cowboys 'n whiskey
between two cowboys, whiskey can numb a lot of pain, and sometimes bring about new need for it
characters: Rocky Millard (mine), Jackson Morris ( @deimoscaelestis )
The rodeo was one of two things that ever got Rocky really tired out. A full day's worth of events got every muscle in his body to the point of threatening to give out at any moment. He loved that feeling, it made him a real cowboy, it was tuff. The other thing that got him tired out, also unfortunately happened tonight. He was greeted at home not by his folks proud of him and smiling for how many prizes he brought home. No pat on the shoulder, no congratulations, instead he was greeted by an already raging fight. His welcome back was being roped into a fight he had no place in. Instead of hugs of hellos, he was thrown drunken hands meant for harm and words that could cut you up worse than any knife. That exhausted him in the bad way, this wasn't a pain he could get drunk to the point of giddiness off of, it just hurt.
He was lucky to only leave with a black eye and a bloody nose.
He hauled himself down to the stables, it was a safe spot to spend the night. Usually, it was empty except for the horses at this hour. Not another soul was crazy enough to pass up a nice bed or couch at their home or with a buddy to sleep where it smelled like manure. Tonight he wasn't the only one that crazy hanging around.
"Howdy, Rocks," a familiar, albeit tireder than normal, voice came from against one of the walls of the stable. "Didn't figure anybody else'd be out here t'night."
"Shoot, me neither." He forced a chuckle trying to wipe away what was left of the blood around his nose. "'Scuse my face, my ol' man got a unique way of welcomin me home."
Jackson gave a dry, singular laugh back. "Mine decided he ain't gonna welcome me home at all tonight." He studied Rocky a little, he had a way of doing that that always brought a smile tugging at the corners of Rocky's mouth. "Nice shiner, makes ya look tuff."
"Thanks, man." Rocky flopped down next to him and pulled out a flask. "Folks are shit, aint they?" He took a long sip from his flask before offering it to Jackson. "Want some? 'S whiskey, takes the edge off."
"Hell, why not." He took the flask and drank from it too, casting a look up into the rafters of the stable and around to a couple of the stalls and the horses in them. "Which one's Bandit's again?"
Rocky pointed to one towards a stall by the middle of the structure. "He's right over there. Prob'ly asleep." He gave a grin. "Got more sense than us two." He dropped his head a little and pulled a harmonica out of his pocket.
"You really are a cowboy, huh? Got the getup, the horse, the whiskey, the harmonica," there was something admiring in Jackson's tone. It was nice to feel admired like that, Rocky had to admit.
"I try my damnedest." He put the harmonica to his lips and played something. Nothing written or that he'd been taught, just something from the soul how he always played.
Jackson took another slow sip from the flask as he listened to Rocky play. Rocky didn't play how he talked. He talked fast and spirited, never letting slip if anything was bubbling beneath his surface. But he played in a way that Jackson could damn near hear his soul in. Sad and sweet, lonesome, the way that could have you imagining him under the stars by a campfire with no one but Bandit by his side, or at least where he'd want to be imagined if he couldn't be there himself.
"You sure can play that thing, I tell you what." Jackson closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. The music carried on a short while more until it resolved in the same way as a sunset or a campfire's last coals burning out and being doused in water. Rocky's response came in the curls of smoke the extinguished embers exhaled.
"Eh, could've been better." He took the flask back for another few sips of it's whiskey. "I aint no songwriter."
Jackson nudged him in the arm. "Play another one, 's nice."
Rocky gave a quiet laugh and lifted the harmonica back to it's place for another song. This one felt less lonesome somehow. Like it wasn't just Rocky out there on the range this time but he had a partner out there with him. Somebody else with their own horse and their own pistol at their hip who'd make the trail a little less lonely and the nights a little less cold. It felt more personal than the last song somehow. It ended a little more like falling asleep under the stars. They passed the flask back and forth a few more times in the ensuing silence.
Somehow, for a minute or two, they weren't teenage greasers hiding out for the night. They were cowboys sleeping out on the range. Only them two for miles and miles around, whiskey on both their breaths and starting to get itself tangled up in their heads. Maybe it was the whiskey itself, maybe it was their closeness in these moments. Maybe it was the way the gap between them kept closing up little by little. The way that, wordlessly, it closed entirely for a few moments. And the way that it opened back up and remained unacknowledged.
Because what's a kiss or two between cowboys? Sometimes the range gets lonely, sometimes the only one offering a tender touch is your partner on the trail.
