healingmirth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
healingmirth) wrote2010-08-31 09:23 pm
healingmirth) wrote2010-08-31 09:23 pm
Entry tags:
American Idiot fic: I won't care if you won't care
Title: I won't care if you won't care
Fandom: American Idiot (musical)
Characters: Tunny, Will
Summary: Scenes from a summer, after the war
Notes: 1500 words. Not inconsistent with To lean on. Title is a purposeful rewording of the Green Day lyric that's been pinging around my head for months.
Also uploaded to A03 if you'd prefer to read there.
When he came home, Tunny's mom had pulled out a box full of papers from when he was a kid. She probably thought it'd be inspiring - he remembers being a good student, once upon a time - but it turned into just an extra layer of pain and disappointment. He'd promised that he'd go through it, and he'd tried. The last thing he read was one of those letters to his future self, from the end of eighth grade. He couldn't have been more wrong if he'd tried.
They're sprawled in the grass in Tunny's back yard, right in the middle of what would be a pool, if they were rich. They've gotten a fair amount of rain in the past few weeks, so at least the grass is still soft and cool by mid-afternoon. It's still, but for the odd car out on the road and the chorus of dogs barking that'll lag the noise down the street. It's a gorgeous fuckin' day, and they've been drinking Natty Light since 10am. Will sighs, like he always does before he spouts off some pretentious, woe-is-me bullshit, but Tunny doesn't even open his eyes. "My life would be easier if the sky wasn't always so fucking blue," Will says.
Will doesn't usually need a response to his grand pronouncements, so Tunny doesn't dignify it with one. He'll definitely be hurt if Tunny doesn't acknowledge his jokes, though, so Tunny saves up his energy in case he needs to laugh today.
Tunny tips his head towards Will to see the flush from the sun on his face, and the grass brushes his cheek. It feels nice, but pretty much everything feels nice, eight beers into the weekend. When he does it again, one of the longer blades slips into his ear, catches him off guard, and freaks him right the fuck out for a second.
Will bolts right up, next to him, and while Tunny's sitting there shaking his head to get that creepy-crawly feeling to fade away, Will's scooting away from him, eyes wide and scanning Tunny and the area around him like there's some kind of hidden threat, or like Tunny's about to start screaming and flailing around.
"What?" Will says when Tunny starts laughing. "Fucking what?"
Tunny just falls back to the ground and laughs 'til his abs hurt.
Tunny'd never really done girlfriends, growing up. He'd had some strings of steady dates, some girls who were always happy to see him when he needed to get laid. It's not like he'd needed a date for Prom, and he sure as hell hadn't been auditioning for a future Missus. Then suddenly, when his whole world lit up and then slipped out from under him, he had a girlfriend, a for-serious hand-holding, bring her home to Mom type girlfriend. He hadn't known quite what to do with her, except be grateful.
Will - fuckin' Will and his one community college psychology credit - called it Florence Nightingale syndrome. He called it that when he was sober and earnest and just trying to help, man. When he was drunk, he called it Stockholm syndrome, but then when he was drunk he spent a lot of time yelling about Heather, and less talking about Tunny's supposed problems. He spent a lot of time crying about his kid.
Anyway, Will and his armchair psych profile don't seem to be surprised when Tunny finds himself single again, just as he settles down for what is probably real life. Will's probably happy that Tunny's single, too, so they can trudge through the wreckage of their adulthood together. Although, if he's happy about anything, Will's hiding it well.
A week later, they're back on the lawn, half-drunk again by noon. This time, though, it's been hella hot all week. The dry grass is poking its raggedy pointy little edges into Tunny's back, so he shifts around until he can lean up against Will instead of flat on the ground. If they're going to do this every week, he really should buy some lawn chairs or a hammock or something.
Will's wearing a black t-shirt, some local band that had risen and fallen in the year Tunny'd been away, and dark jeans. That was Will lately, always with the black clothes in the middle of summer, like he'd never grown out of his goth phase. Come winter he'd probably be standing in front of the 7-11 with his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, staring at his feet. Party like it's 1999, man.
He's got to be baking in the sun, and his t-shirt is hot where it touches Tunny's neck and shoulders. It's hotter than the sun is on his bare skin, and his sweat glands decide they've had about enough and kick in overtime. Tunny'd given up on his own shirt when the thermometer on the porch passed 85; now he can feel sweat beading on his skin and even his mesh shorts are starting to cling uncomfortably. Will's dedication to his emo uniform is admirable, in its own way. As far as Tunny's concerned, pants are for work and days he cares about people staring at his leg.
Will's belly is as soft under Tunny's head as it's always been. Too many beers ensure that it'll always be like that, familiar. Tunny'd spent more afternoons than he could count with his head resting on Will's stomach, or some other part of his body as they stared at the water spots on the basement ceiling. Will didn't like to be alone when he was drunk. (When he was alone, however, most of what he wanted to be was drunk.)
Those spots on the ceiling hadn't changed often, but that hadn't stopped him and Will from playing at seeing shapes like in clouds. There aren't any clouds to play with today, but, when he closes his eyes he can feel Will's heart beating in the faint twitch of his rib cage and that's its own comfort.
For about five minutes, and then it really is too fucking hot.
Will had taken to working out with Tunny when he'd come home exhausted after a day of chasing Aaron around the playground. All things considered, he was in better shape then he'd been in in years, but that much beer was a lot of empty calories to work off.
When he's not drunk, high and stupid, Will's taking classes for a bachelor's degree; he works at a call center, and they're paying him to go to school part-time so he can be a better class of shithead manager, someday. Whoop-de-do.
Will says he isn't going to be his father. Tunny thinks that being his father wouldn't have been half-bad, but he doesn't remember enough about the guy to be sure.
The week after that, Tunny makes Will borrow his dad's truck and drive them to the outdoor furniture outlet to buy some damn chairs for the yard.
They end up with two loungers with umbrellas that hook onto the arms and a hammock stand that looks like it was made in a sweatshop in the last century, but it seems sturdy and all Tunny cares about is not landing on his ass getting in or out.
Will tries to convince him to get a table for the porch with a promise that he'll bring a grill over and they can have a cookout, but if Tunny wanted a party, he wouldn't have spent the past two weekends drinking beer on his lawn with Will. Parties are what you do in order to drink beer on your lawn; he doesn't see the point in having a bunch of people over just so that he can do what he's already doing.
Tunny’s got a half-finished piece in progress on his right calf, a legit artsy thing that he has refused to explain to Will - or anyone else but the girl doing the work - until it’s filled in. It’s the first color piece he’s got, and it’s a world away from the impulse ink on his arms and chest. To be honest, he's not sure how he's going to explain it when it's finished. The artist is a friend of a friend, the art-school sister of someone's college roommate. He'd gone to meet her for coffee, and it was supposed to be a blind date, but two minutes after they sat down with their coffee she said that he seemed really nice, but that he wasn't her type. Then she asked what war was like, because her ex-girlfriend was thinking of enlisting.
He spent twenty minutes talking about going to fight a war with strangers who were supposed to be his new brothers, and how his actual brothers called him every other day, up from every other year since they left home. He talked about how he used to think life sucked, and then she turned around a piece of paper that she'd been sketching on as he spoke. He'd thought she wasn't paying attention and he had been thinking of apologizing, but he looked at the paper, and she said "is it like this?" and it was.
Fandom: American Idiot (musical)
Characters: Tunny, Will
Summary: Scenes from a summer, after the war
Notes: 1500 words. Not inconsistent with To lean on. Title is a purposeful rewording of the Green Day lyric that's been pinging around my head for months.
Also uploaded to A03 if you'd prefer to read there.
When he came home, Tunny's mom had pulled out a box full of papers from when he was a kid. She probably thought it'd be inspiring - he remembers being a good student, once upon a time - but it turned into just an extra layer of pain and disappointment. He'd promised that he'd go through it, and he'd tried. The last thing he read was one of those letters to his future self, from the end of eighth grade. He couldn't have been more wrong if he'd tried.
They're sprawled in the grass in Tunny's back yard, right in the middle of what would be a pool, if they were rich. They've gotten a fair amount of rain in the past few weeks, so at least the grass is still soft and cool by mid-afternoon. It's still, but for the odd car out on the road and the chorus of dogs barking that'll lag the noise down the street. It's a gorgeous fuckin' day, and they've been drinking Natty Light since 10am. Will sighs, like he always does before he spouts off some pretentious, woe-is-me bullshit, but Tunny doesn't even open his eyes. "My life would be easier if the sky wasn't always so fucking blue," Will says.
Will doesn't usually need a response to his grand pronouncements, so Tunny doesn't dignify it with one. He'll definitely be hurt if Tunny doesn't acknowledge his jokes, though, so Tunny saves up his energy in case he needs to laugh today.
Tunny tips his head towards Will to see the flush from the sun on his face, and the grass brushes his cheek. It feels nice, but pretty much everything feels nice, eight beers into the weekend. When he does it again, one of the longer blades slips into his ear, catches him off guard, and freaks him right the fuck out for a second.
Will bolts right up, next to him, and while Tunny's sitting there shaking his head to get that creepy-crawly feeling to fade away, Will's scooting away from him, eyes wide and scanning Tunny and the area around him like there's some kind of hidden threat, or like Tunny's about to start screaming and flailing around.
"What?" Will says when Tunny starts laughing. "Fucking what?"
Tunny just falls back to the ground and laughs 'til his abs hurt.
Tunny'd never really done girlfriends, growing up. He'd had some strings of steady dates, some girls who were always happy to see him when he needed to get laid. It's not like he'd needed a date for Prom, and he sure as hell hadn't been auditioning for a future Missus. Then suddenly, when his whole world lit up and then slipped out from under him, he had a girlfriend, a for-serious hand-holding, bring her home to Mom type girlfriend. He hadn't known quite what to do with her, except be grateful.
Will - fuckin' Will and his one community college psychology credit - called it Florence Nightingale syndrome. He called it that when he was sober and earnest and just trying to help, man. When he was drunk, he called it Stockholm syndrome, but then when he was drunk he spent a lot of time yelling about Heather, and less talking about Tunny's supposed problems. He spent a lot of time crying about his kid.
Anyway, Will and his armchair psych profile don't seem to be surprised when Tunny finds himself single again, just as he settles down for what is probably real life. Will's probably happy that Tunny's single, too, so they can trudge through the wreckage of their adulthood together. Although, if he's happy about anything, Will's hiding it well.
A week later, they're back on the lawn, half-drunk again by noon. This time, though, it's been hella hot all week. The dry grass is poking its raggedy pointy little edges into Tunny's back, so he shifts around until he can lean up against Will instead of flat on the ground. If they're going to do this every week, he really should buy some lawn chairs or a hammock or something.
Will's wearing a black t-shirt, some local band that had risen and fallen in the year Tunny'd been away, and dark jeans. That was Will lately, always with the black clothes in the middle of summer, like he'd never grown out of his goth phase. Come winter he'd probably be standing in front of the 7-11 with his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, staring at his feet. Party like it's 1999, man.
He's got to be baking in the sun, and his t-shirt is hot where it touches Tunny's neck and shoulders. It's hotter than the sun is on his bare skin, and his sweat glands decide they've had about enough and kick in overtime. Tunny'd given up on his own shirt when the thermometer on the porch passed 85; now he can feel sweat beading on his skin and even his mesh shorts are starting to cling uncomfortably. Will's dedication to his emo uniform is admirable, in its own way. As far as Tunny's concerned, pants are for work and days he cares about people staring at his leg.
Will's belly is as soft under Tunny's head as it's always been. Too many beers ensure that it'll always be like that, familiar. Tunny'd spent more afternoons than he could count with his head resting on Will's stomach, or some other part of his body as they stared at the water spots on the basement ceiling. Will didn't like to be alone when he was drunk. (When he was alone, however, most of what he wanted to be was drunk.)
Those spots on the ceiling hadn't changed often, but that hadn't stopped him and Will from playing at seeing shapes like in clouds. There aren't any clouds to play with today, but, when he closes his eyes he can feel Will's heart beating in the faint twitch of his rib cage and that's its own comfort.
For about five minutes, and then it really is too fucking hot.
Will had taken to working out with Tunny when he'd come home exhausted after a day of chasing Aaron around the playground. All things considered, he was in better shape then he'd been in in years, but that much beer was a lot of empty calories to work off.
When he's not drunk, high and stupid, Will's taking classes for a bachelor's degree; he works at a call center, and they're paying him to go to school part-time so he can be a better class of shithead manager, someday. Whoop-de-do.
Will says he isn't going to be his father. Tunny thinks that being his father wouldn't have been half-bad, but he doesn't remember enough about the guy to be sure.
The week after that, Tunny makes Will borrow his dad's truck and drive them to the outdoor furniture outlet to buy some damn chairs for the yard.
They end up with two loungers with umbrellas that hook onto the arms and a hammock stand that looks like it was made in a sweatshop in the last century, but it seems sturdy and all Tunny cares about is not landing on his ass getting in or out.
Will tries to convince him to get a table for the porch with a promise that he'll bring a grill over and they can have a cookout, but if Tunny wanted a party, he wouldn't have spent the past two weekends drinking beer on his lawn with Will. Parties are what you do in order to drink beer on your lawn; he doesn't see the point in having a bunch of people over just so that he can do what he's already doing.
Tunny’s got a half-finished piece in progress on his right calf, a legit artsy thing that he has refused to explain to Will - or anyone else but the girl doing the work - until it’s filled in. It’s the first color piece he’s got, and it’s a world away from the impulse ink on his arms and chest. To be honest, he's not sure how he's going to explain it when it's finished. The artist is a friend of a friend, the art-school sister of someone's college roommate. He'd gone to meet her for coffee, and it was supposed to be a blind date, but two minutes after they sat down with their coffee she said that he seemed really nice, but that he wasn't her type. Then she asked what war was like, because her ex-girlfriend was thinking of enlisting.
He spent twenty minutes talking about going to fight a war with strangers who were supposed to be his new brothers, and how his actual brothers called him every other day, up from every other year since they left home. He talked about how he used to think life sucked, and then she turned around a piece of paper that she'd been sketching on as he spoke. He'd thought she wasn't paying attention and he had been thinking of apologizing, but he looked at the paper, and she said "is it like this?" and it was.
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