Warnings: This story has a bit of drugs, a lot of cussing, and contains a male/male romantic relationship (without the relationship and romance.) The latter is also known as slash. If two guys kissing doesn't float your boat, don't read it. And if you were too hasty to read this little warning... just don't expect any pity. From anyone, really. And flame if you want. I'm getting a little chilly over here. Concrit is preferable, of course.
Disclaimer: I can't claim the characters, the story line... hell, I don't even own the computer I wrote this on. All that's mine is the original text, and it would be super cool for it to stay that way.
Notes: I wish Highway would have been a more popular movie– I can't have been the only person inspired to write some fanfic for it, right? Come on, you know you want to... And I realize that Pilot's face paint was already wiped off by the time this scene takes place. Artistic license doesn't mean a damn thing in court, I'm sure, but it works well enough for my purposes.... . ... . ...
Pilot can feel all the eyes in the room burning into his back. It isn't the painful burning like when you walk into a room full of fucking hippies and their fucking patchouli and it feels like your nose just shriveled up and died; and your eyes are dried up and cracked and falling out; and you're hacking up vital stuff like lungs and pancreas and shit; and they laugh really fuzzy-like and pat you on the back; and make you sit down on a vomit-flecked throw pillow and call you 'brother.'
Nah. He feels like Mercury. He feels like he's sitting with his back to the bonfire, except he isn't batting at mosquitoes and his face isn't freezing cold. It is, however, really fucking wet and buried in Jack's shoulder and smeary with the remains of his beautiful spider. His spider's the only other one who saw the way Amy looked past him and patted his wrist and told him how tragic it all was. It felt the metal grill of the bus, then the brick of the wall, attacking them. And maybe if it was a real spider, it would have fucking bit those bastards that laid up Jack instead of just splattering and oozing all over Pilot's face. Then again, if it was a real spider on his face, he'd have been fucking freaked and it probably would have bit him anyway, and everything would have gotten even more blurry than it already was.
Pilot sniffles again, feeling his nose block up and the outer corners of his eyes are probably red and puffy and they hurt like hell from his persistent rubbing at them. Jack's seen him cry before. Not very many times, obviously, but when you know a guy from the time you can piss standing up, you're bound to see him cry once or twice, right? But this time it's completely different because Jack is fucking right for once and Pilot's trying to sob him an apology for being a first-class, jack-off, dick-sucking, mother-fucking jackass. He chokes on a giggle as he rhymes in his mind, and 'rhyme' and 'mind' kind of rhyme, too. Wouldn't it be really strange if everything was actually one big rhyme and he was the only one who realized it? And they'd all look at him funny because he'd be the only one laughing. One big cosmic fucking joke and only him to laugh at it.
(But what's the point of an in-joke if you're the only one who's in?)
He feels Jack gripping his back and stroking the back of his head and trying to soothe him in front of all these people and Pilot suddenly recalls seeing a lot of blue lights and studded smirks; and the feel of his back pressed into a corner; and the sound of his shirt unzipping; and he actually does feel like purring this time. Somehow he's not shaking so much and he's stopped sobbing for the most part. He leans back a little and doesn't tell Jack that the spider's squished all over Jack's shoulder and neck, mostly because Pilot's throat is blocked and because Jack probably already knows anyway. Which is a strange revelation; this whole turn of events, this role reversal. Because Jack doesn't know shit most of the time.
(Jack shit. Jack. Shit. Kinda funny if you think about it long enough. The kind of 'long enough' where the individual letters start looking funny: when you read the same word over and over and suddenly, it doesn't make any sense and you realize that the entire English language is just based on a bunch of squiggles.)
Pilot stares into Jack's eyes, not at the pupil or the cornea or whatever it's called, but at the white parts. He knows for sure that the white stuff is called the sclera. He wants to tell Jack that he's not looking at his irises or his pupils, he's looking at his scleras. But Jack probably already knows that too, and if he doesn't, then he's just going to think Pilot's strange and high. Which he is.At this rate, he'll have his feet back on the ground soon.
Jack opens his mouth to say something, then pauses, then shuts his mouth again, giving Pilot a calculating look that doesn't look quite right on his face. Pilot's eyes scrabble over his face, searching for a foothold. He takes a hand and presses in the middle of Jack's chest and sees Cassie shift in his peripheral vision, moving a little on the bed, still watching them with her dark eagle eyes that match her dark raven hair. Ravens are goddamn obnoxious though– Pilot knows that for a fact– but Cassie's being pretty silent so maybe it's not such a good analogy or metaphor or whatever the fuck it is. Pilot presses on Jack's chest and then Jack opens his mouth like he's really gonna say something this time, and Pilot leans over until their faces are lined up like dirty, little dominoes in a dirty, little row and he leans very close to Jack.
Jack's irises are actually a lot more interesting than his scleras, so Pilot watches them instead. His pupils are very tiny and Pilot suppresses a thought that maybe he's not supposed to do this right now, because he can tell that Jack really likes Cassie and he probably looks all blotchy from crying and he knows he still has blood on his face, but Jack's going to close his mouth again.
Pilot lowers his smeary lips to Jack's and Cassie makes a tiny little gasping sound. He isn't surprised when Jack freezes up like a jack rabbit does when he catches your smell and realizes that you're wanting to put a bb in his head and there isn't shit he can do about it except to run like hell. Jack doesn't run, though, and his lips press against Pilot's and his hands– his rough, dirty, calloused hands with his long fingers and bony knuckles– kind of move and cup the side of Pilot's face, and Pilot can almost believe that Jack never wants to let go of him.
Almost... but he knows better after twenty years of watching the God of Fuck screw just about anything that moves. Pilot watches Jack shut his eyes and he decides, after a quick sketch of Jack's eyelashes, that he will too.
He feels Jack's nose bump against his, and his lips are firm and don't taste like fruit and don't stick with lip gloss and his stubble scratches Pilot where their skin touches. Pilot chokes again, on a moan this time, and the heat on his back has definitely warmed up and everything is silent except for Jack's breathing and his breathing and his blood rushing through his ears even though he's not really still loaded very much. Not really. pAnd his heart is starting to run like a jack rabbit– Jack's rabbit, that's sort of funny too– and Pilot really has to keep himself from just straddling Jack, broken feet aside, and begging him and ordering him: fuck him (Pilot) now and be fucked by him and (Jack) touch him like he's wanted to be touched for what must be at least an eternity. Or maybe just ten years, but it's all the same right now.And he has to keep himself from doing that when Jack's lips overwhelm his and he feels the scrape of teeth against his lower lip and Jack kind of has bad breath but Pilot'll give him a break because face paint can't taste too good, either. And this was just supposed to be a friendly apology kiss that could be chalked up to his current fragile mental state, but Pilot can't help himself anymore and he rushes his tongue into Jack's open mouth and Jack tastes a little like blood, a little like spit, a little like dirt and a little like diesel (and Pilot can attest to that diesel part) and Jack's tongue is sliding against his and it's very wet and very hot so perhaps he has a fever because there's no way that kind of hotness is normal and his rough hands are keeping Pilot from breaking away, which is so fucking stupid because why the hell would he want to run away again?
Pilot remembers again that he's supposed to be apologizing and saying 'thank you' at the same time and he chants a new little mantra in his head of thankyousorrythankyousorries over and over and wonders if Jack knows what he's thinking, and if Jack knows why they're kissing (Holy fucking Jesus Christ, they're kissing!) And Pilot forgets again and instead wonders why he's wondering, because Jack is probably really channeling a goddamn prophet or Buddha or some shit like that and Jack probably knows everything about him and everything he does. It all just comes out in the end. Just like in the movies.
(And God knows, he's jacked off to those fucking movies countless times, tried and tried to watch, tried to pretend he wanted it, and he tried to make himself want Lucy on him, her pink mouth on him, but he could never get into it because the whole time he was wishing for stubble and a devil-may-care grin and he hated himself for it, because friends don't think that about friends. Ever.)
Jack's tongue slides into his mouth now and Pilot feels Cassie get up off the bed and the hinges squeak a little and there's some muffled voices and footsteps before a door shuts and then there's just their little piece of noise, trying to pose as silence. It's doing a good job of posing, though: the only static right now is probably in his mind. Jack probably can't hear it.
Which is ridiculous, because he's buzzing so loud they can probably hear it back home. The goddamn pandas can probably hear it on the highway. Desmond can probably hear it all the way in South Carolina, which is even more ridiculous because he's still stuck in a fish tank probably, but sound travels better under water anyway so that's all right. Maybe if they were underwater, Jack could hear what Pilot's thinking at him.
(And he wonders if Jack knows that the only reason he came at the Dan-D-Fine was because he quickly babbled his problem to the nice prostitute girl and she told him to think of Jack while they did it and it felt wrong at first, but he did what she said and he imagined Jack and it worked with a rush of 'thankyouthankyouthankyou' and she just laughed and patted his head and said that if she was Jack, she wouldn't be able to resist him and then she told him to "take care of yourself, all right?")
The black-coated balloons that are his lungs are slowly squeezed empty but Pilot knows because of his old physical science teacher that there's a lot of room in there and they won't pop without him knowing, so he doesn't stop kissing, because he knows this will be the one and only time, ever. The first and last kiss, and it's tragic and his fucking lungs aren't going to ruin it. And it's really sick, because: again, let us not forget this was supposed to be a quick 'thank you I'm sorry goodbye don't forget to write' kind of kiss, but somehow they've ended up making out and Pilot's hands are braced outside of Jack's elbows and Jack's still holding his face with one hand and he shoves his tongue further into Pilot's mouth and Pilot can barely keep from writhing against him and shoving their hips together and only goddamn Cassie and those goddamn broken feet are holding him back.
Which makes him immediately feel bad, because he really does like Cassie and he knows she'll be good to/for Jack. He doesn't think it was supposed to happen like this. He doesn't think that he was supposed to leave Jack with this.
Who, speaking of which, has let one of his hands roam down Pilot's back and now it's almost– no, it's definitely heading for his ass and Pilot is starting to feel even guiltier so he shifts away a little, then almost jumps when Jack, undeterred, reaches for his fly and tugs on his lip again and deftly undoes the single button with one hand and Pilot wants him to stop but he wants him to keep going even more. And it's almost humiliating how hard he is when Jack jerks the zipper down and Pilot's eyes shoot open like the bb splitting the skull of the jack rabbit and all he sees is dark eyelashes in front of him. This time Pilot really does moan into Jack's mouth and feels a satisfied grin against his lips and.
Pilot's pulling away, backing up shakily, panting and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and smearing paint and unsteadily zipping up his jeans, looking down at the floor and wishing he had hair like Cassie's to hide his burning, swimming face. And Jack's uncharacteristically-questioning silence makes him look up, and then Pilot wonders if Jack knows why Pilot can't let him go any further. Because Pilot just can't be a casual buddy fuck, not with Jack: it would kill him quicker than any pill could. And at the same time, he wouldn't be a friend if he let Jack blow what he found in Cassie on him, of all people. Which makes it pretty obvious what he has to do.
He smiles a little at Jack, even though he doesn't feel like smiling at all."I gotta go. You'll, uh–" Pilot nods vaguely. "You'll know where to find me, okay?"
Jack isn't saying anything for once (yes, fever, definitely), just tosses the set of keys at him, and Pilot catches them in his hands and feels the metal poke his palm. He wonders how he got into this whole mess. It used to be just Jack's mess. Now it seems like everyone and their grandmother has gotten involved, some way or another.
"You just... get better. I'll find you, you'll find me, it'll work out, okay?" He wants to say more, but somehow that more comes out as, "Late."
And he hears a (frustrated?) sigh and mumbled "Late" behind him as he turns and wobbles to the door and falls past Cassie and some other guys he doesn't really recognize but probably should. And what the hell was that, anyway? He stares down at his hard-on, head down, shoulders slumped, just walking away towards the sawed-off convertible. So this is what sexual confusion is really all about...
Pilot files the new thought away in the part of his brain that isn't rotten and acid-eaten so he can mull over it on his drive to Vegas. He'll have a lot of time to think, then.