Shooting Stars and Satellites
This was written for the "Driving" challenge in the Diva-Off. I didn't place, but whatever-this was fun to write!
Pretty much entirely based off of the Death Cab For Cutie song, "Passenger Seat." It's a gorgeous song, and I recommend you listen to it when you read. Possibly OOC, but oh well.
Enjoy!
It was late-probably past midnight, but then again, his internal clock was never all that accurate, and the Chevy's broken clock-radio had a poker face he couldn't read. It was alright, though. It wasn't like time, or anything else for that matter, was all that important. Not when he was with Noah.
He paid no heed to the repeated buzzing of his cell phone in the sticky cupholder, and Noah didn't complain.
Noah didn't worry about fathers probably trying to get a hold of their only sons, about people seeing him driving his dilapidated pick-up down the darkest country road with one hand on the wheel and the other on one of Kurt's kneecaps, what would come after they finally ran out of gas. And Kurt didn't worry, either. His father would understand: he'd been young and recklessly in love once, too.
The world-even the possibility of losing driving privileges of his baby-didn't matter.
The silence of the night wasn't stifling, and neither was the ticklish caresses of Noah's sunny hand upon his thigh. He was calm and comfortable, but far from dozing off. He cranked the window open, absently remembering to fix the horrible squeaking noises it made, and stuck his head out into the crisp November night. The smell of evergreen-real evergreen, not the Little Tree dangling from Noah's rearview mirror-tickled his nose and made him smile. Noah chuckled softly next to him as they turned down yet another directionless road.
The mere possibility of being lost usually had him panicking and breaking out into a cold sweat. Kurt remembered this one summer in his childhood… (some may argue that he still was a child, but Kurt was firm in his belief that he grew up the moment he placed a parting kiss on the burning-cold metal of his mom's casket) They had stopped at one of the cleaner beaches in New Jersey on their way to a relative's house in Connecticut, spending the day making sand castles and playing water tag at the constantly changing border of the expansive Atlantic between sand-flecked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on soggy Wonderbread.
Looking back on that day, Kurt was sure he'd had a lot of fun, but all he could remember was the all-encompassing terror that choked him when he'd wandered too far down the beach with a child he'd became friends with in the span of half an hour. His parents had found him, of course, and getting some saltwater taffy before heading back to a hotel had helped, but he'd never forget that one point in time when he felt continents away from his mom and dad.
Yet here they were, just the two of them driving down some back-road that could lead them to Cleveland or Canada, and Kurt was perfectly fine, his legs sprawled out on the dashboard, knowing they were without GPS or a MapQuest print-out. He trusted Noah, which might be a bit weird considering that Puck had tossed him in dumpsters and shoved him into lockers just months ago.
"It's getting late," Noah offers.
"I don't mind."
"We have school in the morning. I'll take you home."
"Do they collide?" Noah glanced over at Kurt, curious. "The shooting stars and satellites… do you think they could?"
Noah smiled and tugged Kurt's hand to his lips. "I don't know. Are you ever embarrassed?"
Kurt petted his slightly stubbly cheeks, grinning back. "All the time."
Noah took that hand in his own once more, but wove their fingers together on the middle seat, a connection that was nice but unnecessary. They had bonds that couldn't be seen with microscopes or x-ray vision, and it was how Kurt knew that if ever he were embarrassed, Noah would be his pride.
And as they drove down the highways, away from the quiet pine-giants and into the streetlights that scared the Little Dipper away from his sight, Kurt knew that Noah knew if he were lost at sea, Kurt would be his lighthouse, his loyal beams of bright light guiding him back to shore for all time.
"For all time," Kurt whispered to the wind howling into the truck.