A/N: Well. This…mutated. (I wasn't even done, and it was at 2000 words. Hee.) But its pretty and it has old blue Fords and I likey.Yay.
And Anemone has a potty mouth, just so you know. /nods/
I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY, RIN. REALLY, REALLY HAPPY.
of sunshine and coca-cola
When his motorcycle broke down on the side of the highway, he wasn't quite sure whom (or rather, what) he was expecting, but he knows that it wasnothing even close to this.
"Are you stupid? God, just get in the truck!"
The girl has pink hair. Waist-length, sugary-pink hair. Her white shirt, pink skirt, and Converse shoes accent the (is it even natural?) mane of candy-colored strands, but it's hard to be attracted to someone when they're at least two years younger than you are, and yelling at you.
He sighs, looking over the pick-up. It's old, blue-black and dinged up from a thousand petty accidents, scratches and spots of rust adorning the doors. The Ford logo has faded in the back, the doors looked dented and one of the panes of glass is cracked and has been sloppily repaired with duct tape.
She drags him bodily into the cab, forces him into the passenger seat. He moves to fasten the seatbelt, but stops when she glares at him. Reaching over and around him to grab the safety device, he catches the smell of flowers before she hammers the buckle in place.
The truck jolts as she starts up the engine, muttering words under her breath, one hand digging into the cracked leather of her seat. But the moment of truth passes, and the pick-up roars to life, speeding off along the Interstate.
He glances out the window at the dusty road, the cracked window glinting in the sun.
"Is this how you normally treat hitchhikers?"
…
The first time they stop on their epic journey across the country (and he wonders how he's going to stand her for that long), she wanted to buy some junk food.
She pulled over at a gas station, her long, coltish legs extending out of the dinged door, stretching. "I'm going to get some snacks."
He nods, leaning back into his seat. No point in following her in.
Ten minutes later, she walks back out, carrying…were those Twinkies?
Indeed, they were, as she proved when she shoved her food into the small space between them, sticking two bottles of Coke into the cup holder. Hostess snack cakes, boxes of candy, and packages of mints were strewn on the floor, a treasure trove of sugary substances lying there, innocently packaged in bright colors.
"You do know that all of this is crap food, right?"
She glares at him while sticking her keys into the ignition, her face folding into a scowl. "Who cares, besides a health nut like you?"
"My name is not 'you', it's Dominic." He grabs the hammer before she does, tapping the buckle into place carefully, testing the seat belt before putting the tool back in place. "And I am not a health nut."
She rolls her eyes at him. "Sure, you're not." She turns towards the highway, her hair falling and framing her face.
"And my name's Anemone, so you'd better damn well use it."
…
That night, in the hotel room, she (Anemone, he reminds himself) pulls out a small bottle and a needle. Pushing her hair up, the small incision on her neck is revealed, a little silver hole right beneath her ear.
He watches her from one of the beds as she carefully fills the needle with red fluid. She glances at it for a second, and he sees that her hands are shaking. When she lifts it to her neck, there is a moment of hesitation, and the needle falls to the floor with a clatter. Her hair falls back onto her neck, and she stares at herself in the mirror.
He gets up, grabs the medicine off the floor. "Here."
She takes it, and her hands shake harder. Frowning, he takes it back. "You haven't ever given this to yourself."
It isn't a question.
She nods, and for a second, he sees something different from the tough girl who yelled at him on the side of the road. For a second, he sees someone vulnerable, scared and confused.
He takes the needle, pushes back the hair on the side of her neck, finally finding the incision. The needle is inside the hole and his thumb is on the button when she smacks him away, hard.
"I don't want it! Don't make me take it, I won't! I won't!" Screaming, she slaps him again as he tries to give her the meds. They struggle for a second in the bathroom, as Anemone screams and kicks at him while he attempts to force the needle back into her neck. When she bites his ear, drawing blood that he can feel dripping down his collar, he shoves the needle in, sending the red liquid into her bloodstream.
She drops away, staring at him as if she's never seen him before. Finally, she registers who he is, and then that his ear is bleeding, dripping crimson onto his white shirt.
"Fuck. I'm sorry." She runs into the kitchen to find the first aid kit as he holds some toilet paper to his bleeding earlobe.
That night, he lays awake, facing the wall and listening to her whimper during her nightmares.
…
The road is flat and long, hot asphalt that seems to shimmer with false hopes of water underneath the burning sun. His legs stick to the cracked leather, and he can hear her start to mutter under her breath as she stick-shifts her way across the Midwest.
After a long and vigorous round of cursing and pleading, she catches him watching her talk to her truck.
"It's name," she says, assuming that he wants some sort of explanation (which he does, but he would never admit it), "is theEND. I've had it for a couple years, and it only works for me."
He glances out the window, watching the flat expanse of corn and wheat and soy pass him by, a blur of browns and greens only seen through the cracked window.
They sit in silence for a while, the cracked leather getting sticky with their sweat, because the air conditioning is shot and the radio only plays country music without frying itself. The black road shines, seeming to stretch on forever (and they still have miles and miles to go), reflecting the ever-present light of the sun.
"However," she says, breaking the silence while jerking the lever between them, "if you want, I bet it'll let you drive it. It likes you."
They continue onwards, passing signs telling them how far they are from South Dakota, and the pick-up rolls past to infinity (and he wonders if the affection of a truck is a good sign).
…
"So what were you?"
They're sitting on the truck bed in the middle of the night, because there isn't a town within fifty miles so it's the cab for them tonight instead of a hotel. Her hair is getting into her face, her chin tilted up towards the cold black sky, and she rips open a package of HoHos, taking one and biting into it.
"…A government agent." He's eating healthy food, peanuts and apples and all those sorts of things, a bottle of water next to him. The cap has been taken off, and he's fiddling with it while he talks.
"Really? Like in the FBI?" He almost grins at her ignorance, before remembering that he had to remain impartial (because this wasn't going to last).
"Yeah." He takes a swig of water, eats another handful of nuts all at once, tipping his head back. "But now I'm not."
"Then what are you now?" Her skin is glowing in the moonlight, even though it shouldn't, what with all the sugary junk food crap that she eats.
"I'm going to work with a company. One that designs things, boards and stuff like that." He gulps down more water, sets it next to him, screws the lid on tight.
"Oh."
"What were you?" He turns towards her now, his hair blending in with the sky, black and inky dark. She pauses, stalling for time while she holds up a Coke bottle, considering the contents and taking the cap off.
"Me?"
She takes that first sip of brown liquid, the bubbles fizzing inside her stomach, and if she closes her eyes, she can imagine them exploding into colored lights that press into the darkness and scorch her eyelids.
"I was a bitch."
She downs the rest in a single swallow.
…
For lunch, they go to a diner. An old one, with vinyl seats and funky pastel colors and faded posters emblazoned on the wall, sitting by the town square of a half-forgotten town in the middle of Montana.
The waitress chews gum loudly, snapping the pieces in between her teeth while trying to intimidate the two of them into ordering faster. His side of the table is peeling, the menu has a bit of a stain on the corner, and the kitchen smells of grease and strawberries. The waitress glances out the window, catches the sight of the dilapidated old truck that's carried them this far.
After a few minutes of contemplation, Anemone orders for the both of them, not even bothering to ask what he wants. The waitress writes the order down, her too-big hair frizzing like a halo. She leaves, and Anemone sighs, leaning back into the seat, stretching her arms high above her head.
He knows well enough by now to not to talk to her, because conversations are struck up only after she's had her sugar and only when they've been on the road for at least half an hour (and he wonders why the hell he's considering it). When the waitress comes in with their food, a couple of burgers and some milkshakes, they only begin talking after she starts sipping the cold drink.
"I had a handler like you." Anemone slurps more of the beverage through the straw. "He was nice, I guess." He wonders what this is supposed to imply while she takes another mouthful. "And then he disappeared."
He takes a bite of burger, quietly chewing, waiting for her to go on.
"I don't know what happened to him. A couple days later, I got the hell out of there. Me and theEND, we booked it to New York." She waves her fork to accent her point.
"That's where I'm from." He says it quietly, takes some more food.
"Really? Why are you leaving, then?"
"I quit. Got my new job, in Seattle. I wanted a change."
She nods knowingly, swallowing more of the milkshake down. "Change is good, I guess."
When they leave, the waitress tells them that cute couple like them better be careful "out there". Anemone flips her off when they pull out of the parking lot.
During the night, after he helped her take more meds and she bit him on the neck, he falls asleep to the sound of her ragged breathing, the sound of air moving in and out (in and out).
…
She drops him off on the sidewalk, helping him drag the motorcycle off the truck bed and onto the pavement. It starts to rain, splattering on the sidewalk and coloring it a darker shade of grey.
"So." They stare at each other awkwardly, because how do you say good-byes when you aren't even sure if you like each other (and a little voice in his head says "denial"). "I guess this is it."
"Yeah." She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, looking down at the ground.
They stand there, not moving, both trying to figure out how to say what to say before she leaves for somewhere and he starts over. Finally, she turns away, walking towards the dented door, the one on the driver's side with the huge scratch that she said was made in New Jersey (and why does he remember this, why does he want to remember this), getting ready to leave.
"If you need a place to stay," he begins in a rush, because he knows he won't get a second chance (because he's used up the only one he'll get when he left for good) "you can come here."
She nods, and for a moment, they stand there, locked in place. Then she yanks open the door, sticking her keys into the ignition, and he hears the familiar beginnings of her pleading and cursing, trying to convince her truck that it wants to move on.
He turns towards his new apartment, his new life, and wonders why he doesn't want to leave these few days behind him.
That night, he lies awake on a futon, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep because it's too quiet.
He lies awake, and considers that maybe (just maybe) he might miss her.
…
His seventh day of work, he gets the news.
He likes his new job. The boss is lenient and treats him fairly, his co-workers stop by and chat with him over coffee bought from the nearby Starbucks, and the work is the good kind, a little difficult, but nothing that'll hurt anybody (not anymore).
And the slowly blooming romance between the intern and the boss's assistant is just too awkwardly cute that he can't help but watch, and maybe help it along.
But on day number seven, Renton runs in, late for another day of his internship, to tell them that there's been an accident a couple blocks away.
"It's really bad!" He's panting from running a couple of city blocks, but bright with a kid's energy, and as he looks over from his computer, the boy (because that's all he is, isn't it, just a kid) knows he's got an audience. "Some drunk guy ran into some girl's truck, but she wasn't in there. If she was, they probably would have had to cut her out—it was really old, and was all mangled when they let us see it. She was being talked to when I saw her last, kind of weird looking, with pink hair—"
He stands up, fast, pushing his chair back with a screech, looking at the kid. "Pink hair?"
Renton nods, and Dominic bolts, ignoring the calls of his co-workers to sprint down the hall and out the doors of the office building. Once outside, he looks around before seeing where the crowd is, skidding to a stop at the very edge of the seething mass of people.
theEND is mangled. The dilapidated truck, with its scratches and broken windows and spots of rust, is nearly beyond recognition, let alone repair. The blue-black metal has been crumpled and bent, the doors dented and forced inward.
Near the broken vehicle, he spots her, sitting on the ground, turned away from the policeman trying to ask her his questions.
He walks over, kneels down next to her, ignoring the policeman's noise of protest. "Anemone."
She looks up, her eyes purple slits, and grabs his shirt. When she lets go, she leaves a bloody handprint, staining the white. "I want to go home."
"I know." He gives her a hand, and she takes it, the blood slick on her fingers. He helps her stand up, lifting her almost effortlessly, one arm around her waist, her hair tickling his hands. When she tries to step forward, she stumbles, grabbing his jacket and leaving a streak. She looks tired, as if she hasn't slept for days, and he has to support her all the way back to his apartment, leaving the remains of theEND behind.
After trying to get her to eat, he helps her take the meds that she salvaged from her truck. She doesn't protest, already half-asleep, and when he lifts her and puts her on the bed, she doesn't say anything.
That night, he lets her wrap herself around him and cry until there's no tears left to shed.
…
In the morning, he gets up and makes pancakes.
Most of the time, he doesn't bother to make a full out breakfast. Normally, its toast and a coffee while running out the door to work for him, sometimes some cereal, if he's lucky and wakes up early. But today is an exception, so he gets out sugar and flour, eggs and salt, whipping up batter in a small metal bowl.
He's just made the first couple pancakes when she comes out of his bedroom, wearing a t-shirt, her hair falling into her face. "You made breakfast."
"Yeah. I did." He spins more batter, adding some frozen berries from his freezer into the bowl. She grabs some plates from a cupboard, pulling out drawers until she finds the ones with the utensils.
After he finishes cooking, they sit across from each other, cutting the pancakes and pouring some syrup—lightly for him, not so much for her—and begin consuming their breakfast. He grabs orange juice, pouring cups for the two of them.
"So do you want to stay here?" He asks the question while cutting some more of his pancake, taking a bite while waiting for her to reply.
She seems to surprise herself when she says "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
"Why?" It's a simple question, and the answers are endless, but he finds himself hoping that maybe it'll mean something when she answers.
"Because…" She trails off, cuts more food, shoving a mouthful in and swallowing.
"Because what?"
She looks at him, stopping her attempts at sawing her food. He looks up, waiting. She pushes her hair back behind her ear, waits a beat, a single candy-colored strand hanging across her face.
And in one smooth motion, she leans across the table and kisses him.
It's sticky and syrupy and sweet, the flavor of Coke and long days of blazing sun, and before he can realize what he's doing, he makes it deeper, because dammit, he likes this girl who talked to her truck and can't give herself her own meds and only eats things with sugar and is bitchy and moody and absolutely freaking perfect.
When they break apart, she smiles, and it's a pretty one—not the mean or the petty or the angry-sad kind—that seems to light her up from the inside out, and before he knows it, he's smiling too.
"Because of this."
-all i want are the pretty days-
FIN
-of butterflies and then the blaze-
…Review?
/nods/ Yes. Review.(pretty please)