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tikificTitle: Alas, tiki cannot resist shiny, shiny prompt
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Not Mythklok. Not really anything.
Warnings: You won't like this one. But that's OK.
Notes: This was all because of this: http://metalbandwagon.livejournal.com/612.html But we'll just keep it here, between us. That way, no one gets hurt.
A word of explanation first, because this one merits it: basically, Tam off-handedly mentioned a prompt, and a piece got lodged in my head, as it sometimes will. Sadly, it was weird and oblique, and the kind of thing that is guaranteed to scare the ever-loving shit out of the fandom. So, I'll just tuck it away here. If you're in the mood for something weird and oblique, by all means, by my guest.
Crenelations.
Up on the roof.
So near the stars. You could touch them. Just a hair's breadth from reaching fingertips.
How much had he taken? Inhalation. An imprecise methodology. Imprecise.
So many lovely bright stars.
Cigarettes! Yes. Inhalation. Counteraction. Front jacket pocket. The cellophane – did it always crinkle just so? Thin, bitter crackles. Cigarette.... Matches! A scrape of phosphorous, and a warm yellow light. A lovely bright light.
“Dood. Don' fight it.”
How long had Pickles been standing there. He looked up, the flame reflected in his glasses, his eyes now flickering like the stars.
“Yer fightin' it. I kin tell.” A lazy, luxuriant exhalation: smoke from the joint curling and recurling, sensuous and frail.
Just one puff. It was like, just one beer, right? Right? Only it wasn't, it was a glass of molten tabasco with a thimble full of nitroglycerin.
“Pickles. What did you give me?”
A petulant rock star eye roll. “It don't matter. Yoo like seein' da stars, right? I kin tell.”
“You don't understand. I'm not like you. I can't just fuck off. Not even for- FUCK!” The match skittered to the floor, angry wasp, it's sting spent. Charles angrily tossed the Marlboro down after it, sucking on the burnt fingertip. Better. Pain. It was clarifiying.
“Yoo hert yerself, dood?” A crack in the rock star petulance.
“Pickles. What was in that joint? You need to say.”
“An' den wut?”
“What do you want from me?” Where the hell had the tear come from? It had leaked out somehow, traveled down the cheekbone, to the thin seam of the scar, the deep place, lost there. Lost there in the hurt.
A wind gusted across the roof, across the surface of the earth. The tangled dreadlocks blew like an angry red banner. You could see the tracings of Pickles' skull, set jawline, the deep eye sockets that, for now, held a glare of those yellowy-green eyes.
“Jest let it happen.”
'You want something to happen? You want something to happen? I'll make something happen!” But Pickles didn't have time to respond, because Charles' legs were taking him down the stairs, down and down and down and down and down. Would he ever get to the bottom? Did he want to reach it? Down and down and and into the soft folds of Mordhaus, into the warm, gently pulsating interior of the dragon.
And then he knew, even if he didn't, because he was tearing open the door to his room, didn't even bother to ever-so-carefully shut it, no, it would never shut the same way again, nothing would ever be the same.
There it was, up on the wall, hanging like some dead hunting trophy, bullets dug out and eyes replaced with dead marbles and sewn back together over straw, a cruel parody of a once living thing.
He clawed it from the wall, rescued it.
Dust. So much dust. Dust to dust.
“Dood!”
How long had Pickles been standing there?
For eternity. Yes. And all of it would explode now, because all the stars up there, they were connected to the room by fine strings, fine guitar strings, they would get a deal, they would get an endorsement deal, yes the guitar strings that pulled in the universe, pulled it all back together.
“Dood, dat's yer Gibson!”
Charles glared at the incredibly rude man who was now holding him by the wrist. No, that wasn't it. He wasn't rude. He just didn't understand. Charles felt a wave of pity for him. Poor man. “It's not dead,” he explained. “It's not dead at all.” And he was down, sitting on the edge of his bed, beloved guitar cradled to him, fingering pegs, adjusting the tautness. The strings made vibrations that were infinite.
And then.
The chords from Pinball Wizard sounded.
Vibrant, sonorous, triumphant.
The fingertips, frail tissue tearing, mingling blood and steel. It was glorious, a sacrament. Infinity stretched out. From him.
From the two of them.
He was down and down and gone. He had made something happen. But that was all. That was all he had to give.
Pickles' hand, so light, birdlike, on his forehead, tracing back hair that had been wracked from its place. He was still now. He was just Charles, holding a blood-stained guitar.
“It's alive, you see. It's still alive.” Did Pickles see? Had it all been a waste?
“It is, dood. It is. It's alive.” The smile, so shy. “An yer alive.” Two fingers, traced down Charles' cheek. Tracing infinity. Putting everything back together.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Not Mythklok. Not really anything.
Warnings: You won't like this one. But that's OK.
Notes: This was all because of this: http://metalbandwagon.livejournal.com/612.html But we'll just keep it here, between us. That way, no one gets hurt.
A word of explanation first, because this one merits it: basically, Tam off-handedly mentioned a prompt, and a piece got lodged in my head, as it sometimes will. Sadly, it was weird and oblique, and the kind of thing that is guaranteed to scare the ever-loving shit out of the fandom. So, I'll just tuck it away here. If you're in the mood for something weird and oblique, by all means, by my guest.
Crenelations.
Up on the roof.
So near the stars. You could touch them. Just a hair's breadth from reaching fingertips.
How much had he taken? Inhalation. An imprecise methodology. Imprecise.
So many lovely bright stars.
Cigarettes! Yes. Inhalation. Counteraction. Front jacket pocket. The cellophane – did it always crinkle just so? Thin, bitter crackles. Cigarette.... Matches! A scrape of phosphorous, and a warm yellow light. A lovely bright light.
“Dood. Don' fight it.”
How long had Pickles been standing there. He looked up, the flame reflected in his glasses, his eyes now flickering like the stars.
“Yer fightin' it. I kin tell.” A lazy, luxuriant exhalation: smoke from the joint curling and recurling, sensuous and frail.
Just one puff. It was like, just one beer, right? Right? Only it wasn't, it was a glass of molten tabasco with a thimble full of nitroglycerin.
“Pickles. What did you give me?”
A petulant rock star eye roll. “It don't matter. Yoo like seein' da stars, right? I kin tell.”
“You don't understand. I'm not like you. I can't just fuck off. Not even for- FUCK!” The match skittered to the floor, angry wasp, it's sting spent. Charles angrily tossed the Marlboro down after it, sucking on the burnt fingertip. Better. Pain. It was clarifiying.
“Yoo hert yerself, dood?” A crack in the rock star petulance.
“Pickles. What was in that joint? You need to say.”
“An' den wut?”
“What do you want from me?” Where the hell had the tear come from? It had leaked out somehow, traveled down the cheekbone, to the thin seam of the scar, the deep place, lost there. Lost there in the hurt.
A wind gusted across the roof, across the surface of the earth. The tangled dreadlocks blew like an angry red banner. You could see the tracings of Pickles' skull, set jawline, the deep eye sockets that, for now, held a glare of those yellowy-green eyes.
“Jest let it happen.”
'You want something to happen? You want something to happen? I'll make something happen!” But Pickles didn't have time to respond, because Charles' legs were taking him down the stairs, down and down and down and down and down. Would he ever get to the bottom? Did he want to reach it? Down and down and and into the soft folds of Mordhaus, into the warm, gently pulsating interior of the dragon.
And then he knew, even if he didn't, because he was tearing open the door to his room, didn't even bother to ever-so-carefully shut it, no, it would never shut the same way again, nothing would ever be the same.
There it was, up on the wall, hanging like some dead hunting trophy, bullets dug out and eyes replaced with dead marbles and sewn back together over straw, a cruel parody of a once living thing.
He clawed it from the wall, rescued it.
Dust. So much dust. Dust to dust.
“Dood!”
How long had Pickles been standing there?
For eternity. Yes. And all of it would explode now, because all the stars up there, they were connected to the room by fine strings, fine guitar strings, they would get a deal, they would get an endorsement deal, yes the guitar strings that pulled in the universe, pulled it all back together.
“Dood, dat's yer Gibson!”
Charles glared at the incredibly rude man who was now holding him by the wrist. No, that wasn't it. He wasn't rude. He just didn't understand. Charles felt a wave of pity for him. Poor man. “It's not dead,” he explained. “It's not dead at all.” And he was down, sitting on the edge of his bed, beloved guitar cradled to him, fingering pegs, adjusting the tautness. The strings made vibrations that were infinite.
And then.
The chords from Pinball Wizard sounded.
Vibrant, sonorous, triumphant.
The fingertips, frail tissue tearing, mingling blood and steel. It was glorious, a sacrament. Infinity stretched out. From him.
From the two of them.
He was down and down and gone. He had made something happen. But that was all. That was all he had to give.
Pickles' hand, so light, birdlike, on his forehead, tracing back hair that had been wracked from its place. He was still now. He was just Charles, holding a blood-stained guitar.
“It's alive, you see. It's still alive.” Did Pickles see? Had it all been a waste?
“It is, dood. It is. It's alive.” The smile, so shy. “An yer alive.” Two fingers, traced down Charles' cheek. Tracing infinity. Putting everything back together.
