visions of cassady
Jack Kerouac/Neal Cassady. Past Neal Cassady/Allen Ginsberg, also Neal/everyone and Jack/everyone who already slept with Neal.
1169 words. PG13.
Summary: There was no magic anymore, and Jack had never touched Neal, and Jack drinks.
Note: Written for this prompt. Came out waaaay angstier than I planned. It's mostly accurate, history-wise, but I took some liberties (obvi) and I didn't pay a helluva lot of attention to the timeline. Some 'Howl' quoting within. I think everything is mostly self-explanatory, but in case it's not, some quickies: Jean-Louis is Jack's given name, Neal's first wife is LuAnn and second is Caroline.
Jack finds Neal again in Denver and they get drunk. Neal is already drunk, Jack finds him drunk and with a bloodied lip because he got caught making it with someone's girl in someone's car in the parking lot. Neal just laughs about it though, fingers rising to touch the raw swollen lip and probing the wound. "Aw, fuck," he says, "It was worth it."
The girl leaves her fella for Neal, who has by then lost interest, and Jack ends up shacking up with her in a hotel room in San Francisco, going all the places Neal has been but always a couple steps after. He doesn't know why he does it. It never satisfies him. Afterwards whatever magic Neal left behind is patently gone, and there is just an exhausted, beautiful, unhappy girl cleaning up her makeup and brushing out her hair and sliding on her rumpled, worn clothes. LuAnn was like that. At the end of the day she was just a girl with bruises on her hips and one nice dress that didn't even fit, and after Neal's touch had faded Jack wasn't sure why he'd wanted her at all.
Neal is married to Carolyn now but that don't mean much, even with the baby, since he's always up and leaving her at any opportunity. He has a picture of the baby in his wallet, though, and he shows it to Jack with pride, says things like, "Little Cathy looks just like her Mama, huh?"
Neal carries little on him – whatever money he's got, never much, and the picture of Cathy, a picture of Carolyn, a notebook which is a habit he picked up from Jack, and a scruffy pack of letters with Allen's notable scrawl. Neal is taking a shower in Jack's room because he doesn't have one of his own and Jack find the letters in Neal's pants pocket.
"Breaking his heart, Cassady," Jack says, when Neal ambles out all wet and clean, and Neal laughs.
"He's just got the wrong idea is all," Neal says, but from what Carolyn's told Jack, it's not the wrong idea at all.
Jack gets drunk so he can pretend to forget trying to touch Neal's rough sun-browned skin, so he can pretend to forget how Neal kisses him and pulls away, calls him Jean-Louis and never touches him. Once they'd both taken LuAnn between them and despite the gritty mess of it, Jack felt hushed and sacred. He felt like drinking the sun out of Neal's flesh but mostly it did what it always did – there is every beautiful moment leading to completion, and then everything is empty, too real and too lonely, just bodies making messes, a dance that ends abruptly when you trip and fall on your ass. There was no magic anymore, and Jack had never touched Neal, and Jack drinks.
It's years and years later, Neal has the house and two more little ones, and one is John Allen, Jean-Louis, he thinks. By now Jack has made love to Carolyn a million times. For a time the world was beautiful, Neal made love to her in the morning when Jack was stumbling in after a hard night's work and Jack would take a hot bath as Neal was leaving for the day then Jack would make love to her in the afternoon. It worked in cycles, worked like that, and Neal was never with him and always with him. But it's years and years, Neal has the house and two more little ones, and Jack is all shaking hands needing booze, and Neal puts both hands to Jack's cheek and says, "Jean-Louis, what are you doing, huh?"
Everything in Jack is crumbling and so he puts his mouth on Neal's mouth and remembers all the things Allen has said – Adonis of Denver joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots and diner backyards, and what was that other one, what else did he say? Secret hero, Neal was the secret hero, Neal was in every line, visions of Neal behind Jack's eyes when he drank. He puts his mouth to Neal's and Neal sighs a little, hands rubbing over Jack's cheeks and throat and shoulders like a dog he's trying to calm.
"It's all right, Jackie, it's all right," Neal says. Jack remembers the Neal of his youth, tall and god-like and corn-fed, manic and eager and all-encompassing, the way he sucked the air out of rooms, drew everyone to him like moths to light. It has mellowed into a lean desperation in the back of his eyes and Jack knows he won't stay with Carolyn and the kids forever. There is something in Neal that always needs to be going. There is something in Neal that cannot stop.
There is something almost fatherly in Neal now, a day-to-day tiredness that Jack recalls from his own family, a man settled in routine. Jack doesn't care much, though, because underneath the workman with cereal milk staining his collar is the same undeniable pull.
In the very back of his heart, under the floorboards, Jack had always wanted to take the place of one of Neal's girls in the backseat of a car in a lot but he'd never been able to say so because of the gross wrongness of it, because he is not a small town girl to be taken in the back of a Hudson. But when he would lean on the hood smoking and waiting for Neal to be done, some part of Jack would want. He would just want.
He puts his hands on the sides of Neal's torso, feeling the powerful muscle and hot skin bound up by the denim button-down. He puts his mouth on Neal's neck and tastes salt-sweat, feels stubble against his lips. He feels Neal release another slow, soft sigh and then Neal's hands thread through his hair, soothing, gentle.
"Allen," Jack starts, "You always said – but Carolyn told me once, and LuAnn too, and everything he always put in those damn poems –"
But Neal hushes him and kisses him, warm rough lips against Jack's own, closing over his words and swallowing them down.
"Dean," Jack murmurs, which is not his name, and, "Cody," and Neal just keeps shushing him and kissing him and names don't matter, nothing matters.
In the flat of the back of Neal's truck, they lay out amongst the workman debris and dirt and leaves and whatever else. In the distance the house is lit up and Carolyn is within serving dinner to three children who chatter and giggle. Jack imagines her shooting worried glances out the window every so often. "You gonna respect me tomorrow?" Jack says, a rough-voiced joke, and Neal laughs his free, unrestrained laugh.
"Don't respect you now, Jackie," he says, his solid weight pressing Jack into the cool metal, dusty denim and warm hands, kisses like whiskey and the stars endless punctures in the black tent of the night.
Jack Kerouac/Neal Cassady. Past Neal Cassady/Allen Ginsberg, also Neal/everyone and Jack/everyone who already slept with Neal.
1169 words. PG13.
Summary: There was no magic anymore, and Jack had never touched Neal, and Jack drinks.
Note: Written for this prompt. Came out waaaay angstier than I planned. It's mostly accurate, history-wise, but I took some liberties (obvi) and I didn't pay a helluva lot of attention to the timeline. Some 'Howl' quoting within. I think everything is mostly self-explanatory, but in case it's not, some quickies: Jean-Louis is Jack's given name, Neal's first wife is LuAnn and second is Caroline.
Jack finds Neal again in Denver and they get drunk. Neal is already drunk, Jack finds him drunk and with a bloodied lip because he got caught making it with someone's girl in someone's car in the parking lot. Neal just laughs about it though, fingers rising to touch the raw swollen lip and probing the wound. "Aw, fuck," he says, "It was worth it."
The girl leaves her fella for Neal, who has by then lost interest, and Jack ends up shacking up with her in a hotel room in San Francisco, going all the places Neal has been but always a couple steps after. He doesn't know why he does it. It never satisfies him. Afterwards whatever magic Neal left behind is patently gone, and there is just an exhausted, beautiful, unhappy girl cleaning up her makeup and brushing out her hair and sliding on her rumpled, worn clothes. LuAnn was like that. At the end of the day she was just a girl with bruises on her hips and one nice dress that didn't even fit, and after Neal's touch had faded Jack wasn't sure why he'd wanted her at all.
Neal is married to Carolyn now but that don't mean much, even with the baby, since he's always up and leaving her at any opportunity. He has a picture of the baby in his wallet, though, and he shows it to Jack with pride, says things like, "Little Cathy looks just like her Mama, huh?"
Neal carries little on him – whatever money he's got, never much, and the picture of Cathy, a picture of Carolyn, a notebook which is a habit he picked up from Jack, and a scruffy pack of letters with Allen's notable scrawl. Neal is taking a shower in Jack's room because he doesn't have one of his own and Jack find the letters in Neal's pants pocket.
"Breaking his heart, Cassady," Jack says, when Neal ambles out all wet and clean, and Neal laughs.
"He's just got the wrong idea is all," Neal says, but from what Carolyn's told Jack, it's not the wrong idea at all.
Jack gets drunk so he can pretend to forget trying to touch Neal's rough sun-browned skin, so he can pretend to forget how Neal kisses him and pulls away, calls him Jean-Louis and never touches him. Once they'd both taken LuAnn between them and despite the gritty mess of it, Jack felt hushed and sacred. He felt like drinking the sun out of Neal's flesh but mostly it did what it always did – there is every beautiful moment leading to completion, and then everything is empty, too real and too lonely, just bodies making messes, a dance that ends abruptly when you trip and fall on your ass. There was no magic anymore, and Jack had never touched Neal, and Jack drinks.
It's years and years later, Neal has the house and two more little ones, and one is John Allen, Jean-Louis, he thinks. By now Jack has made love to Carolyn a million times. For a time the world was beautiful, Neal made love to her in the morning when Jack was stumbling in after a hard night's work and Jack would take a hot bath as Neal was leaving for the day then Jack would make love to her in the afternoon. It worked in cycles, worked like that, and Neal was never with him and always with him. But it's years and years, Neal has the house and two more little ones, and Jack is all shaking hands needing booze, and Neal puts both hands to Jack's cheek and says, "Jean-Louis, what are you doing, huh?"
Everything in Jack is crumbling and so he puts his mouth on Neal's mouth and remembers all the things Allen has said – Adonis of Denver joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots and diner backyards, and what was that other one, what else did he say? Secret hero, Neal was the secret hero, Neal was in every line, visions of Neal behind Jack's eyes when he drank. He puts his mouth to Neal's and Neal sighs a little, hands rubbing over Jack's cheeks and throat and shoulders like a dog he's trying to calm.
"It's all right, Jackie, it's all right," Neal says. Jack remembers the Neal of his youth, tall and god-like and corn-fed, manic and eager and all-encompassing, the way he sucked the air out of rooms, drew everyone to him like moths to light. It has mellowed into a lean desperation in the back of his eyes and Jack knows he won't stay with Carolyn and the kids forever. There is something in Neal that always needs to be going. There is something in Neal that cannot stop.
There is something almost fatherly in Neal now, a day-to-day tiredness that Jack recalls from his own family, a man settled in routine. Jack doesn't care much, though, because underneath the workman with cereal milk staining his collar is the same undeniable pull.
In the very back of his heart, under the floorboards, Jack had always wanted to take the place of one of Neal's girls in the backseat of a car in a lot but he'd never been able to say so because of the gross wrongness of it, because he is not a small town girl to be taken in the back of a Hudson. But when he would lean on the hood smoking and waiting for Neal to be done, some part of Jack would want. He would just want.
He puts his hands on the sides of Neal's torso, feeling the powerful muscle and hot skin bound up by the denim button-down. He puts his mouth on Neal's neck and tastes salt-sweat, feels stubble against his lips. He feels Neal release another slow, soft sigh and then Neal's hands thread through his hair, soothing, gentle.
"Allen," Jack starts, "You always said – but Carolyn told me once, and LuAnn too, and everything he always put in those damn poems –"
But Neal hushes him and kisses him, warm rough lips against Jack's own, closing over his words and swallowing them down.
"Dean," Jack murmurs, which is not his name, and, "Cody," and Neal just keeps shushing him and kissing him and names don't matter, nothing matters.
In the flat of the back of Neal's truck, they lay out amongst the workman debris and dirt and leaves and whatever else. In the distance the house is lit up and Carolyn is within serving dinner to three children who chatter and giggle. Jack imagines her shooting worried glances out the window every so often. "You gonna respect me tomorrow?" Jack says, a rough-voiced joke, and Neal laughs his free, unrestrained laugh.
"Don't respect you now, Jackie," he says, his solid weight pressing Jack into the cool metal, dusty denim and warm hands, kisses like whiskey and the stars endless punctures in the black tent of the night.