[Johnny’s good at being an asshole. It comes to him as easily as breathing, and he humors a reply that springs to him lightning-quick: a dream-Johnny would sit down and comply all nice-like, happy to oblige. The real-Johnny would thinly grin down at V, and tell him that he does whatever the hell he wants, including blocking out the stars, as smoke coils from both his mouth and cigarette balanced between his fingers.
And the rockerboy takes another long drag from his smoke as he considers it, tries to judge just how much bite that quip should have in return. But then something gives—maybe it's because of the swath of peaceable land stretched out before him, or maybe because it’s V and there’s no heat in the request—and he finds a middle ground, instead. Flicks his cigarette into the grass feet away, and moves to sit next to the other man.
‘Course, once he’s settled with his knees hiked up and his elbows resting atop them, he’s gotta make a sandpapery remark about it.]
Fine. You want to hold hands and sing Kumbaya, too? Christ.
[There's the other half of that casual blasphemy.]
no subject
And the rockerboy takes another long drag from his smoke as he considers it, tries to judge just how much bite that quip should have in return. But then something gives—maybe it's because of the swath of peaceable land stretched out before him, or maybe because it’s V and there’s no heat in the request—and he finds a middle ground, instead. Flicks his cigarette into the grass feet away, and moves to sit next to the other man.
‘Course, once he’s settled with his knees hiked up and his elbows resting atop them, he’s gotta make a sandpapery remark about it.]
Fine. You want to hold hands and sing Kumbaya, too? Christ.
[There's the other half of that casual blasphemy.]