skyfalling
in
cabfic
Fic Exchange, for favorite_song
Recipient: favorite_song
Title: Trajectory
Author: lordessrenegade
Rating: PG
Pairing: Ian/Marshall
Word Count: 1028
Summary: "He keeps the window open because he needs the reminder that there are spaces in the world that aren't eighteen feet long and full of four other guys."
Late night, somewhere on the endless highway between nowhere and nowhere else. Headlights flash over the ceiling each erratic time someone passes in the other lane, escaping past them towards nothing in particular. Music plays.
It's quiet, indistinguishable, relegated to a single speaker in the front, on the driver's side. It might be the only thing keeping Johnson awake, but in the back of the van it's barely audible, nearly drowned out by the wind rushing by outside the cracked-open window.
Ian's feet are cold.
He'd moved into his spot in the van with nothing but an iPod, a phone, a box of cookies, and a sweatshirt, and the rest of his band looked at him like he had lost his mind. He's made it this far on them, though, through too many cities to count, too many venues that have all started to look and sound and feel almost the same. The cookies are the only things that didn't survive, and they weren't for him anyway. They were a peace offering, a thank you, a gift of celebration in a fit of holy crap, a tour.
Tonight, he wishes he had a blanket. He keeps the window open, though, because he needs the air, needs the reminder that there are spaces in the world that aren't eighteen feet long and full of four other guys.
Marshall's blanket is creeping across the seat towards him, inching closer every time the road curves left, so he tucks his feet up under it, under Marshall's leg, feeling the warmth of his skin through his jeans. Marshall's eyes open a little, just for a second, distant and sleepy, and he moves his legs a little closer to Ian, warming him just a tiny bit more before his eyelids flutter shut again.
Quiet. Movement. The sounds of the road and his band.
Ian tips his head back against the window, watching the stars rolling by above them. There's nothing but space; no trees, no power lines, no lights. The world could end, and right here, in the middle of nowhere under the stars, they would never know.
He sleeps.
It's either the motionlessness or the light that wakes him. Johnson's quiet as he leaves the van, and the others sleep on. Ian climbs out the back, tucking Marshall's blanket back around his legs, and takes his acoustic with him. The rest stop is empty but for them. The chords echo as he plays.
He sits on top of a picnic table and plays bits of slower songs, older songs, things he picked up when he was just learning, pieces of melodies that haven't quite formed into anything coherent yet.
"It's like camp." Marshall's voice is quiet, scratchy with sleep. The table creaks as he sits down on the bench beside Ian's feet, still wrapped up in his blanket. "All we're missing are the marshmallows."
Ian smiles, plays a line of kum ba yah into the darkness.
Marshall breathes out a tiny laugh and leans back against the table. "Where are we?" he asks.
Ian shrugs and segues into the intro to Stairway to Heaven. "Somewhere," he says. He shifts so his feet are under the corner of the blanket again. Marshall rests a hand against Ian's ankle, leaning back against the table and tipping his head back to look at the sky. They're just beyond the lights of the parking lot, at the beginning of the shadows, and the stars are clear and sharp.
"I never actually went to camp," he says.
"Me neither," Ian agrees. "But this is what it's like in the movies. Guitars and picnic tables and stars." He pauses. "And either wacky shenanigans or serial killers, depending on what kind of movie you're watching. I think I'm kind of glad I never went, actually."
Ian can feel Marshall shrug against his leg. "We have some wacky shenanigans," he says.
"Yeah. But they usually involve trips to shitty diners at three in the morning, or Cash being naked. Not, like…I don't know. Switching identical twins or whatever."
Marshall laughs. "Singer watching the Parent Trap for a month straight is really all you know about camp, isn't it?"
"…maybe?"
Marshall grins, and they're quiet for a while, the sounds of Ian's fingers tripping over the strings the only noise. "I went to band camp," Marshall finally says, "but it wasn't real camp. Just a bunch of kids hanging out on the high school football field playing stuff. Badly."
Ian nudges Marshall's leg with his foot. "You were a geek."
"Still am, kinda," Marshall says, ducking his head so his hair falls into his eyes. "I just get paid for it now."
The van door clicks shut behind Johnson, and Marshall jumps a little. Ian stops playing, rests a hand on Marshall's shoulder, and tips back so he's lying across the table. "Is it a hotel night yet?" he asks the sky.
Marshall sighs, leaning his head against Ian's knee. "Sleeping horizontally is awesome," he says mournfully.
Johnson starts the van and pulls it around until they're framed in the headlights, Marshall squinting and Ian flinging an arm over his eyes. "It's like he's trying to tell us something," Ian says. Marshall snorts and stands up, taking the guitar from Ian's lap and offering him a hand up.
Ian takes it because his fingers are freezing, and Marshall's hands are warm and soft from being curled up inside his blanket.
They climb in over the seat, greeted by Johnson's wave, Cash's snores. When Ian turns from settling his guitar in the back, Marshall is sprawled out over the seat, eyes closed. "Banishing me to the floor?" Ian asks in a whisper, and Marshall squints, smiles, and holds the blanket open over him.
"Sleeping horizontally is awesome," he reminds Ian, and scoots back so Ian can crawl into the space between him and the back of the seat, tucking himself into the blanket. Marshall settles it down over both of them, and Ian pillows his head against Marshall's shoulder.
Late night, somewhere on the endless highway between nowhere and nowhere else, Ian closes his eyes.
He sleeps. This time, he dreams.
Title: Trajectory
Author: lordessrenegade
Rating: PG
Pairing: Ian/Marshall
Word Count: 1028
Summary: "He keeps the window open because he needs the reminder that there are spaces in the world that aren't eighteen feet long and full of four other guys."
Late night, somewhere on the endless highway between nowhere and nowhere else. Headlights flash over the ceiling each erratic time someone passes in the other lane, escaping past them towards nothing in particular. Music plays.
It's quiet, indistinguishable, relegated to a single speaker in the front, on the driver's side. It might be the only thing keeping Johnson awake, but in the back of the van it's barely audible, nearly drowned out by the wind rushing by outside the cracked-open window.
Ian's feet are cold.
He'd moved into his spot in the van with nothing but an iPod, a phone, a box of cookies, and a sweatshirt, and the rest of his band looked at him like he had lost his mind. He's made it this far on them, though, through too many cities to count, too many venues that have all started to look and sound and feel almost the same. The cookies are the only things that didn't survive, and they weren't for him anyway. They were a peace offering, a thank you, a gift of celebration in a fit of holy crap, a tour.
Tonight, he wishes he had a blanket. He keeps the window open, though, because he needs the air, needs the reminder that there are spaces in the world that aren't eighteen feet long and full of four other guys.
Marshall's blanket is creeping across the seat towards him, inching closer every time the road curves left, so he tucks his feet up under it, under Marshall's leg, feeling the warmth of his skin through his jeans. Marshall's eyes open a little, just for a second, distant and sleepy, and he moves his legs a little closer to Ian, warming him just a tiny bit more before his eyelids flutter shut again.
Quiet. Movement. The sounds of the road and his band.
Ian tips his head back against the window, watching the stars rolling by above them. There's nothing but space; no trees, no power lines, no lights. The world could end, and right here, in the middle of nowhere under the stars, they would never know.
He sleeps.
It's either the motionlessness or the light that wakes him. Johnson's quiet as he leaves the van, and the others sleep on. Ian climbs out the back, tucking Marshall's blanket back around his legs, and takes his acoustic with him. The rest stop is empty but for them. The chords echo as he plays.
He sits on top of a picnic table and plays bits of slower songs, older songs, things he picked up when he was just learning, pieces of melodies that haven't quite formed into anything coherent yet.
"It's like camp." Marshall's voice is quiet, scratchy with sleep. The table creaks as he sits down on the bench beside Ian's feet, still wrapped up in his blanket. "All we're missing are the marshmallows."
Ian smiles, plays a line of kum ba yah into the darkness.
Marshall breathes out a tiny laugh and leans back against the table. "Where are we?" he asks.
Ian shrugs and segues into the intro to Stairway to Heaven. "Somewhere," he says. He shifts so his feet are under the corner of the blanket again. Marshall rests a hand against Ian's ankle, leaning back against the table and tipping his head back to look at the sky. They're just beyond the lights of the parking lot, at the beginning of the shadows, and the stars are clear and sharp.
"I never actually went to camp," he says.
"Me neither," Ian agrees. "But this is what it's like in the movies. Guitars and picnic tables and stars." He pauses. "And either wacky shenanigans or serial killers, depending on what kind of movie you're watching. I think I'm kind of glad I never went, actually."
Ian can feel Marshall shrug against his leg. "We have some wacky shenanigans," he says.
"Yeah. But they usually involve trips to shitty diners at three in the morning, or Cash being naked. Not, like…I don't know. Switching identical twins or whatever."
Marshall laughs. "Singer watching the Parent Trap for a month straight is really all you know about camp, isn't it?"
"…maybe?"
Marshall grins, and they're quiet for a while, the sounds of Ian's fingers tripping over the strings the only noise. "I went to band camp," Marshall finally says, "but it wasn't real camp. Just a bunch of kids hanging out on the high school football field playing stuff. Badly."
Ian nudges Marshall's leg with his foot. "You were a geek."
"Still am, kinda," Marshall says, ducking his head so his hair falls into his eyes. "I just get paid for it now."
The van door clicks shut behind Johnson, and Marshall jumps a little. Ian stops playing, rests a hand on Marshall's shoulder, and tips back so he's lying across the table. "Is it a hotel night yet?" he asks the sky.
Marshall sighs, leaning his head against Ian's knee. "Sleeping horizontally is awesome," he says mournfully.
Johnson starts the van and pulls it around until they're framed in the headlights, Marshall squinting and Ian flinging an arm over his eyes. "It's like he's trying to tell us something," Ian says. Marshall snorts and stands up, taking the guitar from Ian's lap and offering him a hand up.
Ian takes it because his fingers are freezing, and Marshall's hands are warm and soft from being curled up inside his blanket.
They climb in over the seat, greeted by Johnson's wave, Cash's snores. When Ian turns from settling his guitar in the back, Marshall is sprawled out over the seat, eyes closed. "Banishing me to the floor?" Ian asks in a whisper, and Marshall squints, smiles, and holds the blanket open over him.
"Sleeping horizontally is awesome," he reminds Ian, and scoots back so Ian can crawl into the space between him and the back of the seat, tucking himself into the blanket. Marshall settles it down over both of them, and Ian pillows his head against Marshall's shoulder.
Late night, somewhere on the endless highway between nowhere and nowhere else, Ian closes his eyes.
He sleeps. This time, he dreams.