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Apr. 19th, 2012 05:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gala_applesTitle: Love Tale
Pairing: Pete/Travis
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1497
Summary: Once upon a time, two very different beings loved each other.
Prompt used: height differential on bandom_meme
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Once upon a time there was a robot. He was the size of a skyscraper. He wasn’t a skyscraper, that would make him a Transformer, and this wasn’t a copyrighted tale. No, the robot was only the size of a skyscraper; forty stories high and limbs thicker than trees, built with black iron and covered in so many dials and buttons that even the robot himself didn’t know what they were all for.
And there was a boy. A boy who was just so hot he thought he would melt. Every day he checked to see if his hair was drooping, his bones liquefying and becoming mush inside the drooping container of his skin. He never did melt. He just kept being hot, suffering.
Until one day there was shade. Most nearly melting boys would just be grateful to sit in the cool darkness. This boy needed to know why. He walked until he was at the very edge of the shade, then turned with his back to the daylight and looked up. And high in the sky was a robot, his shadow the boy’s shade.
When the robot started moving, the boy followed him, needing to stay in the shade. It took a while to realise the robot was walking incredibly slowly, considering his long legs, slow enough that the boy could catch up. The boy hit the robot’s leg as hard as he could. It was the slightest tap from the robot’s perspective, barely enough to register on his sensors, but the robot was a machine interested by the world around him. Careful to not squash the human following him, the robot knelt and turned his auditory sensors to the highest sensitivity. The boy thanked him for his shade, and the robot said you’re welcome.
They walked for a long time, the robot strong post system rehaul, the boy with the boundless energy of youth. It was impossible to speak and be heard with such a great distance between their heads, but the company was nicer than any they’d ever had before. Then the boy got cold, so cold that he had to get out of the frigid shade. The robot walked a minute more before noticing his companion was gone. He knelt once more and asked why the boy was deserting him. The boy explained he didn’t want to, he was just too cold without sunlight. And so the robot picked him up to raise him closer to the sun, and they kept travelling.
And the robot promised to loosely close his fist for shade if he was hot, and lift him higher if he was cold, but never let go.
*
Once upon a time there was a knight. He wasn’t very good at it, or he wasn’t very good at the things others thought a knight should do. The difference between the two wasn’t very clear, and mattered to few people. Help People was his mandate, but not everyone thought stealing a few rolls from an affluent baker and giving them to the various poor was helping. Telling the crone she was beautiful and that she should never stop looking for love wasn’t helping.
Not all kingdoms were created equal, of course. A land was only as good as the king -or queen, on occasion- running it. In the land the knight lived in, those that couldn’t fulfill their duty to the crown got punished. A lesson felt was a lesson learned, so said the king. The knight wasn’t sure if the king was just plain wrong, or if he was just the type to get kicked and stand up again.
Not that kicking was the punishment. Each time a knight of the land shirked their responsibility, their chest got cut with their own sword. Some failed knights were driven away by the fear of a blade so close to their organs, some by the pain of being sliced, some by the shame of being made an example of, some by the sacrilege of being forced to bleed on their own weapon.
The knight never ran. He just put a bandage on the wound and looked for another person that needed help. His help, not the help of just any knight looking to score another piece of justice. He didn’t care that his chest had so many scars it looked like he wore a necklace of thorns. He needed to help.
One day he heard a rumor of a giant in the forest beyond the perimeter of the king’s country. It wasn’t his duty to patrol outside of bounds, that much was obvious. The duty of listening to such a rumor was more arguable. The same words coming out of the mouth of a respectable job holder would be held with high regard. Knowing that the words originated from a small child with a vivid imagination ordered to pick berries in the normally boring forest negated it for most. The knight was not one such person.
He walked into the forest with a steady gait. A knight’s job was to appear confident, even cocky, no matter what their emotional state was. If there was no giant he had to act calm, as though he didn’t care that he had been lied to. And if there was a giant, he had to dispatch it equally calmly.
The child had been telling the truth. Deep within the forest the knight found a giant, hide as dark as the trees around him. Most would run and scream, most in his profession would kill first, ask questions never. The knight kept his sword in its scabbard, hand not even resting on the hilt. The giant was singing to itself. The knight’s instincts would not let him kill a intelligent being. Instead he sang along, his voice rough under the giant’s surprisingly melodic words.
When the giant turned and allowed the knight to come closer, he saw he was similarly scarred. The knight stuttered out an apology, sorry for every scar his species had caused. The giant shook his head, making the leaves rustle. Each mark had a story behind it, he explained. Didn’t his?
And so the knight climbed a tree and sat in one of the branches so he could look the giant in the face as he told his stories, knowing someone would finally listen.
*
Once upon a time there was a never ending circus. Unlike all other circuses, they did not travel to people. People travelled to them. Their tents were staked into bedrock, their trailers planted with their wheels flat and rims rusted. People would attend, or they would not attend, but the circus would not move.
People came. There was never any question about it, the ringleader knew that. People liked to be amazed, and his men and women and creatures allowed for amazement at cost.
Part of the amazement was that the circus never closed. It was a twenty four hour, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year - three sixty six on leap years- business, much as a convenience store, or a hospital. The first sold emergency food, the second emergency health. The circus sold emergency inspiration, and that was a surprisingly lucrative business.
Like a lot of the performers, the contortionist was once a customer. He needed something awesome, in the original sense of the word, to view after days of sleeplessness, and weeks of depression. He paid his fee, and first saw all the people luckier than him, lucky enough to be able to rest. Their slumber was frustrating, but somehow still artistic. There were women sleeping high in the air in a wrap of aerial silk, men sleeping beside the elephants with no protective barrier.
Not everyone was asleep in the dark before dawn. He saw a woman beside a series of pommels, hand balancing. He saw another woman juggling rolls of tape, occasionally tossing a certain colour to a man that was decorating a hoop for later use.
Invigorated enough to struggle through one more day, he turned to leave. That was when he saw the stiltwalker. The black man was a wall of fabric, jeans with legs probably six feet long, a orange hoodie on top. He had an engaging smile, and the customer knew then that he didn’t want to leave. So he bent backwards until he was looking at the stiltwalker with his hair rubbing against the grass. Returning the same smile, he asked how much it was to rent a trailer.
Instead of saying it wasn’t that easy, the stiltwalker just told him he’d get bonus points if he crab walked all the way to the ringmaster’s trailer. And so the contortionist did.
*
Or maybe, just maybe, once upon a time, there was a tall normal man, and a short normal man, and they loved each other.
No matter what the story, one thing is true. They lived happily ever after.
Pairing: Pete/Travis
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1497
Summary: Once upon a time, two very different beings loved each other.
Prompt used: height differential on bandom_meme
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Once upon a time there was a robot. He was the size of a skyscraper. He wasn’t a skyscraper, that would make him a Transformer, and this wasn’t a copyrighted tale. No, the robot was only the size of a skyscraper; forty stories high and limbs thicker than trees, built with black iron and covered in so many dials and buttons that even the robot himself didn’t know what they were all for.
And there was a boy. A boy who was just so hot he thought he would melt. Every day he checked to see if his hair was drooping, his bones liquefying and becoming mush inside the drooping container of his skin. He never did melt. He just kept being hot, suffering.
Until one day there was shade. Most nearly melting boys would just be grateful to sit in the cool darkness. This boy needed to know why. He walked until he was at the very edge of the shade, then turned with his back to the daylight and looked up. And high in the sky was a robot, his shadow the boy’s shade.
When the robot started moving, the boy followed him, needing to stay in the shade. It took a while to realise the robot was walking incredibly slowly, considering his long legs, slow enough that the boy could catch up. The boy hit the robot’s leg as hard as he could. It was the slightest tap from the robot’s perspective, barely enough to register on his sensors, but the robot was a machine interested by the world around him. Careful to not squash the human following him, the robot knelt and turned his auditory sensors to the highest sensitivity. The boy thanked him for his shade, and the robot said you’re welcome.
They walked for a long time, the robot strong post system rehaul, the boy with the boundless energy of youth. It was impossible to speak and be heard with such a great distance between their heads, but the company was nicer than any they’d ever had before. Then the boy got cold, so cold that he had to get out of the frigid shade. The robot walked a minute more before noticing his companion was gone. He knelt once more and asked why the boy was deserting him. The boy explained he didn’t want to, he was just too cold without sunlight. And so the robot picked him up to raise him closer to the sun, and they kept travelling.
And the robot promised to loosely close his fist for shade if he was hot, and lift him higher if he was cold, but never let go.
*
Once upon a time there was a knight. He wasn’t very good at it, or he wasn’t very good at the things others thought a knight should do. The difference between the two wasn’t very clear, and mattered to few people. Help People was his mandate, but not everyone thought stealing a few rolls from an affluent baker and giving them to the various poor was helping. Telling the crone she was beautiful and that she should never stop looking for love wasn’t helping.
Not all kingdoms were created equal, of course. A land was only as good as the king -or queen, on occasion- running it. In the land the knight lived in, those that couldn’t fulfill their duty to the crown got punished. A lesson felt was a lesson learned, so said the king. The knight wasn’t sure if the king was just plain wrong, or if he was just the type to get kicked and stand up again.
Not that kicking was the punishment. Each time a knight of the land shirked their responsibility, their chest got cut with their own sword. Some failed knights were driven away by the fear of a blade so close to their organs, some by the pain of being sliced, some by the shame of being made an example of, some by the sacrilege of being forced to bleed on their own weapon.
The knight never ran. He just put a bandage on the wound and looked for another person that needed help. His help, not the help of just any knight looking to score another piece of justice. He didn’t care that his chest had so many scars it looked like he wore a necklace of thorns. He needed to help.
One day he heard a rumor of a giant in the forest beyond the perimeter of the king’s country. It wasn’t his duty to patrol outside of bounds, that much was obvious. The duty of listening to such a rumor was more arguable. The same words coming out of the mouth of a respectable job holder would be held with high regard. Knowing that the words originated from a small child with a vivid imagination ordered to pick berries in the normally boring forest negated it for most. The knight was not one such person.
He walked into the forest with a steady gait. A knight’s job was to appear confident, even cocky, no matter what their emotional state was. If there was no giant he had to act calm, as though he didn’t care that he had been lied to. And if there was a giant, he had to dispatch it equally calmly.
The child had been telling the truth. Deep within the forest the knight found a giant, hide as dark as the trees around him. Most would run and scream, most in his profession would kill first, ask questions never. The knight kept his sword in its scabbard, hand not even resting on the hilt. The giant was singing to itself. The knight’s instincts would not let him kill a intelligent being. Instead he sang along, his voice rough under the giant’s surprisingly melodic words.
When the giant turned and allowed the knight to come closer, he saw he was similarly scarred. The knight stuttered out an apology, sorry for every scar his species had caused. The giant shook his head, making the leaves rustle. Each mark had a story behind it, he explained. Didn’t his?
And so the knight climbed a tree and sat in one of the branches so he could look the giant in the face as he told his stories, knowing someone would finally listen.
*
Once upon a time there was a never ending circus. Unlike all other circuses, they did not travel to people. People travelled to them. Their tents were staked into bedrock, their trailers planted with their wheels flat and rims rusted. People would attend, or they would not attend, but the circus would not move.
People came. There was never any question about it, the ringleader knew that. People liked to be amazed, and his men and women and creatures allowed for amazement at cost.
Part of the amazement was that the circus never closed. It was a twenty four hour, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year - three sixty six on leap years- business, much as a convenience store, or a hospital. The first sold emergency food, the second emergency health. The circus sold emergency inspiration, and that was a surprisingly lucrative business.
Like a lot of the performers, the contortionist was once a customer. He needed something awesome, in the original sense of the word, to view after days of sleeplessness, and weeks of depression. He paid his fee, and first saw all the people luckier than him, lucky enough to be able to rest. Their slumber was frustrating, but somehow still artistic. There were women sleeping high in the air in a wrap of aerial silk, men sleeping beside the elephants with no protective barrier.
Not everyone was asleep in the dark before dawn. He saw a woman beside a series of pommels, hand balancing. He saw another woman juggling rolls of tape, occasionally tossing a certain colour to a man that was decorating a hoop for later use.
Invigorated enough to struggle through one more day, he turned to leave. That was when he saw the stiltwalker. The black man was a wall of fabric, jeans with legs probably six feet long, a orange hoodie on top. He had an engaging smile, and the customer knew then that he didn’t want to leave. So he bent backwards until he was looking at the stiltwalker with his hair rubbing against the grass. Returning the same smile, he asked how much it was to rent a trailer.
Instead of saying it wasn’t that easy, the stiltwalker just told him he’d get bonus points if he crab walked all the way to the ringmaster’s trailer. And so the contortionist did.
*
Or maybe, just maybe, once upon a time, there was a tall normal man, and a short normal man, and they loved each other.
No matter what the story, one thing is true. They lived happily ever after.