The mountain tops are white from snow this time of year. The tree line stops right as green turns to white, specs of forestry present in some areas but soon hidden behind piles upon piles of cold. Waylon traces a circle on to the window where it lines with a mountain peak. Smooth instrumentals filter through the car speakers, volume low enough to set the tone of the ride and keep away white noise. It lulls him into a comfortable embrace, and it is here where he realizes just how sleep deprived he actually is. But food is important, and Eddie wants to take him out, so he shakes his head and presses his cheek to the icy window in an attempt to shock himself awake.
There is a shuffle from beside him and then a click on the radio.
' – you know I'll always be your slave'
Pulling away from the window, Waylon settles back into the cushion of the seat and glances sideways at Eddie. From this side the man's scars are on display, blistering and burning a fiery red. Perhaps inflamed? Waylon's eyebrows furrow and he wants to touch the sores, if only for a brief second, but the idea of making physical contact seems foolish at the moment, like breaking the tension at water's surface.
'Til' I'm buried, buried in my grave'
He thinks he sees Eddie attempting to look at him, so Waylon quickly turns his head and goes back to staring out the window. The scenery, while it has not changed significantly, welcomes more and more brick buildings and homes the further into the county they go. Green and yellow apartments sit atop small shops, a variety of them ranging from ski rentals to antiques, and the backdrop of Peak 10 from the resort centers all of the county's idiosyncrasies into one well-formulated scene. The entire town seems naturally welcoming.
'Ooh, honey. Bring it to me. Bring your sweet loving'
He closes his eyes as they round a corner, forehead rolling against the cool of the window. A wave of exhaustion drapes him warmly, and it feels as if he is being coaxed into a nap. His shoulders slump and legs spread, thoughts wandering into silence so all that he perceives is the engine of the jeep and instrumentals. The song is old, probably from the 1960s, but no less enjoyable. It is a sad lullaby of sorts, a plea for love, and hits a little too close to home for his liking. Nevertheless, it aids in calming his mind and drawing him to sleep. Nearer and nearer…
'Bring it on home to me. Yeah (yeah), yeah (yeah), yeah…'
The car suddenly stops to his dismay before a hand comes to gently shake his shoulder. "Time to wake up, Darling. We made it," Eddie says quietly, to which Waylon lets out a soft groan of protest and sits up rubbing his eyes. He had hardly drifted off, but that small bit was just enough to make him want to curl into himself and fall back to sleep. Though it is hard for him to remain in that mindset when he meets Eddie's ever eager gaze, the other man's twisted scars somehow making him appear like a kicked puppy instead of a maniac. The comparison is a curious one, so Waylon shoos it away and smiles up at Eddie, his hand already curling around the other's neck for a brief kiss.
Their contact is short yet fulfilling, sweeping just enough energy into Waylon to convince him to actually get out of the jeep. A piercing pain cuts through his side as he exits the car, but he simply cups his side as he closes the door and tries to force away a grimace by smiling. He makes a mental note to pick up some bandages on their way back to the hotel.
Eddie unintentionally slams his door closed. "I saw a billboard talking about this diner and just followed the signs," he says, shy, nervous smile curling his lips. "Should be to your liking, hopefully."
His words sound more like a question than anything else, so Waylon quickly nods and flashes his own grin in an attempt to keep Eddie from doubting himself. Walking around the jeep, Waylon comes to stand by his side and nudges his hand, sliding their fingers together into a firm grasp. "I'm sure you chose fine," Waylon supplements with a nod, holding Eddie's gaze until the older man returns it with a worried sigh. He does not look away until Eddie visibly relaxes, shoulder slumping down to a more relaxed position, and then Waylon takes the first step toward the diner.
The issue of money never came up in conversation. Perhaps Eddie remembered from when Waylon put gas in the car? Nevertheless, the man somehow knew, yet the diner (which is apparently the best in the town) looks no more expensive than a Waffle House. Waylon opens the door to a ringing bell and tsunami of mouth-watering aromas. Savory bacon and cinnamon waffles, maple syrup, coffee, sausage. Somewhere behind a counter a woman shouts, "Welcome to Dave's!" and another calls for an order of "Hot stacks, blueberry mix, scrambled eggs, four toast, and OJ."
A melody of frying pans and skillets set the bass for tuned knives, plates, and conversation. The diner is neither loud nor quiet, a comfortable volume that keeps private conversations private while also easing the air for families. Bar stools line the kitchen counter where red booths fade away, and a few tables fill the center area of the restaurant. A man with nicely pinned, curly hair lifts a tray of coffee mugs from the counter and swivels around the many patrons effortlessly, his apron displaying a cartoon-ish logo as it sways. He rests his elbow against his hip once he stops at a table, passing off the mugs to a group of girls.
Waylon's stomach growls when he spots a plate piled with three golden pancakes, eggs, and toast, then realizes that this must have been the order just placed. Another waiter comes to bring that person's food, and the noise of the diner settles somewhere deep in Waylon's mind. It turns into a blur, words melding into each other until they become indistinguishable, and his fingers twitch in Eddie's grasp. A cold sweat begins to prickle his skin despite how very warm the building is, and for some reason it is becoming harder and harder to breathe. But the food smells so good, and his stomach is practically doing flips for sustenance that isn't canned peaches, or water, or crackers, or –
"Seating for two?" a woman asks far too enthusiastically for Waylon's care at the moment. She stands no more than two or three feet in front of them, fiery crimson hair complimenting her less intensive, green eyes. A stack of menus are pressed against her chest. Waylon licks his lips in anticipation of speaking, but it is Eddie instead who answers first.
"Yes, dear," he nods, sure smile in place. The woman beams and turns on her heel with a bounce, announcing for them to follow her. They do so with a start, Waylon exhaling in relief of Eddie's courage. His hand is still shaking but without the attention being on him he has more time to just process his surroundings; and, admittedly, having Eddie squeeze his hand in reassurance was a pretty significant aid too. So he follows the two silently, eyes wandering from wall to floor, to ceiling, to wall. He makes eye contact with one of the kids at a table with four others and makes no effort to suppress his laughter when the kid makes a peculiarly ugly face.
A handful of seconds later they are being seated in a booth by one of the large windows making up a "wall," the waitress pulling out a little notepad and Japanese, sparkling pen from her apron. "I can start you guys off with a drink if you'd like. I know you just sat down, so if you need more time I am happy to come back in a bit?"
Snagging a menu from the center of the table, Waylon peers over its top at Eddie, whom seems to regard the menu himself before tilting his head (so that his bruised cheek is facing away) and answering, "A coffee will be fine."
She jots it down with a swipe of her pen. "Cream and sugar?"
"No thank you, love," Eddie replies and almost immediately the waitress' cheeks turn just a shade darker. She scribbles over the notepad before turning to Waylon, not without chancing a very obvious glance at Eddie, though. "And what can I do for you?"
Leave. Waylon bites his tongue. "Water is fine," he says in a mockery of pleasantry, the twisting in his gut no longer rising from hunger. The waitress seems to not notice, however, so he feels just the barest amount of guilt when she notes it then retreats to the kitchen area, her shout not as loud as the first lady who commanded food upon their entrance. Waylon watches her for just a moment longer than necessary before dragging his gaze away to Eddie, who is currently turning the menu round and round.
His finger draws circles over certain items, tracing a path back and forth between two or three, but no more than four. After one connection has been made Eddie flips the page to the back, repeating the same steps until a triangle of sorts has been mentally created. At first the links were broad and including entire dishes, but now they are focused on single items or at maximum one small entrée. Waylon figures that the process is just a strange way of narrowing selections, which in itself is not so bad but can also be explained away. Maybe Eddie is feeling slightly overwhelmed too? Yet, if so, then why was he flirting with the waitress –
No. No, not flirting. All he said was "love." But that woman. Just the thought of her makes him want to rip out his spine.
Forcibly tossing that particular thought out of the window, Waylon turns back to his own menu. He eyes each item with ramping curiosity, mind trying to wrap around foods he thinks he has never seen before and memories of home-cooked breakfasts. It would be a lie to say that a pang of utter desolation is not fluttering within him, but what helps is that the faces in his memories are blurred enough for him to pretend that they are not even there. Just ghostly, shadowy figures laughing and eating in harmony.
He blinks himself out of his mind, a frown settling over his eyebrows. Why does he keep zoning out? He does not feel as troubled as he had minutes ago, nor does he feel an impending panic attack, so why does he keep going internal? A sudden warmth washes over his forehead and cheeks so he wipes the side of his face, but the creeping feeling of embarrassment is persistent and it isn't until he lifts his gaze that he realizes he is being watched.
"Uh, w-what?" Waylon stammers, sitting up to press his back against the cushion. At some point during his brainstorm the waitress must have reappeared because a full glass of water is sitting by his menu and Eddie is calmly sipping at his coffee. Its aroma is strong, like sniffing a bag of ground coffee beans. Beginning to feel beyond awkward, Waylon clears his throat into his fist and snags a straw from the table, tapping it against his leg to break the paper before letting it slip into the water.
He cups the bottom of the glass with both hands. "So…see anything you like?" he asks in a pathetic segue from oh-look-Park-is-being-weird to badly constructed small talk.
Although, Eddie doesn't seem to mind because he answers without fret, "I think I found a few things. Ah," setting his coffee down, Eddie leans over the table and slides Waylon's menu around until it is facing him. He points at three different entrees with one hand. "I think I want the main dishes of these without the sides."
Waylon's mouth opens in awe. "You're gonna eat that much?"
"I was planning on sharing it with you," Eddie says, eyebrows furrowing in what appears to be confusion and doubt, his gaze shifting between Waylon and the menu. Slowly, Eddie starts to lean back into his seat. "I should not have assumed so, right?" He recoils a little further. "You can choose what you want."
Waylon's eyes widen at the sudden turnover in Eddie's disposition. He shakes his head vehemently, reaching out to catch Eddie's hand before it could fully retreat. "No, no, you're alright. Everything you chose looks really good too. You shouldn't worry!"
"You sure?" Eddie questions, still looking about ready to disappear, to which Waylon makes a clear "mhmm" noise and scoots forward in his seat in an attempt to balance them. The motion reminds him of a seesaw, the notion so childish that it causes him to smirk, a small chuckle escaping before he could stop it. A stab of guilt hits him again though when he realizes that he must have come off as laughing at Eddie, and he is prepared to stutter out an apology when he hears an equally amused, and utterly sweet, laugh leave from the man in front of him. The sight stills him for a moment before he too joins, their laughter mixing in the air softly, shared only between them and no one else.
Eddie squeezes his hand lovingly before loosening his grip enough for Waylon to pull away. He tries to cover his mouth with it; touching his skin reveals very warm flesh, the knowledge only serving to heat up his cheeks even more. This, right here and now, is comfortable. It ebbs away the blotches of fear and anxiety creeping through his skin since the moment they left the car, wipes until they are faded and too distant to distort. He basks in the warmth, the acceptance, the joy, emotions that had been so separated from him but are now making their way back. Slowly, surely, perhaps one day he will fully remember. Maybe one day he can claim them as his own again.
Maybe one day…but apparently that day isn't today, because the moment Ms. Flirtatious Waitress returns for their order Waylon feels a dead weight crash through his skull and into the pit of his stomach. There is no way that he hid the scowl on his face to keep at least Eddie from seeing it.
"You two look to be having a good time! What, did you see a pretty lady?" the woman – Addi, her name tag reads – teases, tone high and playful and just on the wrong side of grating for Waylon's ears. He takes a sip of his water and leans on his forearms, absolutely glaring at her now.
With a huff, he answers a simultaneous, "No," and
"Oh, I think that I saw one not too long ago."
Waylon's eyes widen, shifting from Addi to Eddie. He cocks his head to the side. "What?"
Above him, Addi grins wide and leans closer to Eddie. "Oh really now," she practically hoots, red hair draping precariously over her shoulder. "Is she here right now?"
"Hmm," Eddie hums along the edge of his mug, now staring dead at Waylon. There is something intense and challenging behind his eyes that rears on the border of unsettling, causing little knots and clinks in Waylon where butterflies once were. He tries not to over analyze it, tries not to think about the expectant look on the waitress' face or how the rest of the diner is somehow becoming muffled. The wait is suffocating despite probably lasting three seconds now, but his perception of time is off because holy shit is Eddie actually talking about this lady?
He blinks and sees an array of images flash across his vision, ink splotches, blurred yet enhanced while representing nothing in particular. A flashback. A reminder. Waylon feels his spine tremble and the glass of water in his hand shakes before his voice creaks out harshly, "Are you ready to order…darling?"
It's like ending a spell. One second the world is spinning, and then the next everything is back to how it was. Standing upright, familiar, balanced, the sky is blue and the grass is green and all of that jazz. Eddie is still watching him, except the challenge in his eye is all gone, and Addi is looking between them, eyes narrowing slightly before she is plastering on a fake, customer service smile and taking the smallest step from the table.
She clicks her pen on her notepad, posture pointed purposely away from Eddie. When Waylon does not answer her silent question, she takes another step and makes to leave, mumbling a well-mannered, "Just let me know when you're ready," but Eddie clears his throat to capture her attention before she could retreat.
Waylon has to commend Addi for making it look like a personal pain for her to even be talking to Eddie now, but at least she isn't hurdling insults like some women would. She jots down their order efficiently, the cheer in her voice returning halfway through reading back what Eddie chose and asking questions. By the end of the transaction a stranger would not have been able to tell that there was ever an awkward dispute. To Waylon's relief the air is a little easier to breathe once Addi has walked away; however, there is another key piece to his anxiety that cannot simply leave.
Waylon avoids any sort of contact for about one singular minute before Eddie is opening his mouth. "Darling, why did you-"
"I need to go to the restroom," he cuts him off, abruptly standing from the table and heading to the neon 'restroom' sign. He has to pass by the booth of children again and in his peripheral he sees the boy from earlier staring at him and then turning around in his seat to gawk at Eddie.
"Oooo, mommy! Mommy I know that-"
Another voice (one of the girls, no more than seven years old) pulls him by his ear back down to his seat, shushing him. "You're going to get us in trouble! Mommy said to stop!"
Waylon's ears perk, but by the time he passes the threshold to the bathroom the children's voices are too monotonous with the rest of the restaurant to pick out. Which is good, because the strange, seldom pain in his chest from earlier was starting to come back and this time he had a more significant face of a child in his thoughts to go along with it.
He clenches his eyes closed and inhales deeply. Over the past few months Waylon has developed the ability to cleanse his thoughts with breathing, a skill that has become invaluable in such a hectic life. He opens the door to the men's room with another inhale, breathing out once he finds an empty stall and then holding his air again. He does not sit, just simply stands against the door and locks it before he could forget. In here the diner is quiet. Calm. A burst of some air fresher sprays what smells like the ocean, and soon he is breathing in tidal waves.
Washing in….dragging out…washing in…dragging out…washing in…
Someone knocks on his stall's door, jolting him from his meditation. "Ah, yeah sorry man. I'll be out in a second," he says, bending over to grab toilet paper to at least pretend that he was using the toilet, but his efforts prove futile when the person speaks.
"Waylon, why are you acting like this?"
He immediately stills, pausing over the ball of toilet paper wadded in his hand, but ignoring Eddie seems just as bad of an option as faking ignorance, so Waylon resolves to pressing a free palm to his eyes and groaning. The ghost of a childlike figure is still present; he wants to let Eddie know of this, tell him what is truly bothering him, but the thought of being so straightforward is painful and he'd rather ease himself into boiling water than dive into the fires of hell. So he asks his own roundabout question instead, "Did Addi bring the food yet?"
"Who?"
Waylon clicks his tongue in irritation. "Addi. The waitress. You know, the most beautiful woman you've seen today." There is an unbidden bite to his tone, though bringing himself to care is far from the top of his priorities. He can hear Eddie moving about from the other side of the door, his shoes shuffling across the tile and clothing ruffling, as if he is shoving his hands into his pockets.
Waylon waits for the tell-tale sigh that indicates when Eddie is about to speak, already preparing himself for a hard conversation. It comes after another minute or two. "Is that why you called me darling?" Eddie asks.
"I thought it would get your attention… Which it did."
"Because you thought that I was flirting with the waitress," Eddie says, not a question, and the words cause Waylon to bite his lip. He nods before realizing that there was no way for Eddie to see it.
Swallowing his pride, Waylon grits out a "Yes," but then Eddie is sighing again and exasperation is not what he needs right now so he barrels on with a tap on the door. "She was obviously flirting with you, Eddie, and you went along with it. Right in front of me, too. What the fuck was that?"
"I was not flirting with her-"
"Yeah, yeah you were," he almost shouts, though the echo in the bathroom carries his voice like a cacophony. "And why the hell were you looking at me like that anyway, huh? Like I was supposed to play along with whatever game was going on between you and that woman. You called her beautiful and then stared me down. How else was I supposed to react?"
There is a sudden pressure on the other side of the door that Waylon suspects to be Eddie leaning against it. "I wasn't talking about her," is all he says and that just sends Waylon's blood boiling.
"Then what other woman did you see, Eddie? She was the only one talking to you!"
"Waylon, Darling, what are you-"
"Don't lie to me, Eddie," Waylon says, voice cracking, hands tightening into fists. "You wanted her to-"
"You're the only woman I will ever want, Waylon. I was talking about you, and only you," Eddie says, his fist hitting the side of the door hard enough to make Waylon's muscles twitch. There is so much exasperation in Eddie's voice that it makes Waylon want to cringe and hide away, because he knew this. Has always known it – but 'woman?' The term is hard to swallow; so close yet strangely wrong. Not out here. Not in this world.
Panic begins to rise in Waylon's throat, cutting his air short and choppy. He pinches his arm to ground himself. "Aren't you," he starts, rolls the words over his tongue, tastes them, and then spits them out. "How are you not overwhelmed? Aren't you afraid? The noises…the smell…isn't it…" too much?
There is a long pause before Eddie speaks again. "You should have said that earlier, Darling. I could have helped you."
Helped him? How? Waylon turns around to face the stall door, touches a spot where he thinks Eddie's face is. "What could you have done? I'm just processing everything, and yeah, it's hard, but I don't think… Do you not feel the same?" Waylon asks.
"I feel," Eddie starts then stops, shifting some more, thinking hard enough for the energy to feel tangible. He must not know what to say because instead of answering he lightly wiggles the door handle. "I want to see you," he says.
It is not a command so Waylon obeys willingly, opening the door almost instantly. Instead of drawing him into a hug or kissing him like Waylon expected, Eddie simply grabs hold of his hand and pulls him in close without it being an embrace. The contact is semi-grounding, support just enough to keep him from slipping. Nevertheless, it is welcome and Waylon is actually relieved to not be put into a position of vulnerability.
They walk back to the booth together without another word on the subject, the mystery of Eddie's reaction unknown to Waylon; although, he is not sure if he is even ready to delve into it. So he remains quiet and follows Eddie's lead without dispute. Addi had brought back their food in the meantime, the distraction being more than worth it since he had forgotten just how hungry he was before the whole situation. Eventually, Eddie did spark small talk, albeit their conversation strayed far from where it was earlier. He spoke kindly, topics treading on lighthearted and, well, normal. As normal as it could be with Eddie being departed from outside life for years and Waylon feeling relatively absent from reality. At one point Eddie let Trager's name slip by accident, freezing him like a deer in headlights, but Waylon pressed on without incident, determined to maintain their fallacy.
The rest of their breakfast – brunch, actually – follows this trend without deviance. The food tastes divine in Waylon's flavor-starved stomach, and Addi only stopped by once to refill Eddie's coffee. Overall, it was pleasant after their hiccup, and soon the muffled noise of the diner changed back into regular conversation and familial happiness. The kids were packing up to leave, mother overriding their small voices with loud commands to quiet down and get their jackets on. Waylon watches them from the corner of his eye, a smile tugging on his lips when he sees the boy from earlier.
He must not be any older than seven, like the girl. The boy looks past the other kids while they tug on their jackets, his own coat hanging idly over his arm and touching the floor. There is something in the distance that he is staring at, but whatever has captured his attention is out of Waylon's view.
You look like a pedophile. Waylon almost chokes with laughter over the thought and shakes his head. Yeah, he probably shouldn't just stare at some random kid, so he goes back to his water and taps the straw. Soon after Addi approaches the table with a black book and gathers their plates, sliding the booklet and pen to Eddie. She exchanges a curious look with him before thanking them for coming and saying something along the lines of "Come back soon!" Not caring to interact with anyone right now, Waylon just hands Eddie two twenties and tells him to pay for their food at the register while he warms up the jeep.
It is a fair exchange, and since he is the sounder one right now, Eddie agrees and hands Waylon the car keys. Easy. Clean. Waylon curls his fingers around the keys with a whistle before leaning forward to take one more drink from his water. This time, when he looks in the direction of the kids, the boy is staring back at him. And then at the screen. And then to Eddie. And once again.
The kid grabs hold of his mother's pants leg feverishly. "Mommy," he says.
She swats at him lightly. "You can go to the bathroom with your brother, Charlie, mommy has to pay for our food."
"But mom, I need to tell you something-"
The girl pinches his ear again. "She said no!"
"Hey! Don't hurt your brother."
"Mommy, I need to tell you something –"
The girl lets go and looks back at Waylon. "Charlie, stop."
Their mother frowns, looking between the two, and then relents to her son's demands. Squatting down to Charlie's level, she leans her ear close to him. "Alright, go ahead and tell me," she says, and Charlie cups his mouth to hide his lips as if he is telling a secret, except for some reason his voice sticks out to Waylon far louder than any other one in the restaurant.
Charlie never takes his eyes off of Waylon's own. "Mommy, the monster is here."