14 Valentines 13: All I Ask (John/Rodney, PG-13)
Title: All I Ask
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,200
Warnings: None that I'm aware of
Summary: He wanted to be with Rodney, too. He wanted to live with him, day and night; wanted to take down the mask and say that he loved him into Rodney's ruined face.
Notes: Complete AU, written as a Christmas present for tipsywitch to the prompt of John/Rodney, musical. Set some time, some where past-ish. 1800s London, mayhap? Thanks go to neevebrody for the beta.
Also, this was written last October, so seeing a Phantom of the Opera AU at sga_santa totally made my day. :D
14 Valentines Essay: Day Thirteen: Arts and Entertainment, in which idyll writes this: Considering that the average girl will watch 5,000 hours of television before kindergarten, we need to have more, better and positive representation in the medial.
~~~
Cover by smuffster
All I Ask
Sometimes, John wasn't sure what he wanted. All the time, really, although maybe it wasn't so much that he didn't know what he wanted, but that the things he wanted were mutually exclusive.
He wanted to play the piano, accompanying operas and operettas, notes rising from his fingers until they were twisting and twirling in the air around him, flying the way he ached to and couldn't. He wanted to be better, faster, than anyone before and after him, wanted to be remembered not for being the only survivor of the Great Fire that had burned the Opera House to soot and cinders, but for the way he'd made the music come alive.
He wanted to be with Rodney, too. He wanted to live with him, day and night; wanted to take down the mask and say that he loved him into Rodney's ruined face. He wanted to make Rodney smile, a real smile that made both corners of his mouth curl up, even the one that was pulled down by the scars.
He could have played on Rodney's piano, maybe. Become one more part of the ghost that everyone believed was haunting this building. But it wouldn't have been the same, and he wasn't sure if Rodney would let him. Rodney had this strange idea that John wasn't allowed to make sacrifices. Not if they involved giving up his career, and certainly not for Rodney. And John didn't know how to tell him that it was okay. He got it. He liked Rodney, anyway.
Because John knew that Rodney had done… things. Bad things, when he'd been hurting and furious and lashing out at everyone, at no one in particular. John also knew that Rodney was ashamed of them now, but that didn't change what he'd done; if anyone ever found out how Rodney had made a new home for himself within the walls of the New Opera House, there'd probably be a lynch mob. And then John would have to interfere and they'd both end up dead, because John's father might have made it to lieutenant, but John had never fired a gun.
Sometimes, most of the time, he really, really wished he had known Rodney before. Maybe, if he'd been there, there wouldn't have been that much hurt and anger. Then again, maybe the dead piano player would have been him. That would have sucked.
The chances of that were slim, though. John knew perfectly well that he hadn't been hired for his skills, but for being the one who'd made it out. To the Opera House, he'd been an artist that brought them prestige while at the same time being completely expendable, in case of another… accident. Shame and childish pride had almost made him refuse the offer, but he'd needed the money. Besides, Rodney had helped him get better. Rodney had made him play scales until the joints of his fingers locked up, stiff and aching like an old man's hands. He'd been nothing but a voice from behind a mirror then, and the only reason John had listened instead of smashing his way through the glass was that the first thing the voice had said, the very first thing Rodney had ever said to him, had been, "Well, you're marginally less incompetent than the last one, I'll give you that. But I can teach you how to give your music wings."
And he had. God, he had. For weeks, John had practiced every night, playing his way up and down the keys, adjusting the bend of his fingers until everything he'd learned before had been forgotten, until the music rose and danced around him in a way that made his spirit soar, that he'd never thought he could achieve. And he'd loved Rodney already, even before he'd almost drowned in that damned lake and Rodney had pulled him out. He'd loved Rodney for giving him wings.
The thing with the lake had been stupid, anyway. John had stumbled - literally - into one of the narrow passageways between the walls, and instead of going back and at least get a light, had started to feel his way along the wall, determined to find his mysterious teacher. But there had been an open trapdoor and a ladder, both leading down to a lake - a lake beneath the Opera House, and no matter how often Rodney told him it was high ground-water and not entirely on purpose, John would never stop finding that disturbing - and John had hit his chin on the trapdoor frame on the way down. He hadn't even felt himself hitting the water.
But someone had heard him, fishing him out of the lake and dragging him to safety, and John had woken up on a narrow bed, half-naked and wrapped in blankets, the spacious room his blurred vision slowly focussed only lit dimly by what looked like two strangely-formed lanterns. A few shelves had lined the otherwise naked stone walls, cluttered with books and papers and what looked like stacks and stacks of sheet music. But what captivated his gaze had been the piano in the far corner of the room, and the figure sitting on the low bench in front of it.
The man had been clad entirely in black, a hooded cape wrapped around him as if to ward off the cold. The corner of something white had peeked out from where the hood was obscuring his face - Rodney's mask, and if John truly loathed anything it was that white, featureless shield Rodney had put up against the world - and John had opened his mouth to ask his questions of, "Who are you?" and "Where am I?" and "How did I get here?" and, most importantly, "You're the guy from behind the mirror, right?" Except then the man had started to play, and John had forgotten about his need for answers.
Rodney played so beautifully, hands barely scarred and not stiff at all, the hunched shoulders slowly relaxing until his whole body swayed with the flow of the music, loose and free. Something seemed to lift from him when he played, a bit of that intangible weight that was locked into the mask and every scar on Rodney's body, tying him to Earth, mind and soul. John could do that too, sometimes. Make Rodney arch and moan until he forgot that he was trying to hide, until John could pry off the mask with gentle fingers and kiss the patchy skin of Rodney's ruined cheek, the scarred side of his neck, what was left of his ear; whisper that all he saw was beauty, and have Rodney believe it.
John wanted that, right now. He wanted to go find Rodney and make them both stop thinking about the world for a little while, but he couldn't. He had to get ready. There was a masquerade that night, to celebrate the flamboyantly hideous new chandelier that would replace the one that had fallen down the month before.
Maybe Rodney would come, too. They would talk about… stuff, maybe mock the costumes of the other guests, and Rodney would eat his way through the buffet. John would play the piano, and Rodney would stand beside him, gloved fingers brushing over the smooth wood as he criticised John's technique. And for a few hours, they would pretend that everything was fine. They'd be just two guys, having fun.
That couldn't be too much to ask for.
Could it?
*
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,200
Warnings: None that I'm aware of
Summary: He wanted to be with Rodney, too. He wanted to live with him, day and night; wanted to take down the mask and say that he loved him into Rodney's ruined face.
Notes: Complete AU, written as a Christmas present for tipsywitch to the prompt of John/Rodney, musical. Set some time, some where past-ish. 1800s London, mayhap? Thanks go to neevebrody for the beta.
Also, this was written last October, so seeing a Phantom of the Opera AU at sga_santa totally made my day. :D
14 Valentines Essay: Day Thirteen: Arts and Entertainment, in which idyll writes this: Considering that the average girl will watch 5,000 hours of television before kindergarten, we need to have more, better and positive representation in the medial.
~~~
Cover by smuffster
All I Ask
Sometimes, John wasn't sure what he wanted. All the time, really, although maybe it wasn't so much that he didn't know what he wanted, but that the things he wanted were mutually exclusive.
He wanted to play the piano, accompanying operas and operettas, notes rising from his fingers until they were twisting and twirling in the air around him, flying the way he ached to and couldn't. He wanted to be better, faster, than anyone before and after him, wanted to be remembered not for being the only survivor of the Great Fire that had burned the Opera House to soot and cinders, but for the way he'd made the music come alive.
He wanted to be with Rodney, too. He wanted to live with him, day and night; wanted to take down the mask and say that he loved him into Rodney's ruined face. He wanted to make Rodney smile, a real smile that made both corners of his mouth curl up, even the one that was pulled down by the scars.
He could have played on Rodney's piano, maybe. Become one more part of the ghost that everyone believed was haunting this building. But it wouldn't have been the same, and he wasn't sure if Rodney would let him. Rodney had this strange idea that John wasn't allowed to make sacrifices. Not if they involved giving up his career, and certainly not for Rodney. And John didn't know how to tell him that it was okay. He got it. He liked Rodney, anyway.
Because John knew that Rodney had done… things. Bad things, when he'd been hurting and furious and lashing out at everyone, at no one in particular. John also knew that Rodney was ashamed of them now, but that didn't change what he'd done; if anyone ever found out how Rodney had made a new home for himself within the walls of the New Opera House, there'd probably be a lynch mob. And then John would have to interfere and they'd both end up dead, because John's father might have made it to lieutenant, but John had never fired a gun.
Sometimes, most of the time, he really, really wished he had known Rodney before. Maybe, if he'd been there, there wouldn't have been that much hurt and anger. Then again, maybe the dead piano player would have been him. That would have sucked.
The chances of that were slim, though. John knew perfectly well that he hadn't been hired for his skills, but for being the one who'd made it out. To the Opera House, he'd been an artist that brought them prestige while at the same time being completely expendable, in case of another… accident. Shame and childish pride had almost made him refuse the offer, but he'd needed the money. Besides, Rodney had helped him get better. Rodney had made him play scales until the joints of his fingers locked up, stiff and aching like an old man's hands. He'd been nothing but a voice from behind a mirror then, and the only reason John had listened instead of smashing his way through the glass was that the first thing the voice had said, the very first thing Rodney had ever said to him, had been, "Well, you're marginally less incompetent than the last one, I'll give you that. But I can teach you how to give your music wings."
And he had. God, he had. For weeks, John had practiced every night, playing his way up and down the keys, adjusting the bend of his fingers until everything he'd learned before had been forgotten, until the music rose and danced around him in a way that made his spirit soar, that he'd never thought he could achieve. And he'd loved Rodney already, even before he'd almost drowned in that damned lake and Rodney had pulled him out. He'd loved Rodney for giving him wings.
The thing with the lake had been stupid, anyway. John had stumbled - literally - into one of the narrow passageways between the walls, and instead of going back and at least get a light, had started to feel his way along the wall, determined to find his mysterious teacher. But there had been an open trapdoor and a ladder, both leading down to a lake - a lake beneath the Opera House, and no matter how often Rodney told him it was high ground-water and not entirely on purpose, John would never stop finding that disturbing - and John had hit his chin on the trapdoor frame on the way down. He hadn't even felt himself hitting the water.
But someone had heard him, fishing him out of the lake and dragging him to safety, and John had woken up on a narrow bed, half-naked and wrapped in blankets, the spacious room his blurred vision slowly focussed only lit dimly by what looked like two strangely-formed lanterns. A few shelves had lined the otherwise naked stone walls, cluttered with books and papers and what looked like stacks and stacks of sheet music. But what captivated his gaze had been the piano in the far corner of the room, and the figure sitting on the low bench in front of it.
The man had been clad entirely in black, a hooded cape wrapped around him as if to ward off the cold. The corner of something white had peeked out from where the hood was obscuring his face - Rodney's mask, and if John truly loathed anything it was that white, featureless shield Rodney had put up against the world - and John had opened his mouth to ask his questions of, "Who are you?" and "Where am I?" and "How did I get here?" and, most importantly, "You're the guy from behind the mirror, right?" Except then the man had started to play, and John had forgotten about his need for answers.
Rodney played so beautifully, hands barely scarred and not stiff at all, the hunched shoulders slowly relaxing until his whole body swayed with the flow of the music, loose and free. Something seemed to lift from him when he played, a bit of that intangible weight that was locked into the mask and every scar on Rodney's body, tying him to Earth, mind and soul. John could do that too, sometimes. Make Rodney arch and moan until he forgot that he was trying to hide, until John could pry off the mask with gentle fingers and kiss the patchy skin of Rodney's ruined cheek, the scarred side of his neck, what was left of his ear; whisper that all he saw was beauty, and have Rodney believe it.
John wanted that, right now. He wanted to go find Rodney and make them both stop thinking about the world for a little while, but he couldn't. He had to get ready. There was a masquerade that night, to celebrate the flamboyantly hideous new chandelier that would replace the one that had fallen down the month before.
Maybe Rodney would come, too. They would talk about… stuff, maybe mock the costumes of the other guests, and Rodney would eat his way through the buffet. John would play the piano, and Rodney would stand beside him, gloved fingers brushing over the smooth wood as he criticised John's technique. And for a few hours, they would pretend that everything was fine. They'd be just two guys, having fun.
That couldn't be too much to ask for.
Could it?
*