fic: half sick of shadows
half sick of shadows
Z/Charlotte
PG
~2500 words. The Like graduate high school and finally get to go on a real tour.
Written for la_dissonance for help_pakistan. I AM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE, BB. I wish I had an excuse, like it was super super long or something and therefore took forever, but mostly it was just bad time keeping and planning and an inability to write an ending on my behalf. :( So I hope you enjoy it now it's finally done! ♥ Also, cool_rain_kiss is awesome for the awesome beta. ♥
The van is old, with flecks of paint chipping away around the edges of the doors from them being slammed shut too hard and too often, and most of the time it takes three attempts for the engine to actually splutter into life. There's rust creeping underneath it and off white, sun faded thin remains of half scraped away bumper stickers on the back window. It looks as though it's been down every road in America, shuddering to a halt at every stop sign.
“Perfection,” Z declares after looking at it from every angle, decisive hands on her hips, and from her side Tennessee laughs and Charlotte is smiling, and nothing in the world matters more than this van, than their instruments, than the three of them gearing up to go against the world.
--
They get lost on the way to their first out-of-town venue. Tennessee is driving while Charlotte sits up front next to her and squints out of the window at road signs, and Z is in the back with a map spread out across her thighs, pretending that it isn't the first time she's ever tried to read a map in her life.
“We were supposed to turn left,” she says, not letting any of her uncertainty creep into her voice - the map is very creased, and some of the roads on it are very small.
“We did turn left,” Tennessee says.
“No, the other left.”
“Right?” Charlotte asks, and Tennessee laughs, which Z thinks is a pretty cruel assessment of her navigational skills.
“The left before the turn we took,” Z says patiently. Tennessee catches her eye in the rear view mirror and pokes her tongue out at her, but Charlotte is still staring out the window when Z leans over a little in the back to look at her, her expression a little vacant even when they pass the signs they're looking for.
--
They make it eventually. Tennessee and Charlotte do a weird little victory dance next to the van when they pull up, shuffling along in time with each other, sharp elbows jabbing through the air. Z steps back and takes a picture of it all to commemorate the moment. She makes sure she gets the van in there, the venue looming in the background through the gloom.
It's a rush to get everything on stage and set up in time, and they have to strike one song from the set list so they don't overrun into the next band's time; Z overhears the venue owner muttering something about young girls never being on time and makes an effort to be even more awesome than usual. She winks at the audience and purrs down the microphone and knows without even looking that Charlotte and Tennessee are kicking ass, and by the time they finish they've won most of the crowd over. Z's been to small shows like this before, countless times, only some of which she really remembers now, and she knows it's a success when even a third of the room actually pays attention to the openers.
She thinks they should probably be getting a move on kind of promptly, because they have other places to get to and not a whole lot of time to do it, especially with what Z is now thinking of as a faulty map and navigation system. It's the start of a whole tour, though, practically the beginning of a whole era, and when Z says, “I think we should stay and celebrate,” they both agree with her enthusiastically.
It's hot in the venue, especially after being under the stage lights, and the three of them are wearing short sleeves that do nothing to mask the thick, black Xs drawn on the backs of their hands, clear indicators that they're underage. Z hates marker pens and bouncers who even check the ID of the bands who are playing. They have just played, though; it's easy to find boys who are a few years older and a few beers in who are willing to buy the girls from the band a drink.
Z's tipsy before the headline act even starts playing, closing her eyes occasionally and just letting the music shake through her, her fingers tangled up with Tennessee's just because she's there. She's only half listening to what the guys are actually trying to say to them, more interested in her drink and her friends and the music, but when one of them mimes smoking and jerks his head in the direction of the door, she follows Charlotte after him, tugging Tennessee along with her. Outside, it's easier to hear what people are saying, and Z listens to the guy start every question he asks with the word “so” no matter which of them he's talking to and smiles to herself at how painfully obvious guys can be, how painfully oblivious they are when they don't stand a chance.
“Sorry,” she cuts in, just after the inevitable question about whether they miss their boyfriends when they're on the road, an obvious ploy just to get them to confirm or deny being single, “but actually--”
“It's complicated,” Tennessee interrupts. Her hair is separating into strands across her forehead from the heat inside and the wind out here, and Z leans back just far enough for Charlotte to reach across her and brush it into place. “They went to prom together, you see,” she adds, laughing, and Z knows that Tennessee is just saying it to get the guy off their backs, that she's still just joking around, “and I'm afraid I'm married to my drums.”
“Tenn's very in love, they have a special connection,” Z says dryly, and she very deliberately doesn't meet Charlotte's eyes as Charlotte passes her the cigarette, ash sprinkling down between them.
--
Z knows she should be sleeping, but at first it's her turn to drive and then she tips right over into feeling awake again, wide-eyed and wired. She moves over to ride shotgun as Tennessee takes over driving duties. Z has to twist awkwardly in the seat to do it, but she uses the time to paint her toe nails instead, finally, like she's been meaning to for days now. She doesn't mind not sleeping too much anyway. It's different than it would be at home. They're on tour. Every moment is exciting; everything is new.
The road they're driving down is rocky and uneven, and Tennessee warns her every time they approach a bump by saying, “Steady steady steady now,” so Z doesn't end up painting half of her foot as well each time. It suddenly hits Z, as Tennessee looks over to see what colour nail varnish Z has chosen, how this is their life, now; they're in a band and they're on tour and even though their conversations are all the same as ever, the setting is always going to be changing now.
She thinks she likes the sound of it. At home, she cuts her hair all the time and dresses like a different person almost every day. She doesn't like things getting too repetitive, and even though they're just driving, road after road, city after city, everything is different.
Almost as though she's reading her mind, Tennessee says, softly so she doesn't wake Charlotte, “You're not missing home at all then?”
“Nope,” Z says, without a moment's hesitation, and Tennessee laughs, completely unsurprised.
Z decides to paint her fingernails a different colour than her toes, and twists around even more awkwardly in her seat to reach the back of the van where she's left her bag. It's an uncomfortable position, but she still holds it for a few seconds. Charlotte sleeps with her mouth slightly open and her hair fanned out all around her, dark and getting longer now, and it's another thing that's exactly the same as ever, even outside of sleepovers and parties.
--
There is one thing Z misses, in a sharp, silent kind of way, one thing that's from being back at home, from before prom and graduation and setting off to conquer the world.
She misses Charlotte. Or, more accurately, she misses the easy friendship they had for so long - when there was no new, creeping awkwardness, no cracks beginning to appear at their edges.
Z wouldn't change touring for anything, ever, but she does wish sometimes that there were other things she could change: the fact that she knows how big Charlotte's eyes are when they two of them are close enough to be sharing breaths, how Charlotte looks all made up in her prom dress, how she was too scared to do anything about it at the time, frozen in place and feeling too young. School was over and the world was looming and Z didn't know how to deal with any of it, least of all the way that Charlotte was looking at her, or the way her heart sped up when she thought about following her instincts until she knew she couldn't lean in because then she'd never breathe right again.
(Z's never kissed anyone and not had them kiss her back.)
--
“You shouldn't smoke,” Charlotte says, and Z raises an eyebrow at her pointedly. Charlotte has a cigarette in her hand as she says it, a trail of smoke rising up above her and being snatched away by the wind. “No, like, you shouldn't smoke before the show, at least. You have to sing.”
Z shrugs. “I always smoke before we play,” she says, which is probably only half true, and she feels vaguely confrontational about it even though Charlotte's making sense. It's the way she always feels when it's just the two of them lately, angry about everything that's in the air between them, pissed off at herself for tiptoeing around it as well.
Z hates playing games, and it's so clearly what they're doing that it's driving her a little mad. It's like acting: let's pretend prom never happened. She looks around for Tennessee but doesn't see her; she thinks she's inside talking to one of the guys from the venue.
“Okay,” Charlotte says, and Z thinks maybe what she hates the most is that there's no confrontation at all, another reminder that nothing ever happened between them. She hates the reminder that there's a risk she was too scared to take. “Here.”
Their fingers brush as Charlotte hands the cigarette over, half smoked, and Z spends a few seconds staring at the dark mark of Charlotte's lipstick on the filter, barely even registering Charlotte's goodbye as she heads inside.
--
She loves their van in all its rusty, groaning glory, but it's horrible to try and sleep in, and Z is tired. She's still not bored of touring; she just wishes that it could be more convenient, or that she had Tennessee's apparent ability to sleep wherever she wants to. She looks back at her and frowns, and then feels bad about it even though Tennessee can't see her.
It's a bad night.
Z is driving because she offered, because she couldn't sleep, because her eyes won't even stay shut. She feels half guilty for resenting the fact that she now has to focus on the road. It's dull and repetitive. Every street light that flashes past could be the exact same one from a mile back, and the yellow lines rolling by beneath them look as though they stretch on forever. Her fingers drum on the steering wheel, agitated; the radio keeps dissolving into static as they pass from signal to signal.
Z can feel it every time Charlotte glances across at her, but she keeps her eyes on the road. She can feel herself getting annoyed again and tries to swallow it down. It's harder to control, in the middle of the night running on too little sleep.
Charlotte says, “Z. Chill out,” and Z opens her mouth. She's about to snap back, feeling guilty as though Charlotte's caught her at something, until she realises that she's been sighing to herself every few seconds and acting stressed out anyway, maybe by the tour or the long road. She breathes out slowly instead, forcing her hands to stay still this time. Charlotte smiles. Z looks without meaning to. “Do you want me to drive for a while?”
“I'm fine,” Z says automatically. She pauses. Then - “If you don't mind, actually, yeah.”
Charlotte shrugs, an easy grace to the rise and fall of her small shoulders. “I can't sleep anyway.”
Z pulls over. She's about to open the door and step outside, walk around the van to the other side, when she realises that if Tennessee was next to her, if this was before, she wouldn't bother braving the cold in her short skirt. It's stupid - she lives in a van with Charlotte, and she shouldn't be scared of getting so close. She tells herself to stop being so fucking lame and slides across the seats, Charlotte climbing over her, close enough for Charlotte's hair to brush across her face, for Charlotte's knees to be sharp against her leg for a few seconds. For a few seconds, Z thinks about saying something, about shifting in close again and not chickening out. Charlotte's skin looks soft, and her lips are still red from the cherry drinks they had earlier.
Instead, she settles into place and puts her seatbelt on.
“Thanks,” Z says, and she means it, which means more than anything else, and she smiles. Charlotte shrugs again and starts the engine. As they pull away, Z finally manages to tune the radio into a station playing actual music rather than late night phone in shows, and they listen to it softly, Tennessee's sleep heavy breathing behind them.
--
In the morning, Tennessee takes the wheel and only half-jokingly orders Z and Charlotte into the back to get some sleep before their next show.
“I'm not playing with you ever again if you fall asleep on stage,” she says when Z opens her mouth to say she's not tired, and next to her, Charlotte just shrugs. She gives Z a small smile as she gets out of the van to move.
Z follows her into the back and she finds it's easier now, oddly. The sun is shining brightly through the windows and the radio is just this side of too loud, and Charlotte's legs rest across her ankles. Z's fingers are inches away from the Charlotte's wrist, and she lets herself relax at last. Her fingertips brush Charlotte's soft skin, almost a ghost of a touch, and Z finally close her eyes.