Andy is tender and fragile, but he pretends to be strong in the gentlest of ways. He doesn't like to be a burden, and so he shoulders his own and keeps duct tape over his mouth- call him a mute. On his silver muzzle he scribbles in a smile with a dollar sharpie and keeps himself under the sun so his eyes are always bright, even if he is dead inside. As long as he lets his strings be tugged around no one should ever need know he's lifeless.
Until his toy comes out to play.
It's Chucky who- abrasively and coarsely- snaps the cords with his sharp tongue and watches in disbelief as Andy falls apart and drops to his knees, no longer supported by the stresses around him. It's Chucky who rips the tape from his mouth and leaves him screaming until his lungs are as raw as his chapped lips, dried from his constant lies and abandonment. It's Chucky who ruins it all and tears it down- who leaves Andy so angry, for the first time in a long while, he feelsfire in his soul again, so that the heat curls and sparks in his eyes.
It's the doll who catches his tears like rain, collecting them in a rusted silver pail for the boy to drink from. It's his reluctant- but not so reluctant as he would want Andy to think- kisses that soften his lips again, that make his blood stir: and for the first time in a long time, his fingers curl from no strings but his own. It's the doll that feeds him with spiced words; they burn his throat as he swallows them but they leave his chest warm. It's the warmest he's been in a long while.
It's the doll he curls his body around to make a mold for at night; the template of something they can't begin to imagine- sometimes they're afraid to try. It's Chucky who provides the same sharp comfort of a blade without the searing mess to clean afterwards.
Andy's fragile, but he isn't porcelain- and neither is his doll, although sometimes it's hard to tell with the both of them.
They're tugging at each other so roughly you'd call it a fight, but if either lets go they'll both tumble over the edge of their small precipice. So they keep their needles deep in each other's threads, until they're woven so tight you can almost see the patchwork of their companionship. "Until the end" is a lot heavier of a phrase when they've added all the pebbles in their pockets to rest over top it- the base of a mountain.
But a mountain lasts for years to come, and nothing can shake it. And nothing will shake them. Not so long as they can feel the pulse shared between their fingertips, just as tangled and scarred as they are.