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tocrackerboxpalace · 3 years

Text

November, 2001

Summary: George Harrison reunites with an old friend.

There was a chill in the air.

All but uncomfortable, it was still and cool and calm, his skin refusing to prickle up into chills. There was no wind, or rain—bright, but no sun. Just air, all around him, refreshing and energizing and soothing all at once.

His eyes were closed. As his body began to come into itself, familiar sensations tickled up his spine. The first thing he noticed was the press of his feet and backside on the ground—must have been sitting cross-legged—and the feeling of dry, rough linen under the fingertips that rested on his thighs. His skin prickled as it recognized the feel of the linen up his torso as well.

He shifted slightly, as if waking up from a deep sleep. There was a certain mindfulness in practice, hyper-aware of the environment of his body: the cool, smooth ground beneath him, the scratch of the clothing on his skin, the curl of hair against his ear, the tickle of a mustache on his upper lip. When did he grow a mustache?

Internally, he felt… warm, cozy, almost as though in a deep state of meditation. His mind itself was drowsy, though he hadn’t tried to assess the situation much beyond physical sensation. He didn’t feel the need to.

It was nice. Peaceful, really. George couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a strong mind-body connection during meditation. There was nothing that existed besides the present; he had no past, and there was no future. It was not one of those times where the mindfulness revealed some grand ethereal Wisdom, and thus it somehow contained more truth. It was nothing and everything all at once.

Rather than let him enjoy this newfound spirituality, a familiar voice (in familiar habit) drew him out of the trance.

“Never thought I’d see the likes of you again, mate!”

George languidly struggled to open his eyes, a half-fight as the voice dropped the silly tone and resorted to a short, sharp chuckle at his own antics. When the eyelids had finally pried themselves open and his vision focused, George frowned.

He looked like a picture, straight out of 1961. Standing before him, arms crossed as he bit his lip with childlike excitement at the reconciliation. George blinked, hardly believing the sight in front of him.

“John?”

“In the flesh,” he grinned. Then a pause. “Or, rather, anything but the flesh?”

John was in front of him, a quite young John, staring at him with a bit of a worried expectancy.

George’s stomach suddenly dropped.

His gaze flicked around the room wildly as unrestrained panic rose in his chest. They were in a room, though it wasn’t a room, just a dull white, not so much white as simply colourless, with no décor or wallpaper or flooring or furniture although somehow, he was now sitting in a chair.

He was dead.

John must have watched the color drain from his head, for he made his way over to where George was sitting and laid an uncertain hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he soothed, nothing mocking. Nothing to make a joke of. “Takes a minute.”

George suddenly remembered he’d been sick. It was feeding back into him, slowly, as if each thought trigged a new repressed memory. He’d been sick for some time now. Images of nurses and hospital and IV’s and the dread of going to “treatment” began to flood his mind, and he shuddered. He felt a stubborn powerlessness rise within him: yes, it had gotten progressively worse, but it was nothing the old chap couldn’t handle. He’d beat it once already. He’d been stabbed, for Chrissake.

How could this happen?

He thought of Olivia, and Dhani, and choked back a sob.

“I don’t want to be here,” he spluttered in a near-beg, his chest tightening in terror once more. “I can’t be here.”

John’s hand dropped to his side as he almost (almost) rolled his eyes. He held up an imaginary list with one hand, gesturing wildly at it with the other. “Join the queue of nearly every person ever.”

George felt a needle of annoyance shoot through the fear that was slightly ebbing away. He half-wondered if this was the acceptance people talked about in death: the strange inability to control your emotions, your body progressively growing used to the idea and the knowledge of your own helplessness.

“You could stand to be a bit more empathetic, you know. I’ve just died,” he reminded with sarcastic flair.

John smiled brightly at the twinge of normalcy in the expression.

The fear was almost entirely faded now, which struck a new worry in his mind. He couldn’t just surrender to this already—it would solidify it. Make it too true. But the more he thought about it, the more comfortable he became. Against his own will, George was growing in acceptance, knowing that he should be worried but unable to feel the pull of anxiety within him. In an exasperating tug-of-war, he fought between the poles of acknowledgement and fear, a vicious feedback loop that left him confused and exasperated.

Maybe curiosity didn’t mean surrender. Maybe he could test John for some of the millions of queries floating around in his head whilst still protesting the concept of his state.

John was staring at him with wonder, almost as if he was watching George’s mind work.

Here goes nothing.

George looked at him pointedly, raising the most pressing question in his mind. “Is this Heaven?”

John blinked, and George recognized the infamous John-trying-not-to-laugh-because-this-was-a-very-extremely-serious-situation expression rise to his face. “Yes, George. It is. Jokes on you, religion, because Heaven is just me, and you, in this room, and sometimes we play marbles or jack off.”

His face turned more serious at George’s scowl. He went for a Take 2, his voice much softer now. “No, actually,” he corrected, scratching his cheek. “I think it’s some sort of… Purgatory. Bardo.”

George’s chest felt odd. “Purgatory,” he repeated slowly.

“Purgatory.”

“I don’t understand.”

John clicked his tongue. “Again, love. The queue.”

“Purgatory,” George said again, softly, the words dripping with disbelief.

“The in-between,” John elaborated with a grandiose wave of a hand. “You die, you fuck around here for a bit, and if you’re lucky, you pass on.”

George couldn’t contain his curiosity. “To what?”

John’s features twisted into a strange expression. “I, erm… I don’t know.”

George’s face fell. Right. “Do you…” He began carefully, mulling over the taste of the words in his mouth and sussing out which were the least bitter. “Does time pass the same, then? Here?”

John shrugged indifferently. “You don’t notice it, really. There’s no days or nights—time is a construct, anyway. Haven’t thought about it since. There’s also no expectation, so no boredom. And sometimes I see old friends.” He finished with a signal in George’s direction.

George nodded, swallowing dryly. He doesn’t know.

How long it’s been.

John caught his eye, and George flicked his gaze away in an instant before he could catch on. But John was quick as a cat, just like in youth, and his mouth pressed into a firm line. “George?”

George shook his head.

“George?” His voice was strained now, his demeanor thrown by the unsettling responses. “How long has it been? In-in actual time.”

Wincing at the question he knew he’d elicited, George averted his eyes and spoke near incomprehensibly. “Twenty years.”

John looked dazed.

After a long beat of silence, he snorted dryly. There was nothing humorous in the sound. “Suppose they’re still tryin’ to figure out what to do with me, then.” He paused. “For Chrissake, I already apologized in ’66.”

Neither man laughed at the joke. It was quiet for a long time.

“So.” John interrupted the stretch of silence, rather loudly, startling him. He clapped his hands together. “How’s Rings?”

George felt strangely hollow at the mention of his best friend. “Good. Married again, not long after you—” He stopped himself, unable to finish the sentence. It was still hard to wrap his mind around, all these years later. Even now, that John was standing in front of him, chipper as the day they’d first met (more so, perhaps). Even now, that they were both… “After you.”

“Is he?” John looked surprised, curious. “What’s she like?”

“Name’s Barbara. Ritchie made a film in ’81 called Cavemanand they met on the set. He really loves her. Oh, she’s fantastic,” George asserted, wishing John could have been there, needing John to have been there.

“Watch it,” John warned, his voice light and teasing.

George scowled.

John pushed his shoulder playfully, and George slumped further into the chair, defeated. As John’s laughter died down, George looked up at him and watched in fascination as the man did a complete 180.

The smile melted from his face, and a chill fell over the room.

“I—m…” John cleared his throat, offering the ground a watery smile. “I miss Paul.”

George was suddenly standing knee-deep in the ocean. Nothing in the room was different besides the knowledge that the water on the floor was Pacific. John was there still, only further away now, feverishly blinking the tears away with that desolate smile on his face. Before George could call out to him, comfort him, he turned back towards the expansive sea only to be confronted with a fifty-foot wave.

The breath was knocked from his chest as the wave crashed down with full force, heart shattering on impact. He let out an involuntary gasp at the sudden rush of pain that washed over his chest and began to stumble backwards, tears burning in his eyes. There was no water, no wave, and he was still standing, dry as a bone, but the sensation was all the same. Panic began to rise in his throat, blinded by an incomprehensible catalogue of torment, longing, anger, desperation, heartache. Every excruciating emotion simultaneously wrecked his being, coupled with the strangely overpowering feeling of raw, unabashed love.

John caught his arm, quickly pulling him into a hug. George hadn’t realized that he was close again, and gripped him tightly for fear of having him drift away with the tides that were no longer there. Tears streamed down his face as John stroked soothingly at his hair, muttering sweet comforts and apologies over his head.

“I’m sorry, fuck, mate, I’m sorry,” he babbled, trying to squeeze away George’s trembling sobs. “It works like that here, sometimes. Christ, I’m sorry. It’s all right. You’re all right.”

George sniffed, feeling like a child as he pressed closer into his friend’s body. “Works like what?”

John tensed a bit, though George couldn’t understand why. He spoke slowly, sure but hesitant in his explanation. “Emotions. They’re… different. It’s sort of like all that Hare Krishna unity bullshit—” George wrinkled his nose. “—and whatnot, the whole ‘collective unconscious’.”

George frowned at the implication, taking a tentative step back. “You mean…”

“Feel each other’s emotions, you can,” John answered without missing a beat. He spoke plainly, as if he’d explained this away hundreds of times before. “But there’s a historical aspect, too, that part I don’t quite understand. It only happens sometimes.” His eyes lit up as his voice quieted, mumbling to himself more so than George. “Maybe they had to have been there at the time? ‘Cause of the thing with Elvis…?”

George looked up at him in shock, ignoring John’s musings. “That was you? All that?”

John offered him a lopsided smile.

George’s heart began to pound in wild misunderstanding. He’d always known, of course, that John and Paul had that “special connection” that whisked them away to an entirely different reality. He’d grown up an outsider, watching in on the world’s most famous duo and feeling just like anyone else, at times. His stomach felt queasy and slightly bitter at the thought that perhaps he hadn’t even known the half of it.

All that for Paul?

He suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to comfort John. John’s pain was gone now, replaced by only a dull ache, causing George to shudder at the idea of his mate going through that alone all those years ago.

“Paul’s… good,” he said, slightly unevenly. It felt like a good place to start.

John looked up at him quickly, his eyes both intrigued and desperate. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” George smiled. “He came to visit me. Not long…” His breath caught. “Not long before this.”

“I saw Linda,” John said quietly.

An image flashed in George’s mind of John in the very same room, sitting in a cushioned chair. In the vision, his eyes flicked up from the book in his hands, and he did a double-take, uncrossing his ankle from his knee and sitting up abruptly. Somehow, George knew that he was Linda, seeing John through her eyes. He—Linda—offered John a welcome, familial smile, and George noticed the portfolio of expressions on John’s face as the two radiated towards one another with emotions that George could not feel. And then—nothing.

In front of him now, John shifted uncomfortably, and George tried to get his bearings in the present once more. “She didn’t stay long.”

“It was hard,” George agreed, still trying to shake the vision. “She was the love of his life.”

John nodded, avoiding his eyes.

“He never stops talking about you.”

A beat. “I never stop thinking about him.”

Something passed between them. George wished he could go back in time and relive every Beatle moment together with this newfound information. Suddenly, as if they hadn’t before, things made sense: Paris, the LSD trips, India, the breakup. The songwriting feud. Yoko.

He understood now, that it was a complicated love that surpassed the boundaries of typical labels: no dating or marriageor sex, neither platonic nor romantic. There was a lust, but it was different than any other attraction George had experienced; it was motivated, driven by something much larger than himself. None of it was a means to an end—simply living, appreciating one another, taking it day by day until it imploded and rained down on them like a meteor shower, the disastrous aftermath of planned obsolescence. A love like that could never be.

George felt eager to change the subject.

“Have you seen lots of people passing through, then?” His gaze twitched away to offer the barest amount of privacy as John’s hand came up to quickly swipe a stray tear.

“Um, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “You’d never believe—Elvis was here, when I first got here, which was right thrilling. We talked about everything under the sun for who-knows-how-long, but he left too not long after.” He nodded. “Linda. Some lads from school. Real nice chap named Freddie. He and I made a song together, though I can’t remember it now. He was in that up-and-coming rock group, the one on the tail end of the Beatles.”

“Queen,” George corrected, fascinated.

“No, that’s not it. I wanna say… Oh, you know who was a pleasure?” John switched onto this entirely new track, never missing a beat. “I met some psychologist. Taught me all about these fab concepts like behaviorism and operant conditioning and all that. I’d heard about his book, but I hadn’t read it until I met him. Verbal Behavior, is what it was. Real smart guy.”

“Do you see everyone?”

John thought for a moment. “No, certainly not. People die every minute. I’d be dreadfully overwhelmed.”

George smiled. “That is true. Lucky I showed up here, then.”

John returned the grin, almost sadly. “Yes, but you won’t stay long.”

George felt the strangest urge to reach for John’s hand. He suppressed it. “I want to.”

John shook his head. “You’re a good person, George.”

There were a lot of things to say in response. You are too, Johnny. I’m not a good person. We’ve both done some shit. ‘Good person’ is an arbitrary term because we are not our actions, so it wouldn’t matter, even.But nothing felt quite equipped to rival the emptiness of John’s eyes, so he said nothing.

“What do I look like, Geo?” He asked suddenly, staring a hole in George’s head with newfound curiosity.

The question caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

John waved a hand dismissively as if it were the most normal question in the world. “Come on now, what do I look like?”

George just blinked. “Like… John.”

With a roll of eyes, John reached out and twirled a finger around the tip of George’s mustache. “You’re all Pepper-like. What about me?”

It suddenly occurred to George that this was not how John always looked, and hadn’t been for nearly forty years. He shifted a bit, startled at the realization. “Oh! Erm—Hamburg. Like we’d just stepped out of Top Ten.”

John grinned and stepped back. “Fascinating, isn’t it? It’s always different. That one, I can’t figure out. I first realized when Freddie asked why I looked like ’74 instead of when I died. I couldn’t give him an answer, on account of I hadn’t even realized that fact.”

George laughed, though it wasn’t funny. There was a giddiness bubbling up in him, mirroring the excitement with which John talked. He felt so bizarrely thrilled that his fingers began to tingle, and he chuckled at that too. The feeling rivaled that of a limb falling asleep, and he mindlessly shook his hand to quiet the growing sensation.

John’s face immediately fell.

George’s stomach dropped at the sudden change of pace. “What?”

His eyes were shining when he spoke the plea to anything that would listen. “No, please,” he muttered, lip trembling. Shaking fingers reached out to grasp at George’s bicep. “Not—not yet, I’m not ready—”

George’s heart hammered in his chest, hardly able to hear himself speak over the blood rushing in his ears. The tingle had snaked its way up his forearms now, and a similar feeling started in his toes. “John, John, what is it? What’s going on?”

“George, please don’t go. Please. This isn’t—it’s not long enough, I need you, I need more time, Geo…” The words trailed off, and a tear fell from each eye as John pulled him into his arms as if that could keep George there. As if he could save them.

George slowly started to understand, swallowing the alarm at John’s frantic reaction. He was going to pass on, to leave John behind just like everyone else in his life. But this was a different kind of departure. It was not Julia’s absence, Mimi’s coldness, Paul’s Linda. It was not even Uncle George’s death, or Brian’s death, or even Julia’s death. At least, those times, he could find someone, something new to latch on to.

George would have felt pity for the man if not for the immense heartbreak, the indescribable pain of watching John come emotionally undone before him.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, blinking as a falling tear graced his own face. He felt oddly in control of the situation, despite seconds away from venturing into the greatest Unknown of all Unknowns. “Shh, John, it’s all right. Listen, we got to do this, didn’t we? We got to talk. And laugh. Just like old times, right?”

John’s voice broke. “I love you, Geo. Don’t go.”

They both knew it was a fruitless request.

George gripped him a bit harder in the embrace, feeling with hopeless acceptance as the tingling feeling reached his shoulders and began to pour down his back. He spoke the only thing that would come to mind.

“I’ll see you,” he whispered, a promise tainted by his own fearful tears slipping onto John’s shoulder.

John’s arms tightened around his waist. “I’ll see you,” he repeated.

#the beatles #beatles fanfiction #george harrison #john lennon #death tw #afterlife tw #purgatory/bardo setting #paul mccartney (mentioned)#ringo starr (mentioned)#elvis presley (mentioned)#freddie mercury (mentioned)#linda mccartney (mentioned)#yoko ono (mentioned)#bf skinner (mentioned)#this made me sad to write but i also love it

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lady-divine-writes · 7 years

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Klaine Advent and Bitchmas Drabble - “Doll Maker - Chapter 2″ (Rated NC17)

As part of the process of Blaine becoming Kurt's rag doll, Kurt decides to add a mark of ownership - one that harkens back to the days of Kurt's childhood, when his mother used to make dolls for him. (1231 words)

PLEASE READ THESE NOTES! Written for the Klaine Advent Drabble prompt 'sign' and @lilinas's Bitchmas prompts 'decorate' and 'adoration'. Warning! This may squick you out! So just to be clear, even though this is not gory in any way (I promise), it is about Kurt embroidering a heart into the upper, calloused layer of Blaine's skin on his palm. This is something that I have done to myself as an exercise in both mindfulness and expression. If done correctly, it's not painful. But this shows the amount of faith that Blaine has in Kurt, and how dedicated Blaine is to becoming a doll. Also, there's a part at the end that's written figuratively. It is meant to show the parallels between how completely and thoroughly children love their toys and how much Kurt and Blaine love each other. IT IS NOT MEANT TO IMPLY THAT KURT SHOWS BLAINE LOVE THROUGH ABUSE! I have a feeling that someone is going to make a comment just like this one, and I want to cut it off at the knees. Remember that you are reading a story about D/s and BDSM. Different rules apply here. Rules that are carefully thought out, with nothing left to chance or taken for granted. Sometimes I think people read my stories without taking that into account, or just so that they can be appalled. This is D/s. Very real life D/s. Bear that in mind. Also warning for mild anxiety, mention of a childhood injury that needed stitches, and a mention of fear of blood.

Part of the Taking a Journey Together series.

Read on AO3.

“How are you doing, pet? Are you green?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you sure? Any chance that you’re yellow and you’re not telling me? Because you need to let me know, pet.”

“No, Sir. I Promise. I’m green. Completely green.”

Kurt smiles, pinching his lip between his teeth in concentration. “Good boy,” he says, in a distracted murmur. “You’re such a good boy, Blaine. Such a patient boy …”

Blaine sighs in relaxation from Kurt’s praise, from the constant muttering of it underneath Kurt’s breath as he works. Good boy, patient boy, handsome boy, on and on and on, each one helping Blaine breathe easier.

Making this more bearable.

Blaine watches Kurt with lowered eyes as, stitch after stitch, the image Kurt’s creating blooms to life, one burst of color at a time. It’s a simple embroidery – a single heart in varying shades of pink, crooked and uneven to give it an arts and crafts-y quality. Set against the canvas of Blaine’s tan skin, the colors pop with an orgasmic vibrancy.

Normally, Blaine loves watching Kurt sew, especially by hand – the intense focus in his cool, blue eyes; his furrowed brow; his nimble fingers; the care he puts into every stitch. But this is markedly different, and Blaine didn’t want to watch. He’s squeamish when it comes to things like this. The first time he ever had to get stitches (to close up a cut in his thigh when four-year-old him fell off his bike and landed in a thicket), he saw the doctor bringing the needle towards him, and he threw up. Then he passed out, which earned him a second cut that needed stitches since he hit his head on the corner of a counter of his way to the ground.

He remembers being unable to sit still at the time, flinching with each stitch so excessively that the doctor recommended sedating him so that he wouldn’t accidentally poke Blaine in the eye. But Blaine barely moves when the needle pierces his skin. He didn’t really at the beginning either, a twitch or two, maybe a lip curl, but he’s motionless now, at one with the chair underneath him – an object, steady and inanimate. It’s good practice for what’s coming next.

For being a doll.

It wasn’t the idea of the pain that bothered Blaine. It was more the process – having something sewn onto his hand for non-medical purposes seemed so Wes Craven. He imagined stinging and blood, like constant razor nicks, Kurt’s needle leaving a series of pricks that would well nonstop. Blaine couldn’t wait for it to be over. But Blaine is oddly okay with this now. Of course, that’s because it’s Kurt. It’s all about Kurt. If this wasn’t Kurt’s idea, if Kurt wasn’t the one doing this, Blaine would feel trapped, like he did that day at the doctor’s office. He’d feel anxious. He’d want to run. He’d feel infringed on. Violated. But that’s the thing about Kurt, about the trust Blaine has in Kurt. As long as Kurt is pulling the strings, so to speak, Blaine is willing to do just about anything. And that’s not only because of his need to serve. It’s the tremendous amount of faith he has in Kurt.

Kurt would never betray his trust. He’d never take advantage. Even when they do things that their vanilla friends would consider insane, Kurt’s main concern at all times is Blaine’s welfare.

Kurt will keep Blaine safe no matter what. Blaine knows this.

This idea came about while Kurt was going over his plans to make Blaine’s second doll costume. Looking at Kurt’s sketches, Blaine wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about being a rag doll. When Kurt had mentioned dress up doll, Blaine had a slightly different image in mind. Then Kurt started explaining his motivations, about wanting something to cuddle, something soft, something comforting, something that reminded him of the dolls his mom would make for him, and it finally started to appeal to Blaine, too. Because he wants to be those things for Kurt. He cherishes being Kurt’s safe space, in all of its forms. If this appeals to Kurt on such an intimate level, then Blaine wants to be this for him.

Kurt’s mom would sew hearts on the hands and feet of the dolls she made, so Kurt decided to add that element. Experimenting with Blaine’s doll makeup, Kurt had drawn the heart on Blaine’s palm using pink and red eyeliners. He had taken his time, the way he is now with the sewing, carefully placing every line, filling it in with different shades. And it looked amazing. Blaine couldn’t believe how authentic it seemed, like felt and floss instead of makeup and skin. Blaine had said, and he meant it, that he wished it could be a more permanent part of his doll persona. Kurt gave it some thought, then he said, “I can do that.”

Originally Kurt had considered making an applique out of fabric and gluing it to Blaine’s skin, but that seemed so artificial. Insincere. Blaine has worked hard to get to this point. He wants to be a doll, inside and out. He wants to be Kurt’s doll.

Sewing the heart onto his hand seems to align with that desire more accurately. It’s a testament to what Blaine is willing to do, one worthy of Blaine’s commitment and dedication.

“There. You’re finished,” Kurt says, cutting the thread as close to Blaine’s palm as he can. “Tell me what you think, pet.”

Blaine takes a deep breath, swallows down just the tiniest bit of nausea, and brings his hand closer to his face to get a better look at his new adornment. Blaine has to give Kurt credit. He was squicked out by this originally, but, as in most everything Kurt does, he did an amazing job. Not just the artistry of the heart, taking such a simple concept and making something so extraordinary. Kurt has the hands of a surgeon. The heart, sewn in shades of pink, mulberry, rose, strawberry, and magenta, barely hurt at all. From what Blaine can tell when he examines it, the stitches don’t sit any farther than the very top layer of his skin, which, at this point, is mostly calloused anyway, regardless of the amount of moisturizer Kurt makes him use.

With this stamp sewn into the heel of Blaine’s hand, he feels like a real doll.

He is marked.

He is owned.

He is loved. Not that he wasn’t always, but he is now in that way that toys are, especially the kinds treasured by children, who write their names on the things they prize the most, play with them the hardest, and leave signs of their affection in the forms of busted seams and missing pieces.

Toys loved by children are usually loved until they fall apart, and then patient hands put them lovingly back together again.

The way Kurt does with Blaine.

His palm is sore in a new way, this pain a symbol of Blaine’s being elevated to a new status.

“Thank you, Sir,” Blaine says. He takes Kurt’s right hand, the hand that held the needle, and presses gentle kisses to the back. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, pet,” Kurt says, running his fingers through Blaine’s curls. “Now, why don’t we get you dressed? Hmm? I think it’s time to play.”

#klaineadvent #Bitchmas #lilinas #Dom!Kurt #sub!Blaine #frankie writes

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