fall through the crevices of John's fingers, they shrivel and sink into the grass, no longer affiliated with the little grass puppet on the ground. The last strings keeping John upright are labeled 'Stuart', and when those snap in Swingin' '62, John falls dormant on the ground, shattered, and the heavens, the mass portrait of wisdom they are, heave a heavy sigh and hand him a roll of tape.
Paul is convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that John is tripping on something laced with something else when he cascades back down to earth and makes the muffled sound affects of glass breaking, but John doesn't notice his suspicion, only notices how bright Paul burns in the dark; a shooting star.
Even though it's only raining in John's mind, he can feel the water spill back down his head, over his face, out of his glass(y) eyes, with it having no other possible organ to defile. The grass is like a blanket that each little severed part of him sinks into, and his insides turn to ice which promptly melts when Paul ventures to rest a hand on John's forehead. He wipes the damp hair away from John's face, noting with vague curiosity how smooth the skin feels beneath his fingertips. From his counterpart, he supposes he had expected something far rougher, more coarse; definitely less refined, though, less vulnerable.
Just to soothe his aching curiosity, then, Paul runs his hands all over this puppet, feeling each and every tremor and goose bump, and at a loss for any other action, John watches him, with his chest rising and falling as if none of this was going on. Paul's fingers, his palms are relentless, each action in which he partakes adulterated with a form of a childlike sense of adventure. John is certainly quite the circus act. The best part, though, is wherever Paul trails his curious hands over John's ligaments, he makes a seal, sewing John back together where he had fallen apart.
There weren't even any strings attached.
It would only be later, though, when Paul tells John that he looked uncannily like the spitting image of a future king past. John would nod in response, but he would hold his tongue about how Paul looked (still looks?) like a constellation, John's own sparkling panacea to his tendency to shatter. Weakness is not a trait of which John is very proud.
For now, though, they lay silent, with their dilated pupils mirroring each other, each depicting something far larger than either of them could imagine.
"I mean, I know I'm not the most logical fucker around, Macca, but I just don't understand it. Why make something so bloody fragile, only to expect it to carry the entire world on its shoulders?" Paul rests his hands on John's forearms, then, pausing his investigative actions, and spindles of abstract thought that fall from their eyes entwine together like the fingers of estranged lovers; in that moment, they connect.
"I suppose," Paul responds, and he's closer now, so close that John can feel his breath against his closed mouth, "I suppose it's because if the marionette didn't need fixing, then a few repair men would be out of jobs, right?"
John heaves a sigh with his mouth sewed shut, still, and as each minute passes, he feels his empty glass frame become more solid, more human; warmer, even, as Paul uses consistent pressure against his forearms.
"Well," He manages through his flooded lungs and lips that refuse to break his facade with a spew reminiscent of a waterfall, "It's not as if they get paid very much, anyway." John is almost surprised when Paul releases him from a vice-like grip and simply lays down beside him, but he can't say that he's disappointed when their hands almost brush together and John begins to feel human again.
"Sometimes getting something you like fixed and watching it function properly is enough, you know?
"Yeah, I guess."
"Besides, strings are fucking stupid. Talk about taking away something's freedom."
"Bloody right."
The two lay in silence until John counts twenty breaths and runs a hand through his hair to make sure that the hole in his head is gone. The stars turn inanimate once more after a while, but John can't help but think they still smile when no one is looking. Paul returns to a normal state, although the older of the two swears he glows, anyway, and he turns to face the younger.
"Paul?"
"Yeah, John?" Paul sounds as if he'd just woken up from a long nap, and John looks at him as if his eyes are opening for the first time.
"I'm really glad that I didn't die before I met you." It was a rare glimpse of vulnerability from the older boy. Paul had seen just enough of these shooting stars, northern lights, to not be so stunned by them, but they came so infrequently that like a warm summer breeze, just enough to tousle your hair, Paul appreciated them.
"Yeah, John," He says, and both of them can just barely see the sun start to come up over the horizon, a palette of soft colors beginning to warm their skin, "me, too."