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rareslashTitle: Circumstance
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
theratman
Fandom: Big Top
Pairing: Randall/Bacardi
Rating: PG
Summary: Randall and Bacardi spend a little time together one hot afternoon in the desert. This is really fluffy, folks. So you've been warned.
Notes: Inspired by my own trip out to the desert. I know this is corny, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Much of this is based off real-life happenings. The title is from a Butch Hancock song.
Circumstance
The desert was a tomb, and as Randall and his crew trekked their way across the sun-baked hills and plains, he had the feeling they were nothing more than ghosts haunting it’s vast expanse, losing themselves as they blazed deeper into the heart of the wasteland. Nothing moved across the wide stretch of dusty cliffs and scrubby bushes; everything was colored in washed-out tones, browns and grays and dusty off-greens, making him feel that he was looking through a filter and what he saw was only a distorted copy of the real world. Their horses were tired, and while they still had water enough to last them, none of them were without the desolate feeling that the dead earth put out - the emptiness had infected all of them, the fatigue of too many days under that burning, over-bright sun creaking in their bones.
As they rounded a low mesa, he saw a sun-bleached cactus skeleton that resembled a horse skull with the jaws spread wide, a long bony horn jutting from the apparent forehead, like a ghastly unicorn. ‘Death,’ he thought, and the word reverberated in his mind, as if it was the voice of the desert itself. His thoughts wandered just as the horses did, passing over thoughts of heaven and hell, of paradise - was there such a thing? It was hard to imagine anything outside of dust and rocky hills, out here: this was all there was, all there ever had been.
He tilted his head back; the sun stung his eyes like pins lacerating the tender flesh, making him turn away from it, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Tears formed behind his eyelids and remained gathered on his eyelashes; when he opened his eyes again he found the liquid to already be evaporating. He stared out at the rocky, jutting cliffs and rows of greasewood and sagebrush the clogged the landscape, now and then struck by the intimidating height of a Saguaro, standing like silent sentries at their posts, watching him as they plodded on across the dusty wasteland. He felt he was heading into the layer of some hungry beast, waiting to devour him, to devour all of them.
He pulled the wagons over, climbing down from his perch on the roof as Olivia watered the horses, giving only a slight glance to the others as they wiped wreaths of sweat off their own steeds. He wandered slowly towards some scruffy-looking trees, hoping he might find something to keep his mind occupied until they started out again.
As he reached the trees, he found the earth gave way at a sharp decline to a long, deep riverbed. The silt of the bed was dry, and must have been for a long time, but the evidence was etched in the dirt and rock around it - the long-dead river had left this scar on the land, like a grave marker to honor it’s long-ago greatness.
Sliding down in the dirt, he picked his way over the loose rock and dust and sandstone until he was standing just inside the back of the riverbed. He stepped out onto the intricate pattern of spider-webbing cracks... the dirt was soft and gave way easily beneath even his slight weight. Small clouds of dust rose up at his footfalls, but nothing else stirred, and every sound seemed to have become muted and almost non-existent. He leaned down and placed his palms against the earth, as if he though he might absorb the essence of the river by touching the place where it used to be.
Closing his eyes, he let himself sink down onto the warm cushion of comforting desert earth. The smell was dusty and heady, with still a faint tinge of water-smell hanging tight to it even after all this time. The dust was warm, but not hot like the scorching, hard-packed dirt their horses had been traveling over, that rattled the wagon wheels and jarred his bones. It rose in little plumes as he made contact with it, fragile as fine china, and he spread his limbs across it, taking in the feel of the warm dust, and below it, the cool soil. A wind picked up at last and blew through the shadow of the little tree; it’s cool fingers brushed his face and slid down his shirt, bringing breath back into his tired lungs. His eyes closed slowly, registering only the last few honey-thick images of the distant mountains and the powder blue sky before the world became nothing more than the cool breeze on his face.
***
“Randall.” Somebody poked at his ribs, stirring him from sleep. He opened his eyes slowly, feeling a bit frightened momentarily as he took a minute to remember where he was. Finally he noticed a dark shadow hanging over him, one darker than the tree was responsible for. Finally he noticed the outlined silhouette leaning over him - Bacardi. The mink stood at his feet, looking remarkably self-possessed as he stared at him, molten dark eyes burning over the long, aristocratic nose and pale cheeks. “Don’t you think you ought not sleep there?” he inquired, not really a question. “What if there was a flash-flood?”
Randall turned his ears back, giving his friend a look that was comprised of a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Flash floods in the desert?” he said haughtily, not getting up.
Bacardi shrugged, doing his best to look nonchalant and doing a damn good job of it too. “It’s not unheard of.”
Randall grinned wryly. “Bring on the water, then. I could use a drink.”
Bacardi laughed, easing up a bit. He tossed his crimson coat into the dust and laid down next to the feline, letting his slim fingers slide over his arm, just for a moment.
“Aren’t you worried about flash-floods?” Randall said teasingly.
Bacardi stared up at the sky, at the wispy white clouds drifting through the branches of the scraggly tree. “Not just yet,” he said, and his voice was barely more than a silken whisper.
The sun was warm on Randall’s belly and legs, while the shade of the tree cast itself over his face. He stared across the few inches separating them, into the dark brown eye of his friend, watching the orb as it moved slightly over the shapes passing over them in the sky above. It was a long time before either of them moved - not until Bacardi turned away from him and reached for a tuft of wildflowers, a lonely splash of color against the drab landscape, and tugged one of the blossoms from its place. Turning back, he lay on his side and lightly tickled the bloom over the bridge of Randall’s nose, bringing a smile to the blonde’s lips as the yellow petals graced his skin. As the flower lowered, Randall took the stem in his mouth and bit down softly, relishing the bitter, distinct taste of wild root. Bacardi leaned over him, one arm on each side of his chest, and kissed his mouth lightly, the flower pressed between them.
As the warm sun fell upon them, thoughts of the barren desert that lay just feet from them drifted from Randall’s mind, replaced instead by the feeling of the cool wind and the warmth of Bacardi’s hand in his. The desert was barren, empty; certainly not paradise, by any means. But at the moment, it felt pretty close.
Feedback is, as always, greatly apreciated.
Author:
theratmanFandom: Big Top
Pairing: Randall/Bacardi
Rating: PG
Summary: Randall and Bacardi spend a little time together one hot afternoon in the desert. This is really fluffy, folks. So you've been warned.
Notes: Inspired by my own trip out to the desert. I know this is corny, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Much of this is based off real-life happenings. The title is from a Butch Hancock song.
Circumstance
The desert was a tomb, and as Randall and his crew trekked their way across the sun-baked hills and plains, he had the feeling they were nothing more than ghosts haunting it’s vast expanse, losing themselves as they blazed deeper into the heart of the wasteland. Nothing moved across the wide stretch of dusty cliffs and scrubby bushes; everything was colored in washed-out tones, browns and grays and dusty off-greens, making him feel that he was looking through a filter and what he saw was only a distorted copy of the real world. Their horses were tired, and while they still had water enough to last them, none of them were without the desolate feeling that the dead earth put out - the emptiness had infected all of them, the fatigue of too many days under that burning, over-bright sun creaking in their bones.
As they rounded a low mesa, he saw a sun-bleached cactus skeleton that resembled a horse skull with the jaws spread wide, a long bony horn jutting from the apparent forehead, like a ghastly unicorn. ‘Death,’ he thought, and the word reverberated in his mind, as if it was the voice of the desert itself. His thoughts wandered just as the horses did, passing over thoughts of heaven and hell, of paradise - was there such a thing? It was hard to imagine anything outside of dust and rocky hills, out here: this was all there was, all there ever had been.
He tilted his head back; the sun stung his eyes like pins lacerating the tender flesh, making him turn away from it, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Tears formed behind his eyelids and remained gathered on his eyelashes; when he opened his eyes again he found the liquid to already be evaporating. He stared out at the rocky, jutting cliffs and rows of greasewood and sagebrush the clogged the landscape, now and then struck by the intimidating height of a Saguaro, standing like silent sentries at their posts, watching him as they plodded on across the dusty wasteland. He felt he was heading into the layer of some hungry beast, waiting to devour him, to devour all of them.
He pulled the wagons over, climbing down from his perch on the roof as Olivia watered the horses, giving only a slight glance to the others as they wiped wreaths of sweat off their own steeds. He wandered slowly towards some scruffy-looking trees, hoping he might find something to keep his mind occupied until they started out again.
As he reached the trees, he found the earth gave way at a sharp decline to a long, deep riverbed. The silt of the bed was dry, and must have been for a long time, but the evidence was etched in the dirt and rock around it - the long-dead river had left this scar on the land, like a grave marker to honor it’s long-ago greatness.
Sliding down in the dirt, he picked his way over the loose rock and dust and sandstone until he was standing just inside the back of the riverbed. He stepped out onto the intricate pattern of spider-webbing cracks... the dirt was soft and gave way easily beneath even his slight weight. Small clouds of dust rose up at his footfalls, but nothing else stirred, and every sound seemed to have become muted and almost non-existent. He leaned down and placed his palms against the earth, as if he though he might absorb the essence of the river by touching the place where it used to be.
Closing his eyes, he let himself sink down onto the warm cushion of comforting desert earth. The smell was dusty and heady, with still a faint tinge of water-smell hanging tight to it even after all this time. The dust was warm, but not hot like the scorching, hard-packed dirt their horses had been traveling over, that rattled the wagon wheels and jarred his bones. It rose in little plumes as he made contact with it, fragile as fine china, and he spread his limbs across it, taking in the feel of the warm dust, and below it, the cool soil. A wind picked up at last and blew through the shadow of the little tree; it’s cool fingers brushed his face and slid down his shirt, bringing breath back into his tired lungs. His eyes closed slowly, registering only the last few honey-thick images of the distant mountains and the powder blue sky before the world became nothing more than the cool breeze on his face.
***
“Randall.” Somebody poked at his ribs, stirring him from sleep. He opened his eyes slowly, feeling a bit frightened momentarily as he took a minute to remember where he was. Finally he noticed a dark shadow hanging over him, one darker than the tree was responsible for. Finally he noticed the outlined silhouette leaning over him - Bacardi. The mink stood at his feet, looking remarkably self-possessed as he stared at him, molten dark eyes burning over the long, aristocratic nose and pale cheeks. “Don’t you think you ought not sleep there?” he inquired, not really a question. “What if there was a flash-flood?”
Randall turned his ears back, giving his friend a look that was comprised of a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Flash floods in the desert?” he said haughtily, not getting up.
Bacardi shrugged, doing his best to look nonchalant and doing a damn good job of it too. “It’s not unheard of.”
Randall grinned wryly. “Bring on the water, then. I could use a drink.”
Bacardi laughed, easing up a bit. He tossed his crimson coat into the dust and laid down next to the feline, letting his slim fingers slide over his arm, just for a moment.
“Aren’t you worried about flash-floods?” Randall said teasingly.
Bacardi stared up at the sky, at the wispy white clouds drifting through the branches of the scraggly tree. “Not just yet,” he said, and his voice was barely more than a silken whisper.
The sun was warm on Randall’s belly and legs, while the shade of the tree cast itself over his face. He stared across the few inches separating them, into the dark brown eye of his friend, watching the orb as it moved slightly over the shapes passing over them in the sky above. It was a long time before either of them moved - not until Bacardi turned away from him and reached for a tuft of wildflowers, a lonely splash of color against the drab landscape, and tugged one of the blossoms from its place. Turning back, he lay on his side and lightly tickled the bloom over the bridge of Randall’s nose, bringing a smile to the blonde’s lips as the yellow petals graced his skin. As the flower lowered, Randall took the stem in his mouth and bit down softly, relishing the bitter, distinct taste of wild root. Bacardi leaned over him, one arm on each side of his chest, and kissed his mouth lightly, the flower pressed between them.
As the warm sun fell upon them, thoughts of the barren desert that lay just feet from them drifted from Randall’s mind, replaced instead by the feeling of the cool wind and the warmth of Bacardi’s hand in his. The desert was barren, empty; certainly not paradise, by any means. But at the moment, it felt pretty close.
Feedback is, as always, greatly apreciated.
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