live on coffee and flowers (try not to wonder what the weather will be)
merlin/arthur; pg-13
written for the prompt:
We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars
as the road around us
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass
already laced with frost,
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of
lullabies.
But damn if there isn't anything sexier
than a slender boy with a handgun,
a fast car, a bottle of pills.
-Richard Siken, "Little Beast"
iii.
There was no map for this. There was no plan.
Your entire life has been lived by plans; it didn't matter if they were yours or everyone else's. what matters is now it feels like you're in over your head in the deep, deep water. He is cold beside you, shivering under the sheets, and no one knows what this motel's called.
You don't sleep well and the breakfast is cold when you find it. He watches you from across the plastic table, someone's cheap imitation of a patio, and you miss the days when you could read his face (but it does not stop you from trying).
ii.
If he's homesick as hell, he will never admit it. You think you see it on his face sometimes.
You don't think you are, not all that much. There was little to leave behind and your father is probably better off than he has been in years but it doesn't do to dwell upon that.
He's getting into the car again and your eyes drop down to his belt loops, lingering at the corner of a pack of cigarettes where it sticks out from his pocket. You think you should switch sides, say that he should let you drive, but you never manage to get very far when he kisses you into silence. You swallow your words and let his tongue slide and spiral against yours until your mind spirals with it, makes your hands scramble for denim and the metal of buckles and buttons and skin and skin and skin.
i.
You don't know what you're doing; no, you don't know how it came to this.
Such a good kid he was, once. So seemingly whole. All apples and caramel and extra-curriculars and always the neighbours' favourite.
There is so much you can blame, like change, like a reputation, like boredom and being different (in his case), and being cold and tired and terrifyingly lonely (yours). Or maybe there is nothing and it was just about time.
The car smells like fire but your senses can't be trusted at this hour so you knock your head back and try to give them the night off.
Except-he starts the car and you can't not take in the sight of him, lithe and a little bit dangerous with eyes that glint like razorblades under the streetlight. You ask him one final time, quiet, careful, afraid to break this, if he's sure.
He runs a hand through his hair, says, "It's not like they'll notice." And then, with bite, "Not asking you to come, am I?"
You roll your eyes because as far as stupid questions go, that right there doesn't even deserve a proper response. Fuck you, you want to say. I love you, you want to say. "Drive," is what you say.
And he does.
