Archive of Our Own ^beta

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“Mornin’ And welcome to Cherri Cola’s Poetry Corner. Grab some Pup and adjust your antennas, I’ve got your airwaves for the next half.

“First up, we’ve got ‘Levy'.” He pauses a beat, then recites:

“The oppressive sleep

“Of solemn skies

“Inviting dust into our eyes

“We ask for peace, bite back at Bl/ind

“Dying hurts no one but those it leaves behind-” Static spurts from the speaker cutting him off. Briefly there’s indecipherable chatter from behind the mic, a nervous exchange of news, before Dr. Death Defying takes control of the radio waves:

“Bad news from the Zones tumbleweeds…”

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“You’re too sick to go outside, the answer is no.”

Volume tries to disagree but can only cough, gratingly. He’d picked up a bad virus from the twins, and though they were already getting over it, like a round Volume was just now entering the middle of the sickness’ throws. He leans against Val, tired.

The sunset soaking through the window is as dispiriting to him as consoling. There’d be a Mad Gear concert tonight, and he would miss it.

Volume’s hair hadn’t even been styled today, the effort too much. Val plays with it, absentmindedly, and holds him closer.

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Volume fixes his hair in the bathroom mirror while Val sits on the countertop, holding his hair gel for him. He bites his tongue about how long Volume’s taking.

When Volume is finally ready, Val leads him outside. “This isn’t gonna make up for your concert,” he warns defensively, “I just thought you’d like this.” Volume grabs his hand.

There’s a fire going out front, the Ultra V’s huddled around it happily. When they see the two approaching, Vaya pulls out an old cassette player. At the press of a button, a raspy recording of last night’s concert starts up.

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It’s not unusual for Val to overexert himself, often forgetting the importance of luxuries such as food and sleep.

So, once again, he’s dozing standing up. In the middle of a clap with some dracs even. It’s not a large cavalry, an easy execution, but the way the sun glares across his vision makes Val’s weary head unsteady and he can feel himself swaying as he aims.

His shots all miss, embarrassingly.

He curses himself for his incompetence.

But abruptly he feels Vinyl’s tender hands wrap around his waist, steadying him, holding him upright and still.

Val hits his targets.

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Val awakens to a draft streaming in from the crack of the back door propped open. The crisp air sweetly kisses at his neck, prompting him to pull the fleece sheets up over his shoulders as he rolls over.

Soon, Vinyl quietly sneaks back into their bedroom. Floorboards softly creak under his weight. He’d been working in their new garden out back, earlier in the morning than Val’d ever willingly rise.

Vinyl leans down and gently kisses Val’s sleepy eyelids.

And for a moment everything else, their mistakes and the distant city still healing, is nothing but a fading dream.

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The campfire warms their faces like they warm each other, curled up into one another.

Val tightly embraces his husband’s arm as he tunes their guitar. But tuning isn’t an easy task with a man clinging to him, so Vinyl stops plucking momentarily to move his arm gently away, up, and over Val, pulling his love close and enveloping him. And now with unrestricted movement he fondly kisses the top of Val’s head and resumes.

Val gets comfortable on Vinyl’s lap and carelessly kisses his jaw, his cheek, his smile. Vinyl begins strumming chords to him as he kisses back.

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“I have a surprise for you, alright?” Her voice is soft and sweet and makes Red laugh.

“Alright Blue, but can’t I look yet?”

“No!” She keeps her hands over Red’s eyes as she leads her into their shared apartment, shutting the door behind them with the heel of her boot. “Ok. Now.” She removes her hands.

Their apartment is dark, all the lights turned off and the blinds spun tightly shut. But the dingy room is far from unlit. Above them, the ceiling is covered in tiny glow-in-the-dark stickers, shaped like miniature moons and stars: an artificial night sky.

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The Fab Four had died.

"That was almost you," Pony sobbed, cupping Cherri's face in their hands, "I wouldn't have even said goodbye!"

Cherri's also crying. Grieving both what they lost and what they could've lost. Four ghostings at once made horrid reality hit harder than it had in months.

Realization of their mortality struck Pony worse. Their eyes, streaming down tears, looked so scared to let go of him. They kissed Cherri's cheeks faintly like a ghost.

Cherri hurried to kiss back. He'd lost so much, it was hard for him to imagine that he'd almost lost this too.

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Thousands of kisses, light, soft, and quick, make their way across Cherri’s grinning face. He pushes Show Pony off of him, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I’ve got time!” they assure him, ambushing him with more feathery kisses as he laughs. He doesn't bother kissing back, but happily lifts them up as they drape their arms over his shoulders.

“Okay come on Pony, you need to go! You’re losing daylight!” Cherri picks up their helmet and slides it onto them before they can protest any further. Satisfied, Pony throws up a goodbye peace sign and skates out the door.

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Dr. Death Defying rolls over in bed half-asleep, rolling right into Show Pony snoozing beside him.

“Oh Pony, didn’t see you there,” he murmurs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The tumbleweed must’ve gotten back late last night and snuck into his bed while he was slumbering away.

Show Pony’s eyes blink open at the soft sound of Dr. D’s mellow voice. Smiling, they pull him close and kiss him, taking his lips in theirs. More awake now, D kisses back hugging them close and affectionately, appreciating the heartfelt touch of their face against his. “Good morning darling motorbaby!”

“G’morning!”

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“Haha, fuck!” Jet Star dashes over to the rest of the Fab Four. They’re lounging across the Trans Am’s hood, cooling in the rain and waiting for this storm to pass. “I told you they were real!”

Poison rolls their eyes and Kobra groans.

“See! Look: a frog.” Jet offers out his hands, balled together, and smiles as at least Ghoul shows some interest.

“Lemme see.”

Carefully, Jet peels his hands apart, revealing the creature. It's small and soft and fragile and damp from the rain. Ghoul watches in awe as the frog puffs its green neck out and jumps.

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Maybe he’s just another groupie but who cares? He’s waiting backstage before the show’s even finished. And it doesn’t matter. Shit’s loud enough back here to reverb in his bones and he doesn’t need to see Mad Gear’s performance when he can feel it.

As the last chord rings out, Mad runs offstage tossing his guitar to his buds and shedding his sweaty leather jacket. Fun Ghoul shouts to him, “Yo Mads!” And before he can even plead his appeal, Mad’s lips are pressed against his. There’s a familiar desperation to them, high off adrenaline and who knows what else.