(no subject)
Title: Wild Sage Part II
Pairing: Conor Oberst/David Rawlings/Gillian Welch, Conor Oberst/John Darnielle
Rating: R
Prompt: The photo Air Outside
Summary: John takes you, one day, to this big field.
Word Count: 707
Disclaimer
Notes: The next part of Wild Sage, a mini-arc in the Have to Explode series.
John takes you, one day, to this big field. You pretend like you hadn't heard him asking David for permission that morning, pretend you don't know that they all treat you like a child. Really, you don't mind it so much. Your head's so much clearer than it used to be.
The drive isn't too long - forty five minutes at the most - and John plays good, solid music, the kind your brothers used to play you when you were younger. Stuff that mattered, they'd say. Stuff that was real.
You tell John as much, and he laughs, his charming laugh. It's almost breathy, a little nasal, and it reminds you that he isn't Tim, doesn't laugh deep and soft like him.
Better as you're getting, you still think of Tim. But you haven't called him. You haven't spoken to him. Justin tells you he asks after you, but that's about as far as it goes.
But you're in this beat up El Camino, and John has brought both your guitars and a camera and some whisky. He tells you, "This right here is art."
And you believe him.
---
The past few days have been... tumultuous, but amazing in their own way. You and John still danced in the kitchen with David and Gillian, and John has still stolen kisses from you while David's back is turned.
When it comes down to it, you don't like it. You'd rather belong just to David and Gillian, rather just be theirs, and you tell John that while you sit in this field, and he laughs, and he says, "They only belong to each other."
You don't tell him that before he came along, David and Gillian danced alone with you, sometimes, too.
---
When you pull into the field, you're struck by the expanse of yellow, alive and well and thriving under a cloudless sky. It's all flowers, reaching up to kiss the wild blue.
For the first time, you miss Omaha.
John picks up his guitar and you take yours, and he takes everything else. He leads you to this clear open spot, no more than two meters in diameter, and he sits down and breaks out his guitar.
The two of you sit and drink and play and sing, and he takes photos of you laughing. When you are well and truly drunk, you lay on your back with your guitar resting on your torso, and you play even though you can't quite catch the strings.
You smile serenely at the clouds overhead, and you hear a click, there's a flash, and John has another image of you, captured permanently on film. The whole idea of permanence is refreshing.
And then John is leaning over you, his mouth is on yours, and. No. You're David's now, and Gillian's, and you belong to them, and you don't want to make out with John.
Whatever happened to having friends you didn't kiss?
You push John away from you. "John, stop," you say softly, a little sadly.
"Why?" He asks, confused, frustrated, and you're just a bag of mixed signals, so you can't blame him.
"I told you. I'm theirs." You gesture back down the road you came, where Gil and David's house is a few miles off.
"You're nobody's!" He cries, setting his guitar down in its case, a little harder than necessary, and you wince for the instrument. "Conor, you're not just a... a thing! You're a person, a fucking kid who can think and say and do for himself! You don't just have to belong to people. You can be your own, for fuck's sake!"
And it's the culmination of a lot of things, and you realize your days at David and Gillian's will eventually come to an end.
"It still doesn't mean I want to kiss you," you mumble, feeling so, so awkward.
He laughs, and rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "Fuck, Conor," he says, and he leaves it at that.
You feel more sober than you should, and you carefully put your guitar away. You're left not knowing what to say.
And maybe John is right. You shouldn't be content being passed from person to person. You're too old for that, too old to belong, and... you don't want to be.
You and John lie silent in the field until the sun sets and you are both stone sober.
Pairing: Conor Oberst/David Rawlings/Gillian Welch, Conor Oberst/John Darnielle
Rating: R
Prompt: The photo Air Outside
Summary: John takes you, one day, to this big field.
Word Count: 707
Disclaimer
Notes: The next part of Wild Sage, a mini-arc in the Have to Explode series.
John takes you, one day, to this big field. You pretend like you hadn't heard him asking David for permission that morning, pretend you don't know that they all treat you like a child. Really, you don't mind it so much. Your head's so much clearer than it used to be.
The drive isn't too long - forty five minutes at the most - and John plays good, solid music, the kind your brothers used to play you when you were younger. Stuff that mattered, they'd say. Stuff that was real.
You tell John as much, and he laughs, his charming laugh. It's almost breathy, a little nasal, and it reminds you that he isn't Tim, doesn't laugh deep and soft like him.
Better as you're getting, you still think of Tim. But you haven't called him. You haven't spoken to him. Justin tells you he asks after you, but that's about as far as it goes.
But you're in this beat up El Camino, and John has brought both your guitars and a camera and some whisky. He tells you, "This right here is art."
And you believe him.
---
The past few days have been... tumultuous, but amazing in their own way. You and John still danced in the kitchen with David and Gillian, and John has still stolen kisses from you while David's back is turned.
When it comes down to it, you don't like it. You'd rather belong just to David and Gillian, rather just be theirs, and you tell John that while you sit in this field, and he laughs, and he says, "They only belong to each other."
You don't tell him that before he came along, David and Gillian danced alone with you, sometimes, too.
---
When you pull into the field, you're struck by the expanse of yellow, alive and well and thriving under a cloudless sky. It's all flowers, reaching up to kiss the wild blue.
For the first time, you miss Omaha.
John picks up his guitar and you take yours, and he takes everything else. He leads you to this clear open spot, no more than two meters in diameter, and he sits down and breaks out his guitar.
The two of you sit and drink and play and sing, and he takes photos of you laughing. When you are well and truly drunk, you lay on your back with your guitar resting on your torso, and you play even though you can't quite catch the strings.
You smile serenely at the clouds overhead, and you hear a click, there's a flash, and John has another image of you, captured permanently on film. The whole idea of permanence is refreshing.
And then John is leaning over you, his mouth is on yours, and. No. You're David's now, and Gillian's, and you belong to them, and you don't want to make out with John.
Whatever happened to having friends you didn't kiss?
You push John away from you. "John, stop," you say softly, a little sadly.
"Why?" He asks, confused, frustrated, and you're just a bag of mixed signals, so you can't blame him.
"I told you. I'm theirs." You gesture back down the road you came, where Gil and David's house is a few miles off.
"You're nobody's!" He cries, setting his guitar down in its case, a little harder than necessary, and you wince for the instrument. "Conor, you're not just a... a thing! You're a person, a fucking kid who can think and say and do for himself! You don't just have to belong to people. You can be your own, for fuck's sake!"
And it's the culmination of a lot of things, and you realize your days at David and Gillian's will eventually come to an end.
"It still doesn't mean I want to kiss you," you mumble, feeling so, so awkward.
He laughs, and rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "Fuck, Conor," he says, and he leaves it at that.
You feel more sober than you should, and you carefully put your guitar away. You're left not knowing what to say.
And maybe John is right. You shouldn't be content being passed from person to person. You're too old for that, too old to belong, and... you don't want to be.
You and John lie silent in the field until the sun sets and you are both stone sober.