Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - Kentucky Rain
Fizz.
Hundreds of bubbles fizzed to the top of the glass, cascading one after another in gentle rows. They made their way up to the top of the glass, joining the thick layer of white foam on top. Condensation slowly formed on the side, creating a frosty sheen of droplets almost indiscernible to the eye.
If there was at least one thing in this world Johnny knew, a cold beer from a shitty bar always helped at the end of a bad day. At least marginally.
Johnny rested his head on the edge of the wooden table, staring intently into the faded yellow beer he had just ordered. He watched as the bartender lit up a cigarette, blowing his smoke in no particular direction. Johnny noticed the air conditioning unit on the wall above him picked up the smoke, sending it directly back into the bartender's face. He watched as the man tried to waft the smoke away with a flash of his hands.
Johnny traced his finger along the glass, feeling the condensation collect under his fingers. He tapped it into little blobs of droplets, drawing mindless lines and zig-zags alongside his drink.
His eyes shifted from his glass. Damn. 1… 2… 4, no…
Johnny counted 7 empty glasses stacked to the side of the table. 8, including the one he continued to swirl in front of him.
Well, he thought he counted 7, but he can’t quite tell. Could’ve been 8, or 9. He doesn’t quite care that much, he decides.
Years of heavy chain smokers coming and going through the sleazy bar had caused the entire area to turn a deep shade of yellow that was almost impossible to see. That was until someone took a napkin to the splintery wooden tables and chairs. Then it was easy to see how many food safety codes were blatantly being ignored.
But Johnny didn’t care.
The neon OPEN sign reflected all the way off the front window to the mirrors in the back of the bar, flashing rhythmically in succession. O… P… E…N… OPEN. It would flash three times, then repeat all over again; a hazy mixture of red and blues illuminating the bar ever-so-slightly. Rows of dusty multicolored string lights strung the walls haphazardly. The overhead lights were so dim, one could barely make out the features of someone sitting right in front of them. They kinda flickered a bit, too. Staring at them for too long would give someone a headache right quick.
But Johnny didn’t care.
The soft, warm feeling inside his chest he had been chasing all night had begun to form into one of uncomfort and staleness. His stomach started to churn and Johnny realized he couldn’t think of the last time he had near a sip of water.
Johnny didn’t care.
Some distant part of himself knew that all the emotions he hadn’t wanted to feel tonight had gone away, at least. And if that left him with only a queasy stomach, at the end of the day, he would rather live with that instead.
All of a sudden, Johnny’s ears started to tune back into his surroundings. A soft tune came from the room next door. It was a small bustling crowd of people murmuring softly. The shuffling of feet, a group of laughs. Microphone feedback, the clinking sound of drink glasses.
Johnny didn’t care.
He looked down at his legs. He had long forgotten what it felt like to dance at the bar on a saturday night. Maybe that was for the best, to be honest. He didn’t always like how handsy some people would get after one too many drinks, or the way it always felt like some guy was going to sling him a good one after dancing with his girl. It happened once; that was enough to keep him on edge every time after.
His eyes became cloudy. The effects of intoxication, some part of his thoughts echoed out. It wasn’t quite that, however, as he saw wet spots form on the fabric of his pants.
Tears, he guessed.
He wasn’t quite sure why he was crying. He sure didn’t feel like crying. Maybe this was some sort of subconscious reaction, but a reaction to what? He couldn’t quite pinpoint it. To be honest, he couldn’t quite remember much at all.
That tune in the background, it sounded really nice. The soft strumming of the guitar, and some good, clean vocals echoed out around the air around him. Some voices were even singing along, but nothing compared to the person on the mic tonight, he thought.
But Johnny didn’t ca-
He pushed his wheelchair out from underneath the table and started to wheel to the room next door, bumping haphazardly into chair legs that were strewn about by uncourteous customers.
Why was he doing that again?
Oh yeah. That voice, it sounded real… real… something…
Familiar?
It wasn’t the voice, no. It was the song itself.
Johnny rolled his chair around the corner to see about 10 or so people gathered around a dinky stage outfitted with a microphone stand and one small speaker. A few spotlights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the man on stage in a rim of golden light.
Someday, when we meet up yonder…
A group of drunken college-aged students swayed back and forth together, singing along loudly to the song.
We’ll stroll hand in hand again…
This was an odd song to make a ruckus to.
In a land that knows no partin’...
Johnny’s eyes locked onto the solemn voice singing into the mic.
Blue eyes cryin’ in the rain.
The college kids shouted loudly, giving a drunken roar of applause as the song came to a close. The eyes of the man who stood on the stage watched them closely, and if Johnny was a betting man, he had a feeling he was a little annoyed that they didn’t take his melancholy song so seriously.
Some part of Johnny didn’t like it, either.
The man on the stage strummed a few chords to fill the stale air between the chatter of the small crowd.
“Now, how about a bit of a happier song? We wanna dance!” one of the college boys exclaimed. His friends cheered in agreement, pumping their fists into the air and giggling.
The man at the microphone flashed a smile. “Not a fan of the slower ones, I see. Can’t win ‘em all I guess.” He began to expertly pluck at his guitar in rhythmic fashion, picking up the tempo. “How about this one? Y’know, I wrote it myself, actually.”
He leaned over the microphone, beginning to sing a soulful, catchy tune. The pesky group of kids broke up and started to dance with each other in front of the stage.
On the road to Kentucky, I'm traveling alone,
T hrough valleys and hills, and a land of unknown.
But I'm not afraid, I'll make it through,
With the grace of God, and my heart so true.
Definitely would sound better with some fiddle, Johnny thought.
Wait.
“What in the hell?”
Johnny thought he said that in his head, but the head turns and slowed down dances of the crowd suggested that he had done otherwise.
The man playing guitar didn’t seem to hear what everyone else did and continued to strum the jaunty, bluegrassy tune. How on earth could he know these lyrics? Wait, why did Johnny know this song? What was going on?
I’ve got my guitar and a pocket full of dreams
Hoping one day to hear my name in country music themes
I’ll sing my heart out in every little town
Hoping my music will take me around.
Johnny started wheeling closer to the stage.
“Watch it!”
“What the hell!”
“The fuck is he doin’?”
He realized only after he was nearly 10 feet away from the stage that he had probably been rolling over some people's feet. Something was dragging him closer to this tall, blond haired mystery man. Like a magnet to a fridge.
Whether it was divine intervention, supernatural causes, or by a secret underlying will he had all along, Johnny had the most coherent thought he had had all night.
This was Nick’s song.
As the song broke into a melodic interlude, Johnny stared deep into those playful green eyes, ever-focused on the guitar strings. His hands slid across the frets of the boards effortlessly. He was good, Johnny thought.
But just being good wasn’t going to fly with Johnny.
“That ain’t your song.” Johnny said.
As Johnny’s eyes started to focus a bit more, he saw that the man had a funny looking beard. And that he hadn’t heard him one bit.
“I said, that ain’t your song!” Johnny exclaimed, a little louder this time. The man looked up from his guitar and met Johnny’s gaze. Not missing a single beat, he leaned over to the microphone, maintaining eye contact with the strange man in the wheelchair.
On the road to Kentucky, I'm traveling alone…
Johnny threw his hands into the air in resignation. By hell this random man was going to take credit for Nicholas’s song. This had got to be a blatant violation of copyright laws. Somehow.
“The fuck you think you’re doing up there? This ain’t your song and you know it, asshole.”
Stares from the crowd burned holes into the cowboy hat on Johnny’s head.
“That ain’t your song! That’s Nick’s! NICK wrote that song!” Johnny felt more and more anger stirring up in his core as a familiar sting began to flow into his eyes. He slammed his arms down at the singer's feet. “Where do you get off claiming stuff as your own, huh?”
The man stepped back and stopped playing his guitar completely. The kids were no longer dancing and had started to whisper in their own little group. As blue eyes locked onto green ones, the green eyed man leaned back into the microphone.
“If you have a problem with me, then let's take it outside, sweetheart.”
The teens chattered in agreement with the man on stage. They started pointing and laughing at his wheelchair.
Their eyes never broke contact until Johnny felt a sudden sharp jolt pull him backwards. He whipped his head around in disdain. “The hell-”
He was met with the face of the bartender. His sleeves were rolled up and a fresh cigarette was lit in his mouth. The ashes from the untapped cigarette fell onto Johnny’s hat as the bartender quickly wheeled Johnny towards the exit of the building.
“What the hell are you DOIN’?” Johnny blurted out. “That man in there, he STOLE my brother’s SONG!”
The bartender swung open the door and pushed him out of it.
“Just go home, Johnny.”
As the door came to a close, Johnny turned his chair around to face the man who kicked him out. And for just a moment, he swore he saw a glimpse of the bartender's face. It wasn’t one of anger or annoyance, but one of pity.
Johnny spit onto the ground. He was the soberest he had been all night.