Lancaster County 5/? The Brightness of Alcohol
O1. Shakespearean Violence
O2. Count the Freckles
O3. Over-privileged
O4. Common Sense
O5. The Brightness of Alcohol
There are years and years of color in Dick Winter’s eyes, he’s decided. They go on and on, painted by time and experience and the pregnant glory of stories he’s yet to tell. Lewis finds himself looking over into them more than he feels he ought to, but-grinning lopsidedly around the mouth of the bottle-it could be the stolen nature of his drink coming back to haunt him. He chuckles freely at that, taking comfort in the privacy of his own thoughts as he kicks back another swig.
At first the alcohol is as unromantic as his father’s expressions and tones, bitter and strong. It seems to fight back like a living creature being devoured alive, pushing towards freedom even when he’d swallowed it. But-and this is the magical thing about it-mouthful-by-mouthful it changes his perception. Each mouthful is still staunch and bitter, but he tastes only sweet, warm, and bright. It beckons more. He blinks heavily, having just finished a particularly long streak without a break for air-like Dick sometimes did underwater while swimming, absolutely refusing to break surface until he’d reached whatever he wanted in the depths of the summer rivers they frequented. Then he feels a bubble of alcoholic air pop out of his mouth, and laughs.
Dick Winters sits beside him. He finds the bottle of beer more comfortable in his hand instead, the cool glass sweating over his fingers in the humidity of the night. It’s open, and nearly full. He’s never really enjoyed a drink. It’s not his first time taking a few illicit sips, but it is the first time he’s had Lewis Nixon leading the expedition and drinking himself into a delirious joy, so it’s better.
For his sake, Dick tips the bottle to his mouth again and sips down some, smiling sideways at Lew.
“Enjoyed yourself enough yet?” he asks. He can’t quite bring himself to be reprimanding. Losing that cloudy laughter seems a higher price to pay than a little sickness later on, but he has to ask.
The bottle finally manages to rest while Nixon lets out another belch, the only interruption to his long, low laugh that hasn’t managed to stop since he abruptly knocked Dick’s bottle while he was drinking, half-choking him.
“I’m enjoying for both of us at this point,” Nix says, looking over at him. “You could pretend you like the stuff. Or you could just give it to me.”
Dick shakes his head, the red of his hair gone dusty in the dark light of a June night in an overgrown field. For a moment, while groping for his drink again as he develops a rhythm, Nixon’s unable to stop noticing all the colors he’s got, dim under the moonlight but brightened by stolen alcohol. Dick pretends not to notice Lew staring again, and instead looks dutifully out over the expanse of grass and brush to the dim shape of the farmhouse from which they’d crept.
Nixon laughs at the intense scrutiny even the sleeping dark around them gets, pale red brows tightening slightly, small mouth pressing in on itself in thought, and he falls backwards onto the ground. Suddenly, the brightness of alcohol has seeped into in his mind, and even the slightest motion in his friend’s face is a source of humor, quiet and irresistible all at once. Without bothering to ask, Dick shakes his head and sighs gently.
“You’re drinking too fast,” comes the warning which Lew can barely hear now, lulled instead by the cloud of soft, white noises of the night and the drumbeat of his blood in his veins. He giggles at Dick, and earns another cautionary look. The laughter grows instead, if only because Dick looks at him so prettily when he laughs, wrestling against a look of affection when he knows he should scowl and discourage him.
Or is it my drunken state? Or the bruises? Still not gone, and it’s been two weeks.
Nixon decides that the reason is irrelevant, instead occupying himself with his newest dilemma: accessing the lip of the bottle while lying down. Alcohol is not a proper liquid to bathe oneself. It’s meant to make Dick’s green-blue eyes more of each and the night warmer.
Ever since he had the misfortune to enduring the welcome of the area intolerants and bullies, and the good fortune to come across Dick Winters because of it, they’ve been inseparable.
Nixon sits patiently on his hay bale perch-mostly observing in safety now-when Dick tends to the horses, waiting more patiently for them to stop shuddering and snickering happily under his touch, waiting for his turn as Dick’s center of attention.
Dick carefully watches Lew’s fingertips when they tie up their fishing hooks, bare feet hanging side by side over the same rocky ledge, remembering vividly the pained bark he issued upon first accidentally spearing himself, jabbing his thumb sullenly into his mouth.
Nixon stops and looks down in surprise from the tree branch where he’d climbed out of curiosity for the view, and sees Dick stroll off, ignoring Nix calling after him to wait, god damn him, falling neatly off the branch in his hurry and landing on his ass, but hobbling dedicatedly after.
Dick smiles and asks to be allowed in the mornings he doesn’t work-and Nixon isn’t already sitting on the porch railing, kicking impatiently-and waits until he’s out of sight, obscured by the staircase, to begin to run and clap a sleeping Lew on the hip to wake him.
Nixon listens intently to everything Dick says, because he seems to cultivate every word before speaking, only taking the time to say them if they’re worth saying. He knows some of the things Dick tries to teach him, but he knows none of the place he takes him--a brotherly, freckled, sun-kissed guide in a rural world which doesn’t bear the mark of Nixon at every twist and turn. Sometimes he wishes he could convey how grateful he is for that at times, and sometimes he wishes he would ask Dick exactly what color his hair is, if only for posterity and absolute accuracy.
Dick always laughs when Nixon jokes, the color in his eyes shifting happily, his mouth quirking, brow softening-and once when he’s not.
(“Wanna stay here for a night?” he had asked, and, of course, Dick couldn’t deny him that, when they depart at the same fence every evening and meet again at the crack of dawn. It was saving on commute time.)
The same sensation had overwhelmed him when Nixon lowered his head to whisper near Dick’s neck as they lay next to each other beneath the bulky comfort of his aunt’s quilt, and asked if he really wanted to sleep. He’d rolled his head to face him, miscalculated, overshot, brushing the tip of his nose along his forehead, the dark fringe of his bangs encountering his own. He wondered if Lew had felt the same shock of embarrassment, bright and loud, sounding once in the pit of his stomach, and asked calmly what he meant. And, one covert mission later, Nixon had ushered him out the back door, a few bottles of beer to split among them.
Now, essentially having consumed all but one bottle of their spoils, Lewis Nixon is dizzy and happy. It’s not such a bad thing, when Dick ignores the impending prospect of guiding his friend back home again without being found out.
The space between the stars is blue and black, but the halo around the full moon is strong silver, illuminating them on the knoll. Nixon hiccups again, and Dick sucks down another bitter ounce or two for his sake, though his eyes have fallen closed and his dizzy laughter fades. The dark of his hair turns silvery-blue, his skin mimicking the buckskin of the gelding he’d fed that morning, with Nixon himself turning secret, sneering faces at him for delaying his friend.
“Dick…?”
“Hmm?” he asks, mouth still full.
Nixon remains nearly motionless, unable to remember what he’d wanted to ask. Sleep and alcohol weigh his head down until he presses his cheek to the ground, facing his friend. “Never mind,” he grumbles in return, smacking his lips a few times before he releases a deep, drowsy sigh.
Dick hardly wants to disturb him, but, watching the moonlight wash out his colors, he can’t help but ask his own question. There’s one thing he knows he won’t answer truthfully at any other time-telling by the half-sullen, half-hurt look he adopts whenever the topic of his bruises arise-and, seeing how he’s going to drag him home to bed, he decides he’s owed one answer. Even if it’s out of drunkenness. “Lew?”
“Yeah?” he grunts, barely able to push the noise out of his mouth.
“Why did they hurt you?”
Nix arches his brows in his sleep, lids still plastered securely shut. Dick draws closer, pressing his arm on the ground beside him, leaning closer to hear.
“…rich kid, they said. Didn’t like my face. Said I looked like some fag,” he mutters, managing to form a few coherent words, eyes peeking blearily open, and spot Dick’s hazy figure near.
He crawls closer then, knocking over his bottle-despite it being practically bone dry-and lays his head on Dick’s knee, grasping at his leg as if possessively snatching at his pillow in a shared bed. Sighs again-that deep sigh of dreams about to be dreamt-and Dick touches the bruises on his face and neck for a minute, cataloging them, before waking him.
“Time to head home, Lew.”
“You’re a lousy pillow…giving…orders all the time.”
O2. Count the Freckles
O3. Over-privileged
O4. Common Sense
O5. The Brightness of Alcohol
There are years and years of color in Dick Winter’s eyes, he’s decided. They go on and on, painted by time and experience and the pregnant glory of stories he’s yet to tell. Lewis finds himself looking over into them more than he feels he ought to, but-grinning lopsidedly around the mouth of the bottle-it could be the stolen nature of his drink coming back to haunt him. He chuckles freely at that, taking comfort in the privacy of his own thoughts as he kicks back another swig.
At first the alcohol is as unromantic as his father’s expressions and tones, bitter and strong. It seems to fight back like a living creature being devoured alive, pushing towards freedom even when he’d swallowed it. But-and this is the magical thing about it-mouthful-by-mouthful it changes his perception. Each mouthful is still staunch and bitter, but he tastes only sweet, warm, and bright. It beckons more. He blinks heavily, having just finished a particularly long streak without a break for air-like Dick sometimes did underwater while swimming, absolutely refusing to break surface until he’d reached whatever he wanted in the depths of the summer rivers they frequented. Then he feels a bubble of alcoholic air pop out of his mouth, and laughs.
Dick Winters sits beside him. He finds the bottle of beer more comfortable in his hand instead, the cool glass sweating over his fingers in the humidity of the night. It’s open, and nearly full. He’s never really enjoyed a drink. It’s not his first time taking a few illicit sips, but it is the first time he’s had Lewis Nixon leading the expedition and drinking himself into a delirious joy, so it’s better.
For his sake, Dick tips the bottle to his mouth again and sips down some, smiling sideways at Lew.
“Enjoyed yourself enough yet?” he asks. He can’t quite bring himself to be reprimanding. Losing that cloudy laughter seems a higher price to pay than a little sickness later on, but he has to ask.
The bottle finally manages to rest while Nixon lets out another belch, the only interruption to his long, low laugh that hasn’t managed to stop since he abruptly knocked Dick’s bottle while he was drinking, half-choking him.
“I’m enjoying for both of us at this point,” Nix says, looking over at him. “You could pretend you like the stuff. Or you could just give it to me.”
Dick shakes his head, the red of his hair gone dusty in the dark light of a June night in an overgrown field. For a moment, while groping for his drink again as he develops a rhythm, Nixon’s unable to stop noticing all the colors he’s got, dim under the moonlight but brightened by stolen alcohol. Dick pretends not to notice Lew staring again, and instead looks dutifully out over the expanse of grass and brush to the dim shape of the farmhouse from which they’d crept.
Nixon laughs at the intense scrutiny even the sleeping dark around them gets, pale red brows tightening slightly, small mouth pressing in on itself in thought, and he falls backwards onto the ground. Suddenly, the brightness of alcohol has seeped into in his mind, and even the slightest motion in his friend’s face is a source of humor, quiet and irresistible all at once. Without bothering to ask, Dick shakes his head and sighs gently.
“You’re drinking too fast,” comes the warning which Lew can barely hear now, lulled instead by the cloud of soft, white noises of the night and the drumbeat of his blood in his veins. He giggles at Dick, and earns another cautionary look. The laughter grows instead, if only because Dick looks at him so prettily when he laughs, wrestling against a look of affection when he knows he should scowl and discourage him.
Or is it my drunken state? Or the bruises? Still not gone, and it’s been two weeks.
Nixon decides that the reason is irrelevant, instead occupying himself with his newest dilemma: accessing the lip of the bottle while lying down. Alcohol is not a proper liquid to bathe oneself. It’s meant to make Dick’s green-blue eyes more of each and the night warmer.
Ever since he had the misfortune to enduring the welcome of the area intolerants and bullies, and the good fortune to come across Dick Winters because of it, they’ve been inseparable.
Nixon sits patiently on his hay bale perch-mostly observing in safety now-when Dick tends to the horses, waiting more patiently for them to stop shuddering and snickering happily under his touch, waiting for his turn as Dick’s center of attention.
Dick carefully watches Lew’s fingertips when they tie up their fishing hooks, bare feet hanging side by side over the same rocky ledge, remembering vividly the pained bark he issued upon first accidentally spearing himself, jabbing his thumb sullenly into his mouth.
Nixon stops and looks down in surprise from the tree branch where he’d climbed out of curiosity for the view, and sees Dick stroll off, ignoring Nix calling after him to wait, god damn him, falling neatly off the branch in his hurry and landing on his ass, but hobbling dedicatedly after.
Dick smiles and asks to be allowed in the mornings he doesn’t work-and Nixon isn’t already sitting on the porch railing, kicking impatiently-and waits until he’s out of sight, obscured by the staircase, to begin to run and clap a sleeping Lew on the hip to wake him.
Nixon listens intently to everything Dick says, because he seems to cultivate every word before speaking, only taking the time to say them if they’re worth saying. He knows some of the things Dick tries to teach him, but he knows none of the place he takes him--a brotherly, freckled, sun-kissed guide in a rural world which doesn’t bear the mark of Nixon at every twist and turn. Sometimes he wishes he could convey how grateful he is for that at times, and sometimes he wishes he would ask Dick exactly what color his hair is, if only for posterity and absolute accuracy.
Dick always laughs when Nixon jokes, the color in his eyes shifting happily, his mouth quirking, brow softening-and once when he’s not.
(“Wanna stay here for a night?” he had asked, and, of course, Dick couldn’t deny him that, when they depart at the same fence every evening and meet again at the crack of dawn. It was saving on commute time.)
The same sensation had overwhelmed him when Nixon lowered his head to whisper near Dick’s neck as they lay next to each other beneath the bulky comfort of his aunt’s quilt, and asked if he really wanted to sleep. He’d rolled his head to face him, miscalculated, overshot, brushing the tip of his nose along his forehead, the dark fringe of his bangs encountering his own. He wondered if Lew had felt the same shock of embarrassment, bright and loud, sounding once in the pit of his stomach, and asked calmly what he meant. And, one covert mission later, Nixon had ushered him out the back door, a few bottles of beer to split among them.
Now, essentially having consumed all but one bottle of their spoils, Lewis Nixon is dizzy and happy. It’s not such a bad thing, when Dick ignores the impending prospect of guiding his friend back home again without being found out.
The space between the stars is blue and black, but the halo around the full moon is strong silver, illuminating them on the knoll. Nixon hiccups again, and Dick sucks down another bitter ounce or two for his sake, though his eyes have fallen closed and his dizzy laughter fades. The dark of his hair turns silvery-blue, his skin mimicking the buckskin of the gelding he’d fed that morning, with Nixon himself turning secret, sneering faces at him for delaying his friend.
“Dick…?”
“Hmm?” he asks, mouth still full.
Nixon remains nearly motionless, unable to remember what he’d wanted to ask. Sleep and alcohol weigh his head down until he presses his cheek to the ground, facing his friend. “Never mind,” he grumbles in return, smacking his lips a few times before he releases a deep, drowsy sigh.
Dick hardly wants to disturb him, but, watching the moonlight wash out his colors, he can’t help but ask his own question. There’s one thing he knows he won’t answer truthfully at any other time-telling by the half-sullen, half-hurt look he adopts whenever the topic of his bruises arise-and, seeing how he’s going to drag him home to bed, he decides he’s owed one answer. Even if it’s out of drunkenness. “Lew?”
“Yeah?” he grunts, barely able to push the noise out of his mouth.
“Why did they hurt you?”
Nix arches his brows in his sleep, lids still plastered securely shut. Dick draws closer, pressing his arm on the ground beside him, leaning closer to hear.
“…rich kid, they said. Didn’t like my face. Said I looked like some fag,” he mutters, managing to form a few coherent words, eyes peeking blearily open, and spot Dick’s hazy figure near.
He crawls closer then, knocking over his bottle-despite it being practically bone dry-and lays his head on Dick’s knee, grasping at his leg as if possessively snatching at his pillow in a shared bed. Sighs again-that deep sigh of dreams about to be dreamt-and Dick touches the bruises on his face and neck for a minute, cataloging them, before waking him.
“Time to head home, Lew.”
“You’re a lousy pillow…giving…orders all the time.”