(Untitled)

[dingdongdoodily]

Pickles had spread out a blanket and had grabbed a couple bottles of booze, including the expensive-as-hell one. He'd also gathered driftwood and built a fairly impressive little fire between them and the water. It was really just to keep himself busy, since as much as he said it didn't bother him, and as much as he'd been playing it cool

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[dingdongdoodily]

Pickles chuckled, tugging the sweater on, "We've got another couple hours, and then about fourty minutes or so down some back roads. You can take a nap if you want, it's been a pretty long day."

He tied back his dreads with a stray bandanna and started the car, looking over his shoulder as he backed out onto the highway, speeding back up the coastline.

[cheevy]

Miniver curls up in the seat, buckled in, feet up on the dashboard, arms inside his sweater.

"I'm not tired," he says. And it's true. He won't sleep until they get there. Instead he cracks the window open to get the smell of the wind and as soon as he warms up enough inside the sweater that his teeth stop chattering, he sings.

His repetoire is Irish folk, a lot of it even in Gaelic, but his voice is strong in the company of someone he trusts. He's not afraid to sing for Pickles anymore. He even enjoys it.

[dingdongdoodily]

And due to the fact that he'd come to know a few of the songs that Miniver sang, Pickles would often sing along, taking a harmony to it, though his voice was grittier, more trained for what he'd been singing his whole career.

It gave it a nice flair, he thought. But once they'd ran out of songs, though there were many folk songs to sing, Pickles looked over to Miniver, briefly.

"There's always a song fer everything. At least fer me. When I can't think of one that hasn't been written yet, I'll write one."

[cheevy]

Miniver smiles, still cocooned inside his sweater, leaning near to Pickles.

"There is, and I like writing songs. It's like writing poetry but deeper. There's something delicate and powerful about it." He breathes deep and smiles. "Sometimes too powerful, maybe. Like... there are songs I can't sing. Songs I can't even listen to, because it hurts too much now."

[dingdongdoodily]

"Totally understand. I write songs, y'know, to get 'em outta me and out to the world, some'a the time. You'd be surprised how many of my own songs I can't even listen to once I got 'em down right." He shrugged, one arm over the back of the bench seat, the other hand at the top of the steering wheel. He was finally relaxed.

"And there's a couple other songs I just can't listen to fer personal reasons, y'know, connectin' 'em to a time or a person or somethin' that you just know the memories'd hurt too much."