I am officially in love with this movie. And I'm in love with Johnny/Ash (Jash?) as a ship. Soooo I decided to try writing this little story.

PLEASE keep in mind that this will have mature content not suitable for younger readers. There won't be any graphic smut, but there will be lots of swearing and mentioned/implied sex. I'm only saying this because this is a younger fandom, and I don't want to upset or offend anyone. I won't be putting an M rating on this, because for most of the chapters, the worst thing will be swearing.

Now, with that out of the way, I hope you enjoy this! I had some trouble writing out this first chapter, but I'm thinking after this I'll be on a roll. After I post this, I'm actually going to watch the movie again and I'm sure that'll help give me some more inspiration.

Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think! Feedback is much appreciated. Now, on with the show...

Ash hates parties.

She maneuvers her way through a cluster of idiots— drunk, or high, or both, she'll never know— and dodges a waterfall of bile currently exiting someone's mouth at warp speed.

The funny thing is, this party was supposed to be for her. Her nineteenth birthday party. Within twenty minutes, the guest of honor was forgotten. She's faded into the background, another blurry brown spot in the watercolor painting every drunkard's vision becomes after a few bottles too many.

The porcupine finds a secluded corner in the room, though not before narrowly avoiding getting trampled by a pair of wild hippos.

Being out of the crowd, she now has time to focus on the concoction in her furry hand. The "jungle juice," as Mike had dubbed it, looks like it had been collected straight from a polluted river and was mixed with a few shots of vodka. Deep down, Ash knows how stupid it would be for her to trust anything made by Mike. The mouse and her aren't exactly friends— when he'd handed her the drink some twenty minutes ago, his exact words were "Here, have some of my jungle juice, Ashley dear! And smile for once, you look like you got hit by a truck." She didn't even have the willpower to tell him her name was not Ashley (that would've been the five hundredth time she corrected him).

For some stupid reason, she'd accepted the red solo cup. And for some even stupider reason, she is now drinking it.

The alcohol is like acid, burning her throat and leaving behind an uncomfortable sizzle. She forces down a few more mouthfuls, head already beginning to swim as she glances around.

She doesn't know half of the party animals here. A few she recognizes from her high school days, but most appear to be idiots Mike had dragged in from the street. He and Meena had been the only two from their "theater family"— Buster's name, not hers— who were able to attend the party.

Rosita's husband is on another business trip, and as usual it was impossible for her to find a babysitter willing to watch twenty-five unruly piglets. Gunter had planned an extravagant date night with his boyfriend Tomas. Buster and Eddie (along with Ms. Crawly) are currently on a tour around the state to spread the word about the theater, but sent their best wishes. And Johnny…

Well, according to Mike he didn't have a reason to not go. And damn, that pisses Ash off. Johnny never has an excuse for why he disappears during practice. She can only hope it's a genuine reason, and not just him being a flake.

Ash takes another long, slow sip of the jungle juice. Her tongue is used to the bitterly strong taste by now, and it's vaguely enjoyable. She spots Mike weaving his way through a forest of stomping feet and hooves, stumbling and drunk off his ass. Ash is almost positive it only takes a few droplets of alcohol to get him tipsy.

The last time Ash saw Meena, the poor elephant looked terrified. She's never been much of a partier, though then again neither has Ash. It takes a second or two, but finally the porcupine sees her friend chatting animatedly with an antelope wearing oversized glasses. Reassured that the youngest in the group is having a pleasant enough time, Ash decides not to walk over.

She continues scanning lazily over the wild crowd, sucking her cup dry of any remaining booze. More than once, a guy "accidentally" falls on top of her, and she must resist the urge to prick him in the eye with one of her quills. Ash is praying this is the worst act of douchebaggery she'll see tonight, but alas, she is disappointed.

Right in front of her, just a few feet away, is Lance. "What the hell is he doing here?" Ash hisses to herself. She tries to duck behind somebody, but it's too late. Those green eyes have already found her.

Her asshole ex— someone she thought she'd never see again. She'd really been hoping there would be no need to file a restraining order. Maybe after tonight, however, that will change.

"Ash!" Lance yells, waving his arms like an imbecile. Her quills puff up, and anger heats her face like flames.

Reluctantly, she steps out from her shitty cover, goes straight up to Lance, and socks him in the face. "Fuck you, Lance," she says with as much venom in her voice as she can muster. It's not hard to find the venom, luckily; seeing his face is good enough to get her riled up.

"God!" He cups his hands over his nose, which is beginning to bleed. "Dammit, Ash." His eyes snag hers, and she feels herself falter somewhat. His gaze is a bit glazed over from drunkenness, and she's sure hers isn't much different. Already her knees feel like Jell-O, and suddenly all she wants is to lay down and rest her spinning head.

"Beat it," she growls, turning away.

"No," he says.

She spins back around and nearly falls on her face. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Lance steadies himself, still cupping his nose with one hand and holding his other out to her. "Ash, I ended it with Becky."

Now her tongue is flopping like a fish out of water. "S- so what? That was six m- months ago! You could've dated a hundred other girls since then."

He hangs his head. "I haven't. I've been trying to find you since December—"

"I don't care—"

"— and I saw you on the TV that night, the big concert? You were singing that song, about letting it go or something…"

She holds her head and groans. Her limbs feel heavy, like they're weighed down with lead. "Set It All Free, dumbass. Let It Go is Elsa's hit. Have you not heard my stupid song on the radio?"

It's true. Ever since the concert in early December, all of the local radio stations are playing the theater group's songs almost nonstop. Ash's has been a favorite because "it's an original," as Buster put it. She appreciated the attention at first, but it got old. Fast. Day after day she'd walk into a shop or get in her car or just stop breathing for a second, and there was her voice in the background. Again and again and again. Lyrics that meant so much to her became meaningless entertainment to fill what would otherwise be dead air. Sure, the success of the song gave her money. But she's still living in that shabby apartment. Sure, the success brought hordes of boys in her direction. But none of them ever stick. They're all like sand, slipping through her fingers and leaving behind little residue. Nothing special— just hookup after hookup. Ash knows it's no way to live, but that's how she's been living.

But finally, with the start of June, budding summer hits have begun to replace her song on the radio. She's forgotten by the media for now, and she doesn't mind at all.

"Gimme a break, I'm drunk!" Lance protests. "But y'know what I mean. Come onnn, babe. Give me another chance?"

Of course, she's about to decline. But then a particular song starts leaking out of the nearby speakers, and she's shoved into a memory she's tried so hard to forget.

She's barely seventeen, and of all places to be moping in, she's moping in a club.

With a shiny new fake ID, it had been easy to fool the dimwit buffalo bouncer at the door. People had always told her she looked older than her age, despite her size.

She marched in there fully ready to order a heaping glass of whiskey or something else super strong. But now she's slouched on the counter with a lukewarm cup of Coke in her hand. Her eyes focus absently on the beads of condensation as they slide down the frosted glass, past the bar's logo, and down her arm. There's only a few sips of soda left, and by now all of the bubbles have gone flat. She shoves the drink away with a contemptuous sigh. Disgusting.

She'd been hoping to score a gig here, but the owner was difficult to track down. For a couple hours now, she's watched one performer after another cycle through the stage. At the moment, an attentive audience is watching a gecko in a sombrero waving around a pair of maracas and singing in an awful fake Mexican accent. What kind of shit is this? Ash rolls her eyes, and a snort puffs out of her nose. All those other club owners who'd criticized her music should hear this lizard's crap. Though, with her luck, they would love him and the dumbass would score a record deal in an instant.

Ash had moved halfway across the country to Calatonia hoping to find success. But success just won't befriend her.

The gecko, blessedly, slides off the stage. An employee announces the next performer. And then the next performer is on the stage.

And she's mesmerized.

She doesn't see as many porcupines here as she did in her hometown, but this guy isn't just a porcupine, he's a handsome one too.

Still in a trance, Ash hops down from her stool and makes her way over to the tables where most of the audience is seated. She pushes past group after group until she's right at the front, guitar case in hand and eyes trained on the new performer.

"Alright, so," he leans into the microphone. A sleek blue guitar hangs off his body by a single strap, and her mouth waters at the sight of it. It's the same one she's seen in the window of that music store she always walks by but never goes into. Something way beyond her price range.

"I would like to dedicate this song," he continues. Then he pauses, and begins scanning over the crowd, as if he's looking for someone in particular. Ash perks up a little more, chewing on her lip. At last, he catches her gaze, and she takes a moment to notice how wonderfully green his eyes are. He leans down slightly, pointing a finger right at her. "To this girl right here." He offers her a seductive smirk, then asks, "What's your name?"

Her heart is a fly caught in his spider web. She clears her throat, coughs. "Um… Ashlynn?" She says her name like a question, and inside she curses herself for acting like a bumbling weirdo.

And he gives her his first piece of "Lance advice"— "Just shorten it to Ash, baby. Sounds cooler that way."

She nods, words caught in her throat. And then he sings. His voice is loud, and his music louder. And it's all dedicated to her.

"Holy shit." She jumps forward and grabs his arm. She feels him jerk a little out of surprise, but he doesn't move away. "This is your song!"

Lance shrugs. "So?"

"How did they get your song? The one from, like, two years ago? How—"

"That wasn't my original song, babe. Duh," he tells her.

She falls back, feeling stupid. How much more stupid can this night get? She touches her hands to her forehead again, and finds the fur there hot and unpleasantly sticky. She can feel the pounding of her skull there. God damn it, Mike must've poisoned her.

"Lance, I—" She swallows softly, and takes his hands in hers. He looks just as out of it as she feels; maybe the jungle juice had been passed around to everyone? "… I just don't—"

He kisses her. It's messy, and their foreheads collide with a cringe worthy crack. His eyes are closed. Hers are open. Then, ever so slowly, her eyelids flutter shut.

Lance doesn't say a word. Her hand is still in his, and she's helpless to whatever he's got planned. Or doesn't have planned.

She barely registers the motion of him leading her up the stairs in this foreign apartment, banging on door after door until one gives with a reluctant creak from the hinges. It opens, revealing a— bathroom.

But it works for him, so it works for her. They're just getting back into their old routine, except this isn't the couch in her apartment or the backseat of his car. She moans softly as he presses her against the wall, leaving trails of kisses down her neck and along her collarbone. The tight blue party dress she'd grudgingly put on hours before suddenly is itching to be shed. His hands help hers yank down the zipper, all the while avoiding the quills on her back just like how he avoids his own.

The bathmat next to the shower is soft, and they opt for that as a surface rather than the ridiculously narrow shower stall. Something flickers in her conscience— this is some giraffe's apartment, a friend of Mike's. Huh. Makes sense.

Ash doesn't get a lot for her nineteenth birthday. Just a shitty party, a frothy cup of jungle juice, and a quickie with her ex on the bathmat in a stranger's apartment.

Oh, well. Good enough.

oo0oo

Johnny hates traffic.

He swears, he knows, the luck gods are not on his side today. He's slouched in the driver's seat of his truck, drumming his fingers on the worn leather edge of the steering wheel.

Usually, to entertain himself, he would sing or hum a quiet tune, but he's currently suffering his way through a cold. So, instead, he's sucking on an awful-tasting cherry lozenge and silently praying the jam up ahead will be cleared up soon.

He's been planning to attend this thing for months. Hell, he skipped out on a birthday party for this. And, by god, he hopes that it'll help cure him.

After a few more centuries inch by, the glaring red brake lights on the car ahead of him disappear, and the line of traffic starts moving. Johnny taps the gas pedal impatiently, sniffing. Who the hell catches a cold in June? And in one of the warmest places in the country where it practically never snows? Just his luck.

Ten minutes later, he shows up fifteen minutes late. Everyone glances up as he staggers in, tossing a crumpled up tissue into a trash can.

"'Ello. Sorry I'm late," he mutters to the several pairs of wide eyes. He chooses an empty chair and slouches in it, drumming his fingers on his lap like it's the dashboard in his truck.

One by one, the group leader goes around the circle. People introduce themselves for the sake of their new member, and pointless icebreaker games are played. Johnny christens himself "Johnny Jell-O." It's fairly accurate, considering every fiber in his body feels like it's made of nervous, shaky Jell-O.

When it comes time for his turn to tell his story, he does so seriously and calmly despite the nerves screaming up and down his spine.

"Johnny Jell-O," he repeats as per protocol, lifting one hand in a stiff wave. "And I am addicted to a girl."

Once again, he's met with wide, judgmental eyes.

"Ah— uh, lemme rephrase that," he stammers. "I'm, eh… I'm addicted to somethin' that'll never 'appen." He tugs at a few strands of black fur on his knuckles. "It just doesn't make any sense. This girl an' I aren't compatible at all."

The group leader, a stout orange cat with glasses, sits forward in his seat. "Why do you say that, Johnny?"

"She— I—"

"How about you describe her for us?" the cat suggests.

Johnny hides his face in his large hands, and lets a large sigh whistle through his teeth. "'Aight. She's… short. Amazing voice. She hates anything that has too much glitter on it. She's real pretty, too, bloody hell… blue eyes, an' her smile is more like a smirk, like this triumphant lil' 'I told ya so' grin. An' she can be prickly at times but—"

"Prickly?" One of the other group members snorts out a laugh. "Is she a porcupine or something?"

The gorilla nods, dead serious. "Yeah! Ya got it! She's—"

"Look, man." The orange cat shifts even closer, sliding his glasses up his snout. "I know there's lots of cross-species couples around now, but… a gorilla and a porcupine?" He leans back, chuckling. "Have you ever heard of anything more ridiculous than that?"

A goat is cackling. "I'd sooner expect a cat and a dog to fall in love!"

The group dissolves into laughter, and Johnny is sitting there muttering to himself in order to drown out their painful guffaws. Every snort, each giggle, is like another prick from a needle.

Johnny stands up abruptly, his chair screeching against the linoleum. "She's a porcupine, an' today is her birthday, an'"— he hesitates, raking a sharp gaze over everyone— "an' I should be at her party right now."

And he leaves, sans goodbye. He knows he shouldn't even waste his breath— so he doesn't. Instead he pops another lozenge into his mouth, climbs into his rumbling truck, and speeds over to the address Mike had given him two weeks ago.

It should be him throwing this party for Ash, not Mike. Mike's parties seem fun at first, but eventually they turn into a nightmare for anyone with even the tiniest pint of introvert blood. And Johnny hates himself for subjecting Ash to this. And Meena. Neither of them deserve killer hangovers the morning after one of those unnatural disasters also known as Mike's parties.

Johnny parks and races up the stairs, almost breaking down the front door of Apartment 24 in his haste. It's a big place, unfortunately, with a second floor. He combs through the living room-turned-dance floor, for once grateful for his lofty height.

His worry mounts to a previously unseen level as he begins to make his way up the stairs. He encounters Meena at the top, sitting and giggling with a young antelope about their age. Johnny crouches down so he's eye-level with the elephant.

"Meena, hey, Meen—" It takes a second to grab her dazed gaze, but he manages to. "Have you seen Ash anywhere?"

Her shoulders lift up then down carelessly. Meena's drunk. She's never usually drunk. There's tipsy Meena (just about the cutest thing ever) but Johnny has never met drunk Meena. He has a feeling he's not gonna like this persona of hers.

"Beats me," Meena sighs, her pretty voice almost drowning in the sound of a plate or glass shattering downstairs. "Last I saw her, she was running off with some other porcupine. What's it to you?"

"Ah, shove off," Johnny mumbles, frustrated. He knows the girl he's talking to isn't his best friend of six months. The real Meena is shy, and sweet, and caring. Drunk Meena is just another stranger.

He needs to find his other best friend. He stands up and shoves past the antelope, starting his short trek down the hallway. The cream carpet under his sneakers is soft and mutes his footsteps. The music is loud enough anyway, however. He drives his fists into one door after another, but even the sound of bone slamming old wood doesn't startle anyone inside the rooms.

He comes upon the final room in the dimly-lit hall. The door is open a crack, the occupants careless enough to leave it unlocked at the risk of being discovered.

Johnny knows he shouldn't open it. But he opens it.

"Oh my god!" he shrieks, standing frozen like a statue, as if he's just looked into the eyes of Medusa.

He would rather look into Medusa's eyes than see the horror show currently in front of him.

"What the hell, man?" The male porcupine sits up, snatching up a towel from the rack to cover himself and his partner. "Get your own room, this one's taken."

Johnny's delayed reaction is to leap backward, and he hits the door of the linen closet across the hall hard. The knob digs into his back, somehow sharp as a knife.

Ash clutches at the towel she's sharing with him. Lance. The asshole of an ex she's spent hours complaining about to Johnny and Meena during outings to the mall or during concert rehearsals.

"Ash…" Johnny's voice is raspy as ever, and he scrabbles at the pocket of his jacket for another hard candy, but all he finds are empty wrappers.

"Johnny, I—" She stops. He can see how drunk she is too. Maybe even worse than Meena. She's fumbling over words, unable to find something suitable with a brain saturated in toxic liquor.

She finds something. "I'm sorry…"

There's honestly no reason she should have to apologize. Johnny knows that. It's not like they're dating, it's not like she's cheated on him. But it feels that way.

So the gorilla spins around, sprinting down the hallway, past Meena and her antelope buddy, out the door and all the way back to his truck. He hates Ash's drunk persona too.