CHAMPAGNE SUPERNOVA

"A Queer As Folk USA FanFic"

by Gaedhal

This is Chapter 85 in the "Queer Theories" series.

Go back to "Landslide -- Part 4", the previous chapter.

The narrator is Justin Taylor, featuring Brian Kinney, Rowan Conley, Harry Collins, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Brian and Justin stay at Harry's house in Sussex for the weekend. August 2002.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Watch Queer As Folk on Showtime, buy the DVDs, videos, and CDs. Read the stories and enjoy.

"Some day you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide,
In a champagne supernova in the sky...

'Cause people believe that they're
Gonna get away for the summer,
But you and I, we live and die,
The world's still spinning 'round --
We don't know why?"

"Justin! Will you turn that OFF?"

"But, Brian -- it's Oasis!" The CD is blasting through the Rolls' sound system, filling the car with music.

"I don't care if it's The Rolling fucking Stones playing on the front seat in person! I've heard this same CD ten times and that's enough!"

"I've only played it twice." I have -- but that's when we were stuck in traffic near Guildford, so it may have seemed like more.

"Sure. And the NEW Oasis CD at least twice. And then how many times for the Travis CD?"

"Only once."

"Make that THREE times! And what's this?" Brian sorts through the little pile of CDs I have on the seat. "Squeeze? Fleetwood Mac? Where did you pick THESE up? They're like twenty years old!"

"At the Music and Video Exchange up on Notting Hill Gate. That's where I got most of these. I like them."

"The Drama Princess becomes the Pop Princess. Oh, well, I guess it could be worse. You could be listening to Barbra or Bette or Cher!"

"You already told me that you'd toss me out the window if I started getting into that kind of music, Brian. 'One Emmett Honeycutt is enough around here!' Remember?"

"Of course -- and I fucking meant it, too!" Brian rubs his eyes. "Maybe Kenroy would like to hear something else?"

"Okay. I'll ask him." I tap on the glass separating the driver from the backseat. "Kenroy -- do you mind the music that I'm playing while we drive?"

"Not at all. I quite like pop music. As long as it isn't one of those fake bands they invent on the telly."

"Do you mind if I play the Elvis Costello?"

"'Course not. Play what's your pleasure," says Kenroy.

I turn to Brian, smugly. "See?"

"Then put on the Elvis Costello! I don't mind that! I don't mind the others, either! Just not five times in a row, over and over again! And keep it down to a dull roar -- please?"

"Maybe YOU want to listen to something, Brian?"

"I didn't bring my collected works of Atomic Kitten, so you'll have to excuse me." Brian settles back in the leather seat of the Rolls. "I just want to get down to Sussex with my hearing -- and my sanity -- intact."

"I'm sorry, Brian. I'll turn the music down."

"That's okay, Justin. It doesn't really bother me." Brian closes his eyes and that's when I start to feel really bad. Because I've been blasting the music all the way from London and Brian hasn't said a thing. He must have a headache. A bad one, from the way he's wincing. And I've been fucking unaware. But Brian hasn't been himself all today. Well, he HAS been HIMSELF, but a very quiet self. Letting me get away with murder. Like he's trying to make something up to me. Make up for yesterday, mainly. And I've been oblivious to it up until now.

Oblivious because I've been so excited to get out of the city. And away from everything that's been going on. When I got up this morning, things felt different somehow. Whereas last night I just felt so hopeless and depressed, I got out of bed with a new attitude. A new determination. I saw Brian's determination last night. I know I can't change his mind about what he's planning to do -- what did Michael say to me once about changing Brian's mind? Something like it would be easier to take on Starbucks! But I can join him in that plan. Become part of it. Help him in every way I can.

This morning Brian was frantically trying to finish packing, but I stopped him and told him to just get ready to go to the studio, that I'd handle it all. And he was already late. After he left, I went into my personal assistant mode and sat down and made a list of what I needed to do. Then I went out and bought another big suitcase to hold all the new clothes Brian has bought while we've been here, as well as a smaller suitcase for me and my new purchases. Then I stopped at the Music and Video Exchange and got some new CDs -- the ones I've been playing in the car. I also got some more film for my camera. I plan on taking a lot of pictures while we are on our 'holiday,' as Brian calls it. OUR holiday. Who fucking knows when we'll get another one? So I am going to make the most of it.

While I was walking around Notting Hill Gate, I kept thinking about how familiar it has become over the weeks we've been here. The cafe where Brian gets his latte. The bookstore. The Indian take-out. The post office where I buy my stamps and mail off my postcards almost every day. The grocery store where I buy little cups of trifle -- this fruit and custard dessert -- and then sit on one of the stone walls and eat them while I watch people go by. The places in Kensington Gardens where I take my sketchpad and spend hours at a time. My little neighborhood. And these times really seem to outweigh the traumas when I consider things. When I look at things rationally. Which I usually only do in retrospect.

And I can see wanting to come back to London. Trying only to recall all the good things we did here. Remembering the happy stuff and putting the other stuff behind me. Wanting to come back to 'my' little neighborhood.

When I got back to the hotel, I stopped to pick up our mail and messages. I had a letter from my mother! And there were a ton of messages for Brian. I sorted through them. A lot were from guys. Guys from the restaurant on Old Compton Street who were STILL calling and inviting Brian -- and usually me, too -- to all kinds of parties, dinners, and other more 'personal' invitations. Guys from the studio. Guys from the location shoots! I don't know HOW they find out where he's staying. And every day I watch Brian leaf through these messages -- and then hand them over to me to crumple up and toss in the trashcan. So, I did the same thing. A few I set aside. One from a reporter looking for an interview. Another from a tailor on Savile Row where Brian is having a suit made. One from his agent.

And one message from Ron. That one was short. "Leaving Trans-Con Flight 412. 9:20 a.m." I read it and let out a sigh of relief. I looked at my watch. He was already gone. My heart did a little leap. I knew he wasn't GONE gone -- like out of our lives. But knowing that he was really out of the country, that he wouldn't be showing up at the door any minute, or calling the suite -- or doing anything else -- gave me a feel of freedom. I went back up to the room and packed up everything that was left in the two new suitcases, cleaned up the place a bit, and played some of my new CDs. I even went down and had lunch in the dining room for the first time in a while.

While I was waiting for the waitress to bring my bangers and mash, Rowan came over to the table. "What are YOU doing working lunch, Rowan?"

"I'm off classes on Friday -- and I need the money," he said, filling my water glass. "I heard you're leaving today."

"Yeah. As soon as Brian gets back from the studio. It's his last day shooting."

"So -- you're still... with him?" Rowan squinted at me. Like he was trying to read me.

I looked back at him, coolly. "Of course. Is there some reason I shouldn't be, Rowan?"

Then he fumbled with the pitcher. "No," he said. "No reason." And he walked away.

***

Harry greets us at the door of Firelands. He has a few dogs at his feet, wagging their tails to greet us. "Where were these guys last time?" I ask, as I bend down to rub their heads.

"Too much excitement before. They stayed down in the kennel. Jock hates a lot of people around, fussing," Harry points to the Yellow Lab, and then at the two terriers. "And Junie and Peg start misbehaving."

"This one looks like Toto. You know, in 'The Wizard of Oz'?"

"Peg is a Cairn, so I guess that's right. And Junie is a Norwich. They're sweet dogs -- but devils! They order ME around this house!"

It seems so much quieter than the last time we came here. This weekend it's just me and Brian and Harry and his staff -- and the dogs. No big house party. And -- I hope -- no more psychics. It's already late when we arrive. Brian was delayed at the studio, and then we had to wait for Kenroy to pick us up, and then there was the long drive down to Firelands. After I realized that Brian had a bad headache I cut off the music and just leaned back in the seat with him, resting my head on his shoulder.

My stomach was rumbling like crazy in the car, but I knew that Harry would have dinner ready for us when we get down there. And he does. "Brian told me that you like Shepherd's Pie," says Harry. "And trifle for dessert."

"Actually," adds Brian. "I told him you were dying for some Spotted Dick -- but cooler heads prevailed."

"Please!" I beg. "Don't serve me anything that I'm too embarrassed to write to my mother that I ate!"

Harry laughs. "I wouldn't dream of it! Besides," confides Harry. "Spotted Dick is Gerry's favorite and he would be livid if he knew we had it when he wasn't here."

"It figures," mutters Brian. "Fucking Spotted Dick!"

The next morning I meet Brian down at the stables after breakfast. Brian tells me to bring what I think I'd need for the 'perfect ride.' So I go down to the kitchen and talk to Mrs. Jones, the cook. And I have a whole bunch of things in my saddlebags for that perfect ride!

I'm wearing my new riding habit that Brian bought for me in London. Tall riding boots and black coat and white pants. And I have my own hat, too, now. I feel like a real equestrian! "I think I'm ready to try a little bit livelier horse," I tell Mr. Hendry, the groom. "I've been taking lessons."

"He really has," says Brian. He's dressed as usual in his jeans and work boots and leather jacket. "Give him a horse that's at least breathing this time."

"Poor old McGuffin!" I see him sticking his head out of his stall and I feel bad that I'm snubbing him today. But I do think I can handle a better horse. Mr. Hendry gives me the horse that Gerry's sister Sybil usually rides, Hyacinth. She's a tall gray horse, but she seems like she won't run away with me. Brian rides Mercutio, Gerry's horse, the same one he had before.

"You won't get lost, will ya now?" asks Mr. Hendry.

"I don't think so," says Brian. "If we follow the same path we took last time, we should be all right." Brian swings his leg up onto Mercutio's back. "But if we're a little late -- don't send out the Light Brigade. We'll find our way back before dark."

Mr. Hendry gives me a leg up and I follow Brian out of the stableyard and down the path. Once we are out of the yard, Brian grins at me. "I have this horrifying vision," he says. "Of Sybil and Albert suddenly showing up and coming out to find us -- and seeing some things that they aren't expecting!"

"I think Harry said that Sybil was up in Scotland this weekend, so I don't think we need to worry," I say. "So -- what is it that you think they'll see, Brian?"

"I don't know -- let's wait for whatever comes up." He smirks at me.

We ride along the same path and it winds through some fields behind Firelands. It was misty earlier, but as it gets warmer and sunnier the mist lifts and it's a bright August day. I can't believe that it's August already. The summer is almost over... But I'm not going to think about that. We still have a lot of time left. A LOT of time. And thinking about... what's going to happen at the end of August is NOT on my agenda. Not in my thoughts at ALL. Not at all....

We come to an open field and Brian challenges me to a race. Well, maybe not exactly a race, but he wants me to see if I can get THIS horse to keep up with Mercutio. And I'm able to! I get Hyacinth into a fast trot, then a canter and Brian holds his horse to a speed where we are galloping along together, just like in a movie! It's awesome! At the end of the field Brian pulls his horse up and mine slows down to match him.

"I win!" announces Brian.

"No fair! That wasn't a real race! You can't just declare you're the winner!"

"Yes, I can. Which means that I get to decide where we stop for lunch."

"How do you know that I brought any food, Brian? You didn't tell me to."

"I told you to bring what you thought we'd need for the perfect ride. And the perfect ANYTHING with YOU always includes food!"

"Well," I grumble. He fucking knows me too well. "Maybe...."

"Come on." Brian leads us down the path. We pass a few more houses, but they are a distance away. Mostly we see birds and trees. We pass one field with a few cows in it, another with some sheep. Then I see the little river that we rode by on our first trip. Brian heads off the path and down by the edge of the stream. He dismounts and leads his horse along the bank. "What do you think? This looks like a good spot."

There are some trees right along the water and a clear area underneath. I look around and don't see a house or building or any sign of life except for the birds and the horses and us. "Looks like a good place for a picnic to me."

"Okay, then." Brian helps me down off Hyacinth and then ties up the horses to a low tree branch. "Let's see what you brought."

I open up the saddle bags and pull out the packages of food that Mrs. Jones, the cook, wrapped up for me. "Sandwiches. Cheese. A loaf of bread. Butter."

"Jesus! How much food do you HAVE in there?"

"These are some kind of little pastries she was making for Afternoon Tea. But I told her I didn't know if we'd be back in time for that, so she gave me a bunch of them. And fresh scones, too. And a little pot of clotted cream to put on the scones."

"You really made a haul there." Brian grabs one of the scones and sticks the entire thing in his mouth at once. His mouth is pretty amazing.

"Great, huh? And here's a thermos of tea. And some bottled water. And...." I reach in for the best part. "Champagne!" I pull out four little bottles.

"That's NOT champagne! What is that stuff?" Brian says, wiping the crumbs from the scone off his lips.

"Babycham. It's kind of LIKE champagne. Mrs. Jones said it was good."

"Babycham! You couldn't snatch a bottle of Moet out of Harry's wine cellar, could you?"

"I don't know where Harry's wine cellar IS, Brian. Besides, you're on the wagon. This is kind of like champagne for people who don't drink."

"Or old ladies and schoolgirls." He looks at one of the bottles. "I guess it won't be too bad."

"Okay. Let's see what YOU brought," I say. But I have a pretty good idea. He goes over and opens his saddlebag. And he pulls out a blanket. "Why didn't I think of THAT! It's perfect for the picnic!"

Brian just gives me a look. Then he takes out a plastic bag -- and the little riding crop that belonged to Sybil's son.

"I wondered where that thing went!"

"I've been saving it -- for a non-rainy day," laughs Brian. He spreads out the blanket and drops the riding crop and the plastic bag on it. "Give me one of those fake champagnes. I need it about now." He unpeels the seal, opens it up, and takes a swig. "Tolerable."

He hands it over to me and I drink some down, too. "It's not bad!"

"Give me that thing." He takes the bottle out of my hand and puts it down on the blanket. Then he grabs ME and puts me down on the blanket.

"Don't mess up my new riding coat!"

"Then take it off. It's getting too hot around here for a jacket -- if you know what I mean. And the hat, too." Brian takes off his leather jacket and rolls it up. Then he takes off his boots and lays down on the blanket, resting his head against the leather jacket like a pillow. I take off my hat and then my black coat. I look for a place to hang it up. I don't want it to get all damp or stained from the grass. Finally, I drape it on a branch.

"Help me with these things." I stick out my foot.

"I KNEW these fucking things were too small!" he says, getting on his knees and pulling off my left boot.

"They're the right size. My feet just swell up," I say, holding out my right one. Brian pulls that one off, too. "Looks like you're already in a good position there."

"Is that so?" He reaches up and unbuttons my white shirt, running his hands up my chest as he undoes each one from bottom to top. Then he pushes the shirt off my shoulders and moves his hands back down to unfasten my white riding pants. They are kind of stretchy, so they snap against my butt as he tugs them down. I step out of them and Brian shoves them to the side. He buries his face in the front of my white briefs, nudging with his nose, blowing his hot breath through the thin material until my cock feels like it's on fire.

I go to pull down my briefs, but Brian won't let me. He bats my hands away. And he continues to push and nibble and blow and nudge against the front of my jockeys until my cock is so hard and aching that I'm about ready to scream. I'm about to come and I haven't even taken off my underwear!

Then he stops. He sits back and looks at me. Just looks at me. I can't read his face at all. Can't tell if he's happy or angry or puzzled -- or just horny. He's just... looking. Then he lies back on the blanket and closes his eyes. "Well?" I say, still standing there wearing nothing but my briefs, my dick also standing straight up, too!

Brian reaches down and unbuttons his jeans. Of course, he isn't wearing any underwear. His long cock springs right up. I tug at the legs of his jeans and pull them off, while he removes his white tee shirt.

"Let's see how well you really can ride, Justin. If you do a good job, maybe you can try out the bucking bronco. That's for experts only."

"I think I've already ridden in this rodeo," I say. I reach over for the plastic bag Brian brought. Of course, it's got condoms and a tube of lube inside. That's Brian's idea of the perfect picnic! I slip the rubber on him and run the lubricant up and down his dick until it's well covered. Then I rub some on my own. He's just laying back, his arms crossed under his head, waiting for me to mount up.

For some reason I look around before I do -- like I suddenly expect someone to be there, watching, in this secluded place. But there's no one. Just the two horses, chomping absently on some grass and swishing their tails. A bird flying overhead. The sound of the breeze. Nothing else.

I lower myself onto his dick. Slowly. Very slowly. Shoving myself down, engulfing it. Angling my ass backwards slightly. Pushing a little further, further, until I can't force myself down any further. And then I push a little more. Digging in. Squatting in place.

He reaches out his hand and takes something. Hands it to me. It's the little riding crop. I switch it gently against his thigh. Then a little harder. Then enough to sting. And then he starts to move, slowly at first, up and down, then faster and faster. I drop the riding crop and he brings his hands up to catch mine, to steady me. As he slams upward, jolting me, sending me practically flying into the air. Bucking bronco.

But I stay on. He holds me on. My own cock can't take anymore. I pull one hand free and grab it, pulling once, twice, before I come. I fall forward slightly with the force of it, but Brian steadies me again, thrusting upward again. And again. Until I'm dizzy and ready to fall forward again. Then he slows down, easing me off him.

"I think that was well over the time limit. Good job. You move into the final round."

"I didn't get thrown off. But I dropped my crop."

"Nope, your ass didn't end up in the dirt -- this time." He discards the condom and gets out another. He hasn't come yet and his dick is rock hard. "Let's see what else this pony can do." He pushes me on my back and spreads my legs. He fondles my damp cock, my balls gently, his own dick probing slowly underneath them. Searching for my hole. Pressing back into me as he leans forward. Pressing. I feel my ass constricting around him. He's thrusting again now. This time harder, more directly than when I was on top of him. Thrusting deeply again -- while he bends down against me, kissing up my chest, my neck, taking my mouth and holding it. Holding it. He's gasping as I feel him convulse. Coming with his cock deep inside me.

"I love you," he whispers. "Does that still count? Even when I come?"

"Especially then. Like the first time."

He thrusts again, one final time, as if to punctuate his words. Then he lets me go. Slowly releases himself from me. I want to protest -- but it's too late. He's gone and collapsing slightly on top of me. Breathing hard. I hear the buzz of an insect near my ear. The snorting of the horses. Otherwise, it's like there's no one else in the whole world.

A few minutes later, after he's caught his breath, he pours a little Babycham on my cock and belly and 'drinks' it up, cleaning me like a wicked cat, green eyes glowing.

Then he breaks out the food and we lay on the blanket, eating it, naked. We've done a lot of things in the two years since Brian picked me up on Liberty Avenue, but nothing has felt so decadent and yet so natural as this little picnic on the riverbank.

"You know, I never got to ask you how you liked Cambridge," says Brian, finishing one of Mrs. Jones' sandwiches. "Did it remind you of 'Maurice'?"

"Sort of," I answer, drinking some tea from the thermos. "I wanted to spend more time there. I got the feeling I was only scratching the surface with one day."

"I think that's true of any place, whether it's Cambridge or London -- or Pittsburgh. You need to really live there to get a feel for the place. Who knows? Maybe you'll get to spend more time there some day. You could be the 'Artist in Residence' and all the beautiful, upper class English boys will be trying to impress you to get into your pants."

"And WHEN is this going to be, Brian?" I laugh. I also move more under the shade of the big tree. I can feel my shoulders and back and rear getting hot -- and probably a little sunburned.

"When you're a famous artist, of course -- when do you think? They don't give the title 'Artist in Residence' to unknown, twerpy little twinks! Which is another reason why you have to get your ass in gear for school in the fall. Don't you have that exhibit or art show or something coming up?"

"Yeah, at the Austin Gallery. In September."

"You've got to get ready for that. Is there some kind of prize involved?"

"A couple. But there's no way I'm going to win anything, Brian. I'll probably be the youngest person in the show."

"Then think of it as a place to start. It wasn't all that long ago that you were doing that thing at the Gay and Lesbian Center. The one Lindsay got you into."

"The one that you said you wouldn't come to -- but you did anyway." I can still feel the thrill of seeing Brian walk into the room wearing his black, sleeveless shirt, his arms pale and muscular, his head held at an arrogant angle. How I tried to pretend that my eyes weren't riveted to him the entire time! How I tried to be so nonchalant. How I only wanted him to notice me. To say two words to me. To pick me up and carry me out of there in those arms and fuck me until....

"Well, they had free booze there -- And I wanted to see how people reacted to that drawing of my dick."

"Oh, GOD! My mom completely freaked out when she saw that picture!"

"She was probably jealous," muses Brian, reaching for the tea and drinking it straight from the thermos. "Shit -- that seems like a long time ago. But it was only two years."

"Yeah, a lot of stuff can happen in two years. So much stuff. It's amazing how things can... change."

"You mean things in general? "Or 'us' things?" He rolls over onto his side, facing me.

"Both, I guess."

"I wonder what it would be like to live over here."

I sit up a little. "You mean, like permanently?"

"Or for part of the year. Maybe some time here. Some time in the Pitts. Some in Los Angeles."

"I don't know. I've never thought about it for real. Why do you mention it?" And I get a funny feeling. The feeling that Brian is seriously thinking of moving here. Living here. And then I would see him even less than I would if he was in L.A. There would be a whole ocean to cross. But I guess the Atlantic is no wider than the continent between L.A. and Pittsburgh. Maybe it would be okay. But I feel a pang in my heart....

"Because Dorian mentioned something about it. He's brought it up before, but he talked to me about it again today."

Oh, oh, I think. DORIAN mentioned it. Another director obsessed with you! Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Brian!

"He's got this house that he inherited from some aunt. He seems to think that I should move over here and live in it. That I could find parts in London and Europe a lot easier than in Los Angeles. That they are more 'open' to my type -- by which I guess he means queers! I have no idea if he's right about that, since I haven't really tried to get any other parts -- yet." Brian picks a little blade of grass and chews at it. "And with the Concorde, I could get to New York pretty quickly if I needed to, and on to Los Angeles. And I wouldn't have fucking Ron breathing down my neck all the time if I were living here...."

"And Dorian just happens to have this house he isn't using? How convenient, Brian."

Brian reaches over and squeezes my arm. "He's a really rich guy. He has a house in Paris AND one in Rome, too. I guess that's where his wife is living now. This is the real 'Jet Set,' Justin. Or rather, Dorian was a Jet Set baby."

"What do you mean by that, Brian?"

"His father was some Italian film director and his mother was a French actress. I think Dorian came about as a result of some on-set hanky panky. 'La Dolce Vita' indeed!"

"Geez, I thought he was English."

"Nope, just educated in England. I told you they drop kids off in school at an early age and leave them until they're grown over here! I think Dorian's parents forgot to ever pick him up. But they sure left him some money along the way." Brian rolls over onto his stomach. His back and ass look all golden in the sun. It's so strange to see someone naked outside in broad daylight, even someone whose body you know so well. It just seems a completely different thing. Earthy. Or primeval.

"That's kind of sad," I say. "About Dorian, I mean."

"He doesn't seem to be suffering. I wish to fuck MY parents had dropped me off at some safe place and forgotten about ME until I was about eighteen. Maybe I wouldn't be so screwed up then." He picks up one of the bottles of Babycham and drinks down the last of it. "Anyway, this deal couldn't happen until sometime next year, after all 'The Olympian' stuff -- and everything else -- is over with. And after you finish out the school year. You'll need at least two full years -- with GOOD grades, NOT just passing! -- at PIFA in order to transfer to one of the art or design schools in London. That's something you'll have to look into. I mean, in order to find out the best ones. Dorian would probably have an idea about that, since he was a set designer or something artistic like that."

I lean over to him. "Are saying that you want me to live over here, too? With you?"

"No," he deadpans. "With Prince fucking Charles! In Buckingham Palace! What do you think? We don't want to spend the whole rest of our lives in Pittsburgh, do we? Christ!"

"No," I say. "I guess not." I'm trying to comprehend the way that Brian has just informed me that we will be living together. In the future. 'We don't want to spend the rest of our lives in Pittsburgh, do we?' I hear again in my head. My, God! That's the nearest thing to a proposal that anyone is EVER likely hear from Brian in this or any other lifetime!

"Anyway, it's an option. Something to think about." He rolls over onto his back and I notice that Brian has given me something else worth thinking about. Again.

"Here's another option," I suggest, climbing on top of him once more.

"You're KILLING me, you know that?" If I AM, then he's going to die smiling.

"I don't think so," I say. "I'd never kill you! I love you too much."

Now he's really smiling. "You realize that we'll definitely be late for Tea Time, don't you?"

"That's all right," I tell him. "We already ate all the scones! But we still have some of Mrs. Jones' clotted cream left over." I snag some of the whipped cream from the jar and smear a little on my fingers, licking it slowly. I have a couple of ideas about where else I can apply it.

And then I stretch myself all across him, like the sky is stretching itself out over our heads.

"Wake up the dawn and ask her why
A dreamer dreams she never dies?
Wipe that tear away now from your eye!
Slowly walking down the hall
Faster than a cannon ball
Where were you when we were getting high?

Some day you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide,
In a champagne supernova in the sky.
Some day you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide,
In a champagne supernova --
A champagne supernova in the sky."

Continue on to "Day Tripper", the next chapter.

©Gaedhal, September 2002

Picture of Gale Harold and Randy Harrison from Showtime.

Updated September 18, 2002