Large sudden O's are line breaks because I can't figure out how to do them on mobile. Im also v tired and sad so bear with me pls.
Keith wonders if it's worth it.
He stands in the sand, the soles of his feet burn with the heat but he remains unblinking, staring up and the sky and breathing in the dry air.
His brain feels too big for his skull, he feels like he can't think or move without crashing. Every breath feels a little more worthless than the next. A part of him recognizes the growing rise in temperature, recognizes the danger of standing out in the sun for so long. The rest of him ignores it, stuffs his hands into his shirt to rub away the itchy sweat that gathers on his chest.
Keith wonders how long he's been here. How many days spent with the sand as his only company. It feels so long yet so short, feels like everything is playing on loop and slow motion.
He fancies the idea of walking to nowhere and seeing where that is. Anything is better than the aching fog in his brain. He finds he can't think right, reality is warped and nothing makes sense. His hair feels like it's made of plastic and his skin is warping into the the spikes of a cactus and everything feels so useless.
There's nothing here for him but still, he stays.
It hurts some, but the thought of leaving makes him ill. It would be betrayal to leave the sand and coyotes alone, to let the spiders have no company and the mice have no one to steal from. He pretends he likes it here and smiles at the sand until he feels as psychotic as he looks.
When he hears a distant chatter behind him he doesn't turn. Knows it's all in his head. Knows it will pass. Everything does, here.
Finally, he ducks back into the blessed shade of the dusty shack, nausea is bubbling in his gut and all he can think about is loss.
He doesn't leave for days.
OoooooooooooO
Keith wakes up and can't breathe.
His head feels like cotton, everything is hot but his skin feels icy. The faux leather couch sticks to his legs and arms with a vengeance, sticky and unpleasant.
From where his head is buried in his arms he can't tell if it's day or night, but he can make our stars behind his lids. Everything feels is spinning. It reminds him of the time his father had taken him to a carnival, reminds him of sitting at the top of the Ferris wheel; high with joy and nausea. (He'd thrown up on the way down and his father hadn't been able to stop laughing)
Now, he's alone and on stable ground. His father isn't in sight, Keith isn't sure he'd want him to be.
The teen can feel ice on his skin where his shirt rides up his back, everything feels slick with sweat but he's shaking, shivering so hard it feels like the time there's been the first thunders of an earthquake, back when he'd been in L.A with Rolo, tired of temporary homes and high without the nausea or joy. He remembers the clatter of cheap pottery dishes and torn blinds so vividly he almost thinks he hears the ceiling caving.
He remembers wishing it had.
Slowly, when he pulls his head up to take steady breathes through his mouth, he can pull the room into focus. It's dark, likely freezing but Keith can't feel any chill over the fire in his veins. Nothing is out of place but his jacket, thrown haphazardly across the room to crumple at the foot of the wooden kitchen stool that stabs him with splinters whenever he dares to touch it.
Keith can't tell if he's relieved or unhappy with its loss. The temperature is quickly fluctuating between fire and ice water, it's like he's being thrown through snow then tossed on a grill and definitely doesn't help with the pounding in his head or the building nausea. Still, slowly uncurls himself to make the attempt of stumbling across the darkened shack for the article of clothing after the heat subsides to give in to the classic chill of a desert night. It's only when he's on his feet that he remembers the nausea but then it's too late.
The vomit goes everywhere and it would have been almost comical if it weren't for the fact that his throat feels torn to shreds and nothing about this situation feels good. He's alone in the middle of nowhere, singlehandedly taking up the role of an icebox and a furnace while standing in his own bile.
Oh, Monday's.
OooooooooooooooO
The prospect of traveling across country had always been an exciting one. It was a promise that he'd carried since middle school with zeal and now here they were; sweaty and exhausted with zero gas in the middle of nowhere.
"Is this how I die?" Lance kicks up the sand and gazes up at the sky through narrowed eyes. Hunk sighs from his place by the camper. "I thought it'd be cooler than this."
"Sorry to disappoint," Pidge's voice carries from inside the vehicle, squeaky and distracted. "But there's no way in hell you would ever die epically. I always thought you'd choke on your own spit and fall down some stairs, but this will do in a pinch."
The brunette spins on his heel to glare at the spot the youth would be it she wasn't hidden by a neon yellow car door. She's probably on the floor because he can't spot her through the windows. "I'm serious! We're gonna die young and it won't even be with any grace."
"We're just out of gas, Lance." Hunk reminds him carefully. "We still have water, food and a map. We can probably walk to the nearest civilization and get some help before you know it."
"We can." Pidge calls. "I vote we leave loverboy behind."
"Excuse-?"
"You stepped on rover, Lance. You deserve what's coming."
Hunk sighs again. "No ones leaving anyone behind. Even if they did step on rover."
"That was two years ago!" Lance protests. "Why am I still getting shit for that? I'm a changed man."
"Rover isn't. He didn't get the chance."
The lanky teen throws an unseen middle finger Pidges way. It's a weak deflection and he feels stupid as he catches his own reflection in the darkened window. He looks horrible; shiny with sweat that makes his hair stick in spikes to his forehead, the sunlight wasn't as complimentary as he'd hoped, so he wasn't even getting a good Instagram picture out of this disaster.
With an ill humored grunt, he stalks over to where Hunk is hunched over his phone and peers to take a look. It's hard to see the screen with all the light, but he can make out the screen captures of what roads to take after his eyes adjust.
"How long will this soul sucking journey take?"
"Like, three hours?" The broad man stuffs his phone back into his shorts pocket and tosses his head back to gaze into the camper. "Better slather yourself in sun cream, Pidge."
"Or turn into a walking hotdog, I don't care." Lance sniffs.
They take off not long after, stocked with water bottles and the wrapped up sandwiches Hunk had made the day prior. Lances socks feel sticky with sweat, and the back of his heel chafes against the sneaker with a vengeance. That discomfort is very mild in the wake of the boiling heat, and they're all panting like dogs well before an hour in.
The only thing Lance can find comfort in is the clear road they trek down, though old and gravely it's sure to lead somewhere that's not death. Unless it leads to cannibals; desert man eaters that hide in the Texan planes, luring innocent prey in with worn roads and that one broken street sign that was too warped by the heat to read. Maybe it was a cannibal crossing warning.
Pidge is lagging far behind by the time they hit an hour of walking. Lance would tease if he could muster up the energy, but now he feels bad for her and the curse she carries of being ridiculously short. Her little legs are no match for the effortless strides him and Hunk take. Still, there's nothing he can do for his fun-sized friend until they reach some sort of goddamn shade for a well deserved pit stop.
The pit stop comes in the form of a beaten shack the moment Lance decides it would be better to roast to death than continue walking. It's just a smudge in the heatwaves, but was still enough for blatant excitement and relief to arise within the three.
"Fiiinallyyyyy." Pidge groans from her place behind them, feet audibly dragging. "There better be someone living there or I swear to god-"
"Please don't be cannibals, please don't be cannibals,"
"Even if there isn't anyone there, it's gonna be some shade and shelter to cool off." Hunk muses. "Maybe even some sort of well nearby..?" His headband has been wrapped around the mans wrist in favor of letting his hair flop up and down with every dramatically heavy step, dark strands falling into his eyes.
The shack looks ridiculously ominous as they near, and largely abandoned save for the shiny red motorcycle that's parked by the front. There's a smashed porch light hanging over the door and tightly curtained windows, still and lifeless in the gentle breeze.
"Definitely cannibals." Lance groans.