Play Me a Memory (Rock 'n' Roll) [s/a]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: Fiction.
Summary: "[...]Oh, but it rolls more than it rocks, the music slipping like a sheet around the dancers and shooting like an injection into the hearts of all that it surrounds; it rolls like a stone across the floor and between all the cracks in the pavement outside as the door swings on its' hinges, unsure of whether or not to shut."
Author's Note: This is what happens when I go on Billy Joel and George Winston binges at the same time.
Paul isn't sure what is bringing him to the club in the first place, what invisible force knows all the right strings to pull on his little puppet self, but all he knows is that he's there now, and once the door closes behind him, there is no turning back.
Oh, the sounds that prey on his unsuspecting ears, so accommodated now to quiet nights and peaceful sleep - no more!
The noises that assault him, take him aback, are akin to a carnival or a debauch Hamburg evening. There's the pulling of the tap, the chink of glasses, the shouts and the rock 'n' roll that nobody is really listening to but appreciates anyway. Oh, but it rolls more than it rocks, the music slipping like a sheet around the dancers and like an injection into the hearts of all that it surrounds; it rolls like a stone across the floor and between all the cracks in the pavement outside as the door swings on its' hinges, unsure of whether or not to shut.
But most importantly the music rolls off the piano, off the fingers of the one playing it, with his head rocking and his fingers rolling over the keys, his body moving back and forth, a ship on troubled water, to the sounds that echo off the walls - the sounds that he creates.
Paul still doesn't know why he was brought here or why he is still standing here now.
What is this? This shouldn't be here.
It doesn't come as a surprise, somehow, when Paul seems to be getting younger and younger with each step towards the piano man that he takes, but as he approaches the bench with something reminiscent of temerity, a strange sense of nostalgia washes over him, stopping him in his tracks just before he puts his hand on the musician's shoulder.
A voice whispers to Paul, seemingly from a distance, something about, "way to be late," and the music doesn't stop, only slows to the lethargy of a waltz and the soft whine of a guitar can be heard from the stage a few yards away.
Paul knows that voice, but knows not from where it comes or to whom it belongs (or perhaps it's a ghost, the wind gusting through the door playfully, through the walls?). He puts a hand on the piano man's shoulder, finally, and no longer are the spiderweb veins showing through paper mache skin with old age, but this music has Paul feeling young, a new youthful blush rising to his cheeks and a lively spring in his step. But all steps stop when the music does, and this man (boy?) turns his head with an amicable grin.
"Somethin' you need, mate? Nice night, innit?"
"Do I know you?" Paul's voice comes out easy and unscathed from his throat. He sits at the bar stool, eyes still on the musician as he orders two beers with his two fingers. The music starts playing again.
"Don't think I've seen you 'round, no," He says, his hands swaying to a pulsing rhythm. The crowd that's in the bar roars with laughter and conviviality, beers all around. But the noises all seem far way to Paul, a distant reverberation of something that once was. He takes a sip of his beer, eyes trained only to the player, seemingly familiar in the most far fetched of ways.
"Are you sure?" He asks, and the boy looks at him with mischievous eyes, rascal eyes, eyes glinting brighter than all the wit in an illusionists' pinky finger.
"Sure as I'm fookin' sittin' here," He says, although in a playful tone, "But I can play you a mem'ry if you need help rememberin'." Paul's eyebrows raise.
"A memory? You can play those?" The piano man shrugs,
"Why not?" If there is anything more familiar than those eyes, it is that voice, those fingers delicately caressing the keys without a second thought. Paul takes another swig of his beer, already anticipating the second when the boy speaks again, "Come 'ead, son. You're wearing clothes for a man too young to be so skeptical."
And Paul, with the competitive spirit found in the brainchild of his youth (and with such an apt companion with whom to be competitive, it seems), he takes the challenge, nodding.
"Fine. Fine, alright, show me what you got, 'cause damned if I'll believe you when I'm sober if you carn't convince me when I'm pissed."
"Bottoms up."
****
By the time the piano man's fingers detach reluctantly from the keys (the canvas) Paul has small rivers of tears streaming down his face, dropping pieces of bread and lint in the tip jar at a loss for all of his misused dollars.
The tears, though, as one would observe, do not come accompanied with any strong emotion or anguished expression - Paul has almost a vacuous, perhaps pensive, sort of expression that he's wearing, albeit a trifle frustrated.
The song, the song, he thinks, and for a moment, he nearly remembers, if only for a second his brain being ransacked by a slew of screams, of applause and of swinging melodies in sullied pubs and luminous stadiums alike. He remembers fame, he remembers fortune, but above all that, he remembers a starry eyed Liverpudlian from his youth, a style without a name, a smile without a cause, that song that Paul can never seem to find the words to.
"You know," He says to the musician, his words dangerously inarticulate, "You remind me a lot of someone I used to know."
"Really? Who's that?" But as Paul scans the pub, his eyes glazed over with something not far from regret (longing, even), he just shakes his head, a sigh coming from his lips that he presses to his bottle, a result of the heavy weight on his shoulders.
"Dunno. Must have lost him somewhere along the way."
Paul's head hangs low and he sees pensive tears drip-drip-drip onto the fabric of his trousers as the music carefully picks up a shattered moment.
Now he knows at least for what he was brought here - although he is yet unsure of who. He takes one last look at the piano man before standing up on unstable legs, sure as they are of their destination.
"You're sure I don't know you?" The boy only smiles, though, shakes his head to the beat of the music and says,
"Not like you think you do, trust me." And so Paul, feeling a fool unto himself, nods and begins to walk away.
"Goodbye, piano man."
The prior grins wider and plays a softer tune as he hears Paul's steps recede back out the door and onto the street,
"Bye, Macca."
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: Fiction.
Summary: "[...]Oh, but it rolls more than it rocks, the music slipping like a sheet around the dancers and shooting like an injection into the hearts of all that it surrounds; it rolls like a stone across the floor and between all the cracks in the pavement outside as the door swings on its' hinges, unsure of whether or not to shut."
Author's Note: This is what happens when I go on Billy Joel and George Winston binges at the same time.
Paul isn't sure what is bringing him to the club in the first place, what invisible force knows all the right strings to pull on his little puppet self, but all he knows is that he's there now, and once the door closes behind him, there is no turning back.
Oh, the sounds that prey on his unsuspecting ears, so accommodated now to quiet nights and peaceful sleep - no more!
The noises that assault him, take him aback, are akin to a carnival or a debauch Hamburg evening. There's the pulling of the tap, the chink of glasses, the shouts and the rock 'n' roll that nobody is really listening to but appreciates anyway. Oh, but it rolls more than it rocks, the music slipping like a sheet around the dancers and like an injection into the hearts of all that it surrounds; it rolls like a stone across the floor and between all the cracks in the pavement outside as the door swings on its' hinges, unsure of whether or not to shut.
But most importantly the music rolls off the piano, off the fingers of the one playing it, with his head rocking and his fingers rolling over the keys, his body moving back and forth, a ship on troubled water, to the sounds that echo off the walls - the sounds that he creates.
Paul still doesn't know why he was brought here or why he is still standing here now.
What is this? This shouldn't be here.
It doesn't come as a surprise, somehow, when Paul seems to be getting younger and younger with each step towards the piano man that he takes, but as he approaches the bench with something reminiscent of temerity, a strange sense of nostalgia washes over him, stopping him in his tracks just before he puts his hand on the musician's shoulder.
A voice whispers to Paul, seemingly from a distance, something about, "way to be late," and the music doesn't stop, only slows to the lethargy of a waltz and the soft whine of a guitar can be heard from the stage a few yards away.
Paul knows that voice, but knows not from where it comes or to whom it belongs (or perhaps it's a ghost, the wind gusting through the door playfully, through the walls?). He puts a hand on the piano man's shoulder, finally, and no longer are the spiderweb veins showing through paper mache skin with old age, but this music has Paul feeling young, a new youthful blush rising to his cheeks and a lively spring in his step. But all steps stop when the music does, and this man (boy?) turns his head with an amicable grin.
"Somethin' you need, mate? Nice night, innit?"
"Do I know you?" Paul's voice comes out easy and unscathed from his throat. He sits at the bar stool, eyes still on the musician as he orders two beers with his two fingers. The music starts playing again.
"Don't think I've seen you 'round, no," He says, his hands swaying to a pulsing rhythm. The crowd that's in the bar roars with laughter and conviviality, beers all around. But the noises all seem far way to Paul, a distant reverberation of something that once was. He takes a sip of his beer, eyes trained only to the player, seemingly familiar in the most far fetched of ways.
"Are you sure?" He asks, and the boy looks at him with mischievous eyes, rascal eyes, eyes glinting brighter than all the wit in an illusionists' pinky finger.
"Sure as I'm fookin' sittin' here," He says, although in a playful tone, "But I can play you a mem'ry if you need help rememberin'." Paul's eyebrows raise.
"A memory? You can play those?" The piano man shrugs,
"Why not?" If there is anything more familiar than those eyes, it is that voice, those fingers delicately caressing the keys without a second thought. Paul takes another swig of his beer, already anticipating the second when the boy speaks again, "Come 'ead, son. You're wearing clothes for a man too young to be so skeptical."
And Paul, with the competitive spirit found in the brainchild of his youth (and with such an apt companion with whom to be competitive, it seems), he takes the challenge, nodding.
"Fine. Fine, alright, show me what you got, 'cause damned if I'll believe you when I'm sober if you carn't convince me when I'm pissed."
"Bottoms up."
****
By the time the piano man's fingers detach reluctantly from the keys (the canvas) Paul has small rivers of tears streaming down his face, dropping pieces of bread and lint in the tip jar at a loss for all of his misused dollars.
The tears, though, as one would observe, do not come accompanied with any strong emotion or anguished expression - Paul has almost a vacuous, perhaps pensive, sort of expression that he's wearing, albeit a trifle frustrated.
The song, the song, he thinks, and for a moment, he nearly remembers, if only for a second his brain being ransacked by a slew of screams, of applause and of swinging melodies in sullied pubs and luminous stadiums alike. He remembers fame, he remembers fortune, but above all that, he remembers a starry eyed Liverpudlian from his youth, a style without a name, a smile without a cause, that song that Paul can never seem to find the words to.
"You know," He says to the musician, his words dangerously inarticulate, "You remind me a lot of someone I used to know."
"Really? Who's that?" But as Paul scans the pub, his eyes glazed over with something not far from regret (longing, even), he just shakes his head, a sigh coming from his lips that he presses to his bottle, a result of the heavy weight on his shoulders.
"Dunno. Must have lost him somewhere along the way."
Paul's head hangs low and he sees pensive tears drip-drip-drip onto the fabric of his trousers as the music carefully picks up a shattered moment.
Now he knows at least for what he was brought here - although he is yet unsure of who. He takes one last look at the piano man before standing up on unstable legs, sure as they are of their destination.
"You're sure I don't know you?" The boy only smiles, though, shakes his head to the beat of the music and says,
"Not like you think you do, trust me." And so Paul, feeling a fool unto himself, nods and begins to walk away.
"Goodbye, piano man."
The prior grins wider and plays a softer tune as he hears Paul's steps recede back out the door and onto the street,
"Bye, Macca."