Chapter Text
October 20 th , 1989
Summer had entirely given way to fall. Daisy perched on a fallen log, well worn from years of being used as a bench, and stared out at the canyon beyond. It was a kaleidoscope of warmth, the once-green foliage yellowing in the cooler temperatures. A part of her missed the lush green of late summer. She drew a butterfly in the dirt with her bare foot as she contemplated which version of the setting she preferred.
“I told you I don’t want to sing about all this nature stuff,” a voice huffed. Billy sat on the ground by her feet, hunched over his guitar and thumbing through her songbook in his lap.
“How can you sit here and say that?” she asked, but Billy didn’t look up. Daisy kept drawing her butterfly. She liked how her toes brushed his thigh when she traced the right wing.
“If it’s a metaphor for change, why can’t we just write about change?”
Daisy’s heart thudded in her chest when he turned his hazel gaze up to her. The late afternoon sun streamed through his thick lashes, dusting shadows across his cheeks. Gently, she pressed the back of her hand to his cheek so he’d face the canyon.
“The world writes for us, Billy. It’d be a shame to overlook that.”
Billy studied the canyon, and Daisy studied Billy. Her hand remained pressed to his cheek, and she told herself it was to ensure he looked. Not because she liked the feeling of his stubble beneath her knuckles. Not because she liked the way his breath swept across her skin.
Billy let her hand linger. The cold of her fingers cooled the fire in his blood. The barrier of her hand kept him from losing himself in the panes of her face.
“I guess,” he sighed, turning down to the songbook once more. Daisy retracted her hand. He didn’t want her to, and a familiar pang of shame twisted in his chest. “Maybe just this once.”
“I wish we were birds,” Daisy hummed. From the corner of his eye, Billy watched her tan foot level the earth she’d marred before painting a butterfly anew.
“What does that mean?”
Daisy was up in a flash, dashing toward the lip of the cliff. Billy’s mind flashed back a decade to cold water and colder skin. She stopped before the edge and threw out her arms, only to fall back into Billy’s.
He was panting against her— tiny, ragged sounds that made her insides vibrate. An edge of a whine sounded in his voice, and she wondered if he was about to cry. One firm hand pressed against her sternum, its twin atop her stomach. His fingers dug into her flesh like he was prepared to claw and scrabble to prevent her from escaping his grip.
Billy didn’t know why he’d thought she was about to jump. She kept her arms wide, tilting her head against his shoulder so her red hair tumbled down his back. Her eyes were closed, and her rosy lips parted when a gust of wind curved around them.
When Billy let her go, he let his hands glide against her. He could let himself have that, he figured—just one small moment of indulgence. Daisy shivered at the touch. “Come on, Billy,” she whispered, and her voice had taken a husky edge, “fly with me.”
He hesitated before stepping beside her. Dissatisfied with his lazy stance, Daisy lifted his arm and stretched it before her. He raised his other arm until his pose mirrored hers.
The wind hit Billy before reaching her, and she devoured the taste of him in the air he steeped. “If we were birds, we could fly over this entire canyon. We could see every leaf, every rabbit, every mouse. We could dip low and watch the beetles crawl, then swoop high when a mountain lion gets too close.”
Daisy relaxed her arms, and Billy did, too. Billy imagined what it would be like to be free with her. “That sounds nice, Daisy.”
It did. Daisy thought of swans, how they mate for life. Her heart twisted.
Noise ruptured the serenity of the spot. Daisy had cupped her hands to her mouth and howled, “Billy,” into the void. She’d leaned over to do so, and Billy found his hands on her again. He lacked all control of them when she got too close— like she was then. Her voice traveled across the canyon, found the far edges where the mountains rose again, and returned to them.
Daisy laughed. Her lips turned up like a child’s, and she eyed him expectantly. Billy released her once more, rolled his shoulders, and crowed, “Daisy.” His tongue tasted of velvety wine.
They took turns. Daisy, Billy, Daisy, Billy. Sometimes they’d overlap, and the words would mingle in the expanse below. They’d harmonize, too, allowing the syllables to dance along one another, to blend and expand.
By dusk, they’d finished the song. Daisy named it “Badlands.” They carved out a piece of that day by the canyon and infused it into the music.
Daisy would wail at the top of her lungs, “Kill me.”
Billy would beg, “Baby.”
On rare days where boldness overshadowed reason, they’d dare to sing one another’s name.