#river001

Location: barn dance

The molly River gave Angel is finally hitting, and the timing could not be more perfect. Honestly, under sober circumstances, she’d have to be high to even be caught dead at the barn dance. Now that she is, in fact, proper high and then some, she’s having the time of her fucking life. The lights, the music, they’re radiating inside of her, vibrating in her veins and coursing through her entire body, tingling her brain and moving right down to the soles of her feet. Honestly, Angel swears she’s floating in the middle of the makeshift dance floor with River. 

He walked into the livingroom after midday, his hair wet after a shower, wearing a silk suit that felt great on his skin. He was tired, but not tired enough to ignore the need to cook something. He set to work in the kitchen, which was visible from the livingroom, watching the other stir while he cooked. “If you want to clean up, be my guest,” he said to the curious sleeper. @riverpatel​

@riverpatel​

He’d won his first guitar in a game of poker when he was twelve years old and still living in Tennessee. It was an old, well loved Gibson, and one of Sawyer's most prized possessions. But whenever he looked at it now, it felt like gazing at a relic from another lifetime almost, a thought that had understandably left Sawyer toying with the idea of whether or not he should finally purchase a new one. Impulsive by nature, he hadn't thought about it for too long before winding up at the local music store. Since then, he'd cycled through a number of guitars, aiming to find the one among them that seemed to suit him best. His fingers plucked at the strings, firing off a series of spiraling riffs and chords, and comparing one model to the next. "Whaddya think?" He asked, glancing to the side and nodding at the person closest to him. Strumming through another sequence of chords, he let the warm, honey like tone ring out for a moment before eyeing them again, "Personally, I've always been a Gibson man, but I don't think ya can beat a Taylor's sound." Setting the guitar down on the stand beside him, he reached out with a hand, "Sawyer," he introduced, "Seen ya 'round but I don't think we've ever met."

Izzy sits at the bar, her eyes grazing over every bottle and every glass. She had been thinking lately that she could control herself, that she wouldn’t be too bad off if she just had one drink. It’s not something she’s talked about with anyone else— still not looking for opinions or judgments. But now that she was happy, she thought that things might be able to be different. Peeling her eyes away from the liquor, she turns away, drinking her water up toward the stage to catch the end of the show. As the dancer comes down, Izzy smiles at them. “You look great up there, baby,” she encourages. It wasn’t the busiest of nights so she knew that could be a little disheartening from experience. “I could buy you a drink if you want one,” she offers since she hadn’t really gotten to hand them any ones.

@river-phillips​

The smell of cloves blended together with tobacco as puffs of smoke escaped his lips, glowing ember lit up from the end of his kretek. Tuah was people watching again as he enjoyed his cigarette, though his thoughts had led astray and not entirely focusing on his surroundings. He thought about the gifts that had yet to be given, having gotten himself excited with the spirit of gift giving for all his friends and acquaintances alike, his employees included.

And then there was Iann. He knew the man didn’t celebrate Christmas, not really. But he still wanted to give something. He wanted to give Iann something that he could carry around with him at all times. A ring perhaps? No, he had already given Iann that ring that doubled as a daylight charm. Freddie had gifted him with a handphone, so there was no need for Iann to carry two. A wallet? Would it be too common a gift for his Iann? Perhaps - 

Bowie and River have never been 50/50. They meet each other where they need it most, and it’s been that way since they were little kids knocking on the door of adolescence. Somedays, Bowie is at 40% while River is at 60. And others? Bowie is at 80 when River is at 20, because regardless, they always make a perfect whole. And so in moments like this, it’s easy for Bowie to carry the majority of the weight for the both of them. They’ve done it nearly their entire life. And they’ll always do it, because they know he’ll drop everything in a heartbeat to do the same for them. So they sit together now while the storm continues to rage on beyond the community center’s walls, high speed winds whistling and accompanying the clapping thunder. Bowie is accustomed to how his head finds its way into their lap, though this time he lies on his back with his face up towards the ceiling. One hand gently combs through his dark hair. The other rests a piece of amethyst calmly between his brows while privately hoping it helps to ease his anxiety, even if only a little. They’d also given him a freshly charged piece of black tourmaline before leaving the house, just something for him to hold onto for grounding. But it’s hard not to notice or feel the way he flinches when the symphony of the storm crescendos in parts before naturally finding a decrescendo again. They know there’s only so much they can do, but it doesn’t stop them from trying. “I heard the harvest was beautiful in Xanzomia this year,” Bowie says softly, fingers still gliding through his thick hair. It’s the planet they’re both from, or at least that’s what they told each other when they came up with the name as kids. When this world felt like a little too much, they could always talk about home, their real home, where they’d always be safe. And over the years it stuck, long after grade school bullies and childish inhibitions.