it occurs to me that i am america.

In American History, we're reading Storming Heaven, a novel by Denise Giardina about the efforts of coal miners trying to get unions into the mountains of West Virginia. It's beautiful and heartbreaking and fantastic.

So, I slashed it.

title: if i go back to winco
rating: pg13+
fandom: storming heaven
word count: 400
pairing: rondal/isom
warnings: slash, language
summary: you hain't serious, isom murmurs, into his neck, about going back to the mines.

.

rondal thinks back and remembers the first time he met isom, a bigger boy with a resentful stare, a crushed firefly in his fist. he had cried, the uncomfortable type of tears that made his father look away, but from then on he adored him. even now, stumbling up the steps to his bedroom, both of them a little too drunk and a little too close, he still adores him.

"you hain’t serious. . ." isom murmurs, into his neck, "‘bout going back to the mines."

"shush," he replies, "you’ll wake c.j."

"don’t do that." isom shifts, presses him up against the wall, at an angle. he’s still bigger than him, and rondal squirms, feeling eight again. when isom talks, his breath is warm against rondal’s face, and isom, he don’t never take nothing serious, but here. now. "don’t change the goddamn subject."

"not here."

"what about c.j. and violet? what about the day girl?" he draws off, and rondal thinks: what about you? what about you? but isom doesn’t say it, won’t say it. he drags a big hand across rondal’s face, pushing hair from his eyes. fingertips at the corners. rondal doesn’t know what’s happening, but he feels himself pressing forward, leaning into the touch. there’s a long, tense moment, warm breath and big hands and god, they do everything else together, they get drunk together and they fucked girls for the first time the same night. rondal thinks about that girl, her dark skin and white smile and the curve of her breasts, the sound of isom grunting from the room over, and he swears.

"say it, isom." he says. "say it."

fingers curl and curve against a cheekbone, and then rondal is being tugged forward, raised up. for a flash of a moment, he thinks isom might hit him, but then there are lips rough and wet against his, the taste of isom’s last drink in the back of his throat. they struggle with each other, hitting the opposite wall, teeth scraping towards the edge of a moan. desperate, choking, rondal presses back as hard as he can, moving against him.

"what about me?" isom pants, into his mouth, a scattered rhythm like a banjo held in tired fingers. "what about me? what about me?"