123
we've got the dreamer's disease
The Cab (slight Cash/Johnson, depending on how you look at it.)
1,029 words, pg, third person. Title taken from You Get What You Give, by the New Radicals. For hypaethral, because she wanted Cash/Johnson. This isn't exactly what you asked for, Jess, but I hope it suffices! ♥ Written instead of the essay I'm actually supposed to be working on, ha. Also, this is unbetad, so feel free to point out any errors.
“So,” Johnson says, with his hands under his head and his back against the wet grass, “do you think we’ll make it?”
“So,” Johnson says, with his hands under his head and his back against the wet grass, “do you think we’ll make it?” It stopped raining about an hour earlier, around 11:00, and after three days spent in their van watching it come down, raindrops streaking the windows, Johnson had said, no-nonsense like always, that if they didn’t all get a break from the van he was going to slowly kill them. Cash tends to take Johnson at his word - it’s a hard learned lesson.
“You don’t think this counts as making it?” Cash asks, honestly curious. He’s sitting cross-legged by Johnson’s left thigh with his acoustic in his lap and a cigarette hanging, precarious, from his lips. His two favorite things, probably, if he had to choose and be truthful about it. He lets his fingers strum the strings - he’s holding the neck loosely in his free hand, playing open-chord, nothing in particular. Johnson looks away from the night sky for a moment, arching his neck and raising an eyebrow.
“What? The five of us bumming around in a van across country? Sure, sort of.” He shrugs, and Cash can hear the rustle of the grass against his t-shirt. He sucks in cigarette smoke and looks over to the van, where Marshall and Ian are sitting, leaning back against the front wheel, driver’s side. He actually has no idea where Singer is, but he also knows that he’ll be back. There aren’t so many places to go when pulled over to the side of the highway. He exhales smoke, fingers still brushing against the strings of his guitar.
“But not really,” he prompts, pushing the topic. Johnson brought it up, so tough shit if he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. Cash is, at times, frustrated with Johnson and his apparent impatience with conversations. It’s almost like a conversation should be less than four minutes long or it’s not worth it. Cash is pretty sure they haven’t hit the four minute mark yet, though.
“No, not really.” Johnson stops talking again, staring at the sky. Cash can feel the rainwater soaking through the seat of his jeans, the backs of his thighs, but he doesn’t really care - it’s not like he’s going to have any clean clothes by the end of this tour, what’s a little rainwater? He takes another drag off his cigarette, enjoying the way the ember glows when he breathes in, stark in the dark all around them. Cash loves the night - it makes everything more dramatic than it has any right to be.
“So when, exactly, will you know that we’ve made it?” Cash asks, curious again. Johnson makes a thoughtful noise, half a hum, and scrunches his nose up in thought. Cash almost laughs at him, but it’s a strangely endearing quality, like a kid, and Cash doesn’t want to make him stop.
“When I go into a Starbucks in some state somewhere across the country, and one of the baristas recognizes me, probably,” Johnson says, eventually. “Or, well, one of the customers. Then I’ll know we’ve made it.” Cash does laugh, then, because, really.
“Dude,” he says, pulling his hand away from the neck of his guitar so that he can ash his cigarette. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re the drummer. No one’s ever going to recognize you. It’s your lot in life.” He sticks the cigarette back in his mouth, taking one last drag before stubbing the butt out against the dirt.
“And your lot in life is to be a huge asshole, apparently,” Johnson says blandly. “One day I’ll stop being surprised.” He sits up so that he can punch Cash in the arm, hard. Cash winces, shaking his hand out, mouth falling open as he breathes in, quickly. Dude can punch, fuck, but Cash supposes it makes sense. He’s got to have some killer muscles in his arms.
“Ow, fucker,” he says. “I only tell the truth.” Johnson’s shirt is sticking to his back where the rain has soaked through the cotton, and Cash can see the flash of skin just above the waistband of his boxers, sticking out from his jeans. He strums a few quick opens chords, the first bars of Disease, just to distract his fingers.
“Fine,” Johnson says, shrugging again. “So tell me when someone recognizes you, then, and I’ll count it.” Cash laughs.
“Deal,” he says, holds out his hand. It’s Johnson’s turn to laugh, then, and he fits his hand into Cash’s, his fingers cold and callused against Cash’s skin, his grip firm.
“Dudes!” Marshall calls from the van, the doors now open to the night air. “Time to go!” Ian’s nowhere, probably already inside, and Singer’s appeared, leaning back against the driver’s side door, hands in his hoodie pockets. Marshall waves them over.
Cash pulls his hand back, and pushes himself to his feet. He hums softly, singing,
“On the road again, just can’t wait to get on the road again.” He doesn’t know the chords, so he just keeps his hands still on his guitar.
“Willie Nelson?” Johnson asks, pulling at his shirt as he stands. “Are you really singing Willie Nelson at me?”
“The life I love is makin’ music with my friends,” Cash continues, grinning wide, slightly off key. He’s tempted to bat his eyelashes, but he resists. The sentiment is true, if slightly ridiculous. Johnson rolls his eyes and wraps a hand around Cash’s wrist, pulling him back toward the van. Cash can still feel his calluses, the chill from the night air in his fingertips.
“Sappy fuck,” Johnson says, but there’s warmth in his voice, something like resigned affection. Cash smiles, his feet steady over the grass and onto the pavement.
“You know you love it.” Johnson snorts, but Cash knows that it might as well be agreement. He lets Johnson pull him into the van.
“Three hours ‘til the next stop,” Marshall says, pushing his hair away from his eyes with a careless hand. Ian’s driving, Singer sitting beside him in the passenger seat. Cash sinks into the seat next to Johnson, shoulder pressed to the window, and he thinks that’s fine.
The Cab (slight Cash/Johnson, depending on how you look at it.)
1,029 words, pg, third person. Title taken from You Get What You Give, by the New Radicals. For hypaethral, because she wanted Cash/Johnson. This isn't exactly what you asked for, Jess, but I hope it suffices! ♥ Written instead of the essay I'm actually supposed to be working on, ha. Also, this is unbetad, so feel free to point out any errors.
“So,” Johnson says, with his hands under his head and his back against the wet grass, “do you think we’ll make it?”
“So,” Johnson says, with his hands under his head and his back against the wet grass, “do you think we’ll make it?” It stopped raining about an hour earlier, around 11:00, and after three days spent in their van watching it come down, raindrops streaking the windows, Johnson had said, no-nonsense like always, that if they didn’t all get a break from the van he was going to slowly kill them. Cash tends to take Johnson at his word - it’s a hard learned lesson.
“You don’t think this counts as making it?” Cash asks, honestly curious. He’s sitting cross-legged by Johnson’s left thigh with his acoustic in his lap and a cigarette hanging, precarious, from his lips. His two favorite things, probably, if he had to choose and be truthful about it. He lets his fingers strum the strings - he’s holding the neck loosely in his free hand, playing open-chord, nothing in particular. Johnson looks away from the night sky for a moment, arching his neck and raising an eyebrow.
“What? The five of us bumming around in a van across country? Sure, sort of.” He shrugs, and Cash can hear the rustle of the grass against his t-shirt. He sucks in cigarette smoke and looks over to the van, where Marshall and Ian are sitting, leaning back against the front wheel, driver’s side. He actually has no idea where Singer is, but he also knows that he’ll be back. There aren’t so many places to go when pulled over to the side of the highway. He exhales smoke, fingers still brushing against the strings of his guitar.
“But not really,” he prompts, pushing the topic. Johnson brought it up, so tough shit if he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. Cash is, at times, frustrated with Johnson and his apparent impatience with conversations. It’s almost like a conversation should be less than four minutes long or it’s not worth it. Cash is pretty sure they haven’t hit the four minute mark yet, though.
“No, not really.” Johnson stops talking again, staring at the sky. Cash can feel the rainwater soaking through the seat of his jeans, the backs of his thighs, but he doesn’t really care - it’s not like he’s going to have any clean clothes by the end of this tour, what’s a little rainwater? He takes another drag off his cigarette, enjoying the way the ember glows when he breathes in, stark in the dark all around them. Cash loves the night - it makes everything more dramatic than it has any right to be.
“So when, exactly, will you know that we’ve made it?” Cash asks, curious again. Johnson makes a thoughtful noise, half a hum, and scrunches his nose up in thought. Cash almost laughs at him, but it’s a strangely endearing quality, like a kid, and Cash doesn’t want to make him stop.
“When I go into a Starbucks in some state somewhere across the country, and one of the baristas recognizes me, probably,” Johnson says, eventually. “Or, well, one of the customers. Then I’ll know we’ve made it.” Cash does laugh, then, because, really.
“Dude,” he says, pulling his hand away from the neck of his guitar so that he can ash his cigarette. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re the drummer. No one’s ever going to recognize you. It’s your lot in life.” He sticks the cigarette back in his mouth, taking one last drag before stubbing the butt out against the dirt.
“And your lot in life is to be a huge asshole, apparently,” Johnson says blandly. “One day I’ll stop being surprised.” He sits up so that he can punch Cash in the arm, hard. Cash winces, shaking his hand out, mouth falling open as he breathes in, quickly. Dude can punch, fuck, but Cash supposes it makes sense. He’s got to have some killer muscles in his arms.
“Ow, fucker,” he says. “I only tell the truth.” Johnson’s shirt is sticking to his back where the rain has soaked through the cotton, and Cash can see the flash of skin just above the waistband of his boxers, sticking out from his jeans. He strums a few quick opens chords, the first bars of Disease, just to distract his fingers.
“Fine,” Johnson says, shrugging again. “So tell me when someone recognizes you, then, and I’ll count it.” Cash laughs.
“Deal,” he says, holds out his hand. It’s Johnson’s turn to laugh, then, and he fits his hand into Cash’s, his fingers cold and callused against Cash’s skin, his grip firm.
“Dudes!” Marshall calls from the van, the doors now open to the night air. “Time to go!” Ian’s nowhere, probably already inside, and Singer’s appeared, leaning back against the driver’s side door, hands in his hoodie pockets. Marshall waves them over.
Cash pulls his hand back, and pushes himself to his feet. He hums softly, singing,
“On the road again, just can’t wait to get on the road again.” He doesn’t know the chords, so he just keeps his hands still on his guitar.
“Willie Nelson?” Johnson asks, pulling at his shirt as he stands. “Are you really singing Willie Nelson at me?”
“The life I love is makin’ music with my friends,” Cash continues, grinning wide, slightly off key. He’s tempted to bat his eyelashes, but he resists. The sentiment is true, if slightly ridiculous. Johnson rolls his eyes and wraps a hand around Cash’s wrist, pulling him back toward the van. Cash can still feel his calluses, the chill from the night air in his fingertips.
“Sappy fuck,” Johnson says, but there’s warmth in his voice, something like resigned affection. Cash smiles, his feet steady over the grass and onto the pavement.
“You know you love it.” Johnson snorts, but Cash knows that it might as well be agreement. He lets Johnson pull him into the van.
“Three hours ‘til the next stop,” Marshall says, pushing his hair away from his eyes with a careless hand. Ian’s driving, Singer sitting beside him in the passenger seat. Cash sinks into the seat next to Johnson, shoulder pressed to the window, and he thinks that’s fine.