I couldn't imagine a lifetime without you.
That's what Yang told her; underneath the stars with no one watching, no one hiding, no words whispered among the leaves of the trees. It was the forest and them and the wind on their faces, laying side by side on the bed of her truck.
It was summer and they were free, and all they needed was each other - it was all anyone needed, really. It was something they were lucky enough to learn as early as they had - when they have a lifetime ahead of them.
In that moment - when the night was so still it was like time froze around them, Blake started to let herself believe that maybe Yang was right.
Ones not enough, but maybe two would do, don't you think?
They're 17 and in love, and suddenly the small trivial things of daily life started to fade at the edges.
High school was a tedious thing - a trite few years that could stretch into a lifetime in the right hands. Hands, that were held between classes and hidden underneath desks from prying eyes. Hands, that led you through a shortcut through the woods as you skipped class for the fourth time in a row. A love that was too shy to be admitted, too fragile to be exposed. Best friends, they'll call it; a name they can hide behind until they're a little more bold, just a tad more brave.
A name they'd been hiding behind all the way from the shy age of four.
Oh, come on. Don't be shy. I won't make fun of you, I promise. Just take my hand, I'll guide you through the movements.
Holding down a job was hard when you bounced from town to town. The wind through an open car window felt much more like freedom than zeroes on a page, and home wasn't just a door and a roof and four barren walls. Her home was a girl with untamable blonde hair that got tangled in the mornings, who liked her orange juice without any pulp, who insisted on purple toothbrushes because any other colour didn't feel quite right.
Do you believe in destiny? Like we were meant to find each other? Like this is just one life in a long line of love stories that play to the same ending, that end with the same song?
They're teenagers, hardly so. Barely more than children that outgrew their clothes too fast and found a liking to girls and boys from different classes. A stolen glance was just about all she could manage across the classroom, a daring feat that made her heart race in the middle of 7th-grade math class.
If only she'd been a little braver - there's an empty seat beside her in the cafeteria, they're matching up partners in gym. If only she'd mustered up just a sliver more confidence, if she was only able to confess that her best friend caught her attention in more ways than she could admit - maybe, just maybe, they would have started their story that much sooner.
I'll never leave you, I'll build a time machine if I have to. If that's what it takes. Hey, stop laughing, I'm serious here.
Sunshine and lavender and all things citrus went hand-in-hand with dust through a broken window and a crackly old radio that played nothing but the old hits. It was a lifetime they wanted, and a lifetime they got.
Maybe ones not enough, maybe not even two. But tomorrow is a century away and your heart can swell so much it threatens to burst, so you manage, somehow.
They survive, for better or worse, with each other or apart. You can run away, but you cannot hide - but sometimes, the journey ends up better than the price you pay for leaving everything behind.
A dull knock on her window dragged Blake out of a restless slumber, room quiet and unmoving around her. She groggily rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, barely able to see with the stark white moonlight cast on her bedroom floor. A small stone hit her window again, bouncing off and rattling down the roof.
Pushing herself off her bed and prying open the window, the cold morning air hit her like a slap to the face that made her eyebrows furrow and nose cringe. June nights were never as forgiving as she remembered, a gust of wind biting at her shoulders. A small stone narrowly missed her forehead and clattered into her room past her.
"Hey, that nearly hit me," she snarled, suppressing her voice to a bare whisper as she looked around. The road of the neighbourhood was deserted; cars parked silently in their driveways, houses dark and lifeless while their owners were long asleep.
"Took you long enough to wake up, I nearly ran out of rocks."
A smiling blonde face appeared - sitting cross-legged on the top of a familiar weathered pickup truck, Yang had her hand on a small pile of pebbles. Her voice was low, calling up to Blake from her second-floor room. "Ready?" She says, as if she didn't already know the answer.
Blake's eyes widened - she had nearly forgotten about their plan. Or rather, their escape plan for a lack of better terms.
A small town was suffocating along with all of its intolerable inhabitants, no matter what way you look at it. A fact you only realized once it was too late, once the damage had been done. A plan was born, from two hopefuls that were bold enough to want more, to deserve more. A plan to take them far, far away from this place and never look back. She smiled quietly to herself. This was her chance, their chance.
The words left her mouth before she could even think - she didn't need to. Blake had been waiting to say it for years. "As I'll ever be, Yang."
Her name feels more fit to roll off her tongue than any other; more than a father, a mother, a family that left their daughter to the wolves - if only they weren't ones themselves.
A large duffle bag was waiting for her, already packed in her closet. Memories of late summer nights spent fantasizing about this exact moment came back to mind and brought a gentle smile with it.
Of pre-packed bags and long nights spent chasing freedom only achievable through escape; it really seemed too good to be true now that it was finally happening. The heavy weight of the bag in her arms was confirmation enough that reality still existed in the gaps between dreams and the morning where the world would collapse behind them.
"I'm gonna throw it," Blake says, feeding her bag through the narrow opening of her window.
A dull thud and the protest of tires meant that Yang had jumped down into the truck's bed, arms outstretched to catch her belongings.
She trusted Yang, more than anyone, undoubtedly so - but a twinge in her stomach couldn't be helped as she watched the bag fall. Blake let out a breath she didn't know she was holding as Yang caught it, nearly falling over.
"Jesus, that's heavy. What the hell did you put in this thing?" Yang says, setting it with a loud thud. "Every single material possession you have? I said pack light, not pack everything in sight." Another small bag followed out the window into her waiting arms. "Oh, Rapunzel, I'm waiting for some hair. I'm tired of your overly heavy bags now."
"You think you're funny," Blake calls back, a smile hidden safely in the dark.
"Please, I know you're smiling," Yang responds back, catching another bag. It fell heavily into her chest, nearly knocking the wind out of her. "At this point you have to be putting bricks in these."
"I only put the necessities," Blake says, wincing at the clatter of the bag on the truck's metal bed. "You better quiet down before the entire neighbourhood's on a manhunt tomorrow." She hissed, looking up and down the still deserted street - silence wasn't something they could trust anymore, who knows what hides behind it.
Yang dismissed her with a chuckle, "That's already bound to happen, it's not like we can vanish off the face of the earth." She says, shrugging. Blake's bag was shoved next to a small heap of other bags and belongings in the vehicle's bed with a boot.
One last breath of cold air, and Blake turned back towards her room - probably the last time she'll ever call it that.
It felt almost foreign, alienated from the thought of leaving forever. The quiet lavender walls were suffocating - in their own unspoken ways. Even the way that her blankets had fallen, the empty cups and askey papers, signs of life; it all felt like a lie.
Blake quickly grabbed her book bag and started shoving in whatever brought upon a second thought. Her wallet, stuffed with years of savings went in first. Some books she couldn't bring herself to abandon followed soon after. A worn gray hoodie that hung on the door of her closet was stuffed in last; the Beacon Highschool panthers logo was faded and worn at that point, boasting of sports teams she never played on. Actually, in a pondering daze, it was Yang's hoodie that she always forgot to give back.
Stepping over scattered objects on the floor, Blake reached her desk to grab some earbuds. She stalled over a creased piece of paper - a field trip permission form, with its faded and crudely forged signature scribbled along the bottom.
Was it really that long ago that she had been worrying about school? Of studying and praying to pass junior year calculus, waiting for Yang after her practices, and walking home while the seasons changed and the leaves started to fall. The bite of past October air felt too fresh on her mind to be worlds away.
Blake faltered, caught off guard by the shred of normalcy. The magnitude of what was left behind was heavy in its onset, slow and sticky and draining of whatever adrenaline existed. But as she moved towards the window again, bag slung over a shoulder, she did remember why everything was happening.
The only thing this place reminded Blake of was suffering and suffocation. And now, she's going to leave this town with the only thing that gave a damn about her and kept her alive. Almost on queue, it was Yang's voice that brought her back to reality.
"I don't want to rush your sentimental little moment sweetheart, but we gotta run," Yang called after her, sparing a nervous glance at the glowing clock on the truck's dash. 2:17 AM was blazing in neon red and a hot reminder of their time ticking away. Time always seemed to carry on, no matter how much a moment stretched, however long they tried to get it to last.
Blake emerged again, head poked out of the window. It disappeared again, replaced with a guitar case being tossed into Yang's waiting arms. She was familiar with it, the stickers that covered the hard exterior, the stories that came with it, the songs. A small part of her was thankful that Blake remembered to bring the instrument, placing it down with extra care on the truck's bed.
"I'm coming down," she calls, crawling out of the frame and lowering herself onto the edge of the roof. Eyes glinting a dangerous amber in the moonlight, Yang couldn't help but hold her breath as Blake jumped.
Yang caught her in her arms, pulling Blake in tightly as the truck's suspension dipped under the weight.
"This is your last chance to reconsider," Yang whispered into her ear, tucking a stray strand of hair back and holding Blake's gaze softly. "I can guarantee you that we can never, ever , come back from this."
Anyone would have seen it as pure affection, maybe even love if you were hasty to put a name on it - but Blake knew better, she had years of practice. The devil sneered in the curl of Yang's lips, a smirk that was teasing and fatal and just as effective as she wanted.
"Please, I've known you since we were four. I went in too deep from the moment I laid eyes on you." Blake says, pushing Yang back playfully. She laughed quietly, rolling with the shove and stumbling back until she hit the rear panel. Every step she staggered back was a step Blake gained, closer and closer until they were a breath apart.
It was inevitable, really - a small action that they'd danced around for years. It was to be expected; it was bound to happen, but Yang couldn't help but be surprised once it did.
Blake's hands found their to her jaw before she could even register what was happening, pulling her down into a kiss that was 14 years in the making.
Maybe it was fated, like destiny could be believed if the cards were played right, if the stars aligned just right. And maybe Blake kisses her for the first time the same as every lifetime before this one - under the cover of the night, when the world melts away, when the clock stops ticking just to let them breathe .
They've done this before, they've had to - a long, long time ago, centuries ago; Yang must have had all the time in the world to learn every rise and fall and every inch of her skin. That's how Blake will explain it, how Yang knows just when to lean in deeper, hand finding its way to the small of her back.
She'd drive her crazy, if she hadn't already.
Blake pulled away on the brink of giving in - temptation was indulged in for much more than its dues tonight, Yang's hands on her waist as tantalizing as a siren's song. It wasn't the time for this, but that's what they'd always said. If that's what they were missing, all these years, then Blake would happily play the fool.
"We should go," Blake says after catching her breath, before the consequences come crashing down with her actions. She jumped out of the truck's bed silently and the car groaned under the movement.
The passenger seat door was pulled open, shutting with a thud that echoed through the street. Her head stuck out the window towards where Yang stood frozen. "Hurry up you ape, we don't have all day."
Yang silently thanked the gods that the darkness of the night hid her the violent flush of her face, but it did little to calm the deafening heartbeat in her ears, a rhythm so loud she swore that the entire neighbourhood could hear. Then again - maybe that was the least of her worries.
A hand to her lips, chasing the last traces of their contact, was all that Yang allowed herself to do. Starstruck wasn't something she was used to, but maybe it was something she could learn.
"I never took you for a best friend kisser," Yang says, voice light. She could pretend to be as nonchalant as she wanted, but her heart still skipped a beat when she turned around to face her.
Smiling, Blake leaned on the car's door and met Yang's eyes, and time and time again - Yang drowned in them.
Cruel, really.
Her voice was quiet, meant only to be heard by a single pair of ears. There would be no one watching if the world didn't exist around them, and the stars were as much company as they needed.
"Well, I guess I am now." Blake says, and Yang knows that there's no escape from this story, this fate. A lifetime it took for them to reach this point, and a lifetime they're promised, when the truck's engine rumbles to life, headlights flaring on. The streets lead them away, for as long as they need - a road less travelled, or one that was paved again and again from one life to the next.
The neighbourhood streets were still - the soft tread of Yang's pickup truck dampened below the chirping of crickets and wind through the trees. Two lefts and a right, they pull through the streets stopping at stop signs barren of any other cars.
The girls were silent - possibly from adrenaline, likely because of a paralyzing fear they fought desperately not to show each other. Absently doting on the gentle lean of the truck through its turns as it navigated towards the main road seemed to be a sufficient distraction.
Blake watched as Yang looked towards the oncoming traffic, overlapping her hands as she turned the leather steering wheel. The interior of the truck was old and worn, but miles away from what Yang got the vehicle in. She had restored it to what was passable and somewhat comfortable, although far from a luxury. To think that Yang was able to turn that old rusted frame of a truck into what it was now was unimaginable.
"We'll drive all of tonight to get out of the city, I'm thinking we skip town the first time around," Yang says quietly, "keep to the outskirts." The silence reformed as soon as it was broken - Yang's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead of them as they started to pick up speed. The city limits came and passed - its significance only noted by a faded sign hammered into the side of the road.
Blake nodded wordlessly, half as a response to Yang and half to convince herself. The prickle of sweat on her back came again, shoved down with whatever emotion was brewing in the back of her mind like the rolling thunder of a summer storm.
Everything felt too real, too realistic; like she finally put on glasses and suddenly the world was all too overwhelming. Her lack of clarity was unprompted - the fog creeping just behind her consciousness was unprecedented after months of planning these very actions. Not long ago was she dreaming about driving down these roads, watching as what was familiar faded away - but the only thing she could think about clearly was the deafening drum that played itself in her chest.
Blake squeezed her eyes shut - hard enough that spots danced across her vision. Trying to stem off what dread was chasing her, little comfort was found in the constant hum of tires on asphalt. It never stopped, and they never slowed down - a constant reminder that played over and over in her head until it was unbearable. Have they really left everything behind?
"Blake, you need to relax."
She looked up, surprised.
Yang turned to glance at her from the driver's seat, effortlessly radiating comfort that immediately started to put her at ease. "I knew you'd be like this so I left a blanket in the back that you can grab, try to get some sleep," Yang says, gesturing to the rear seat before bringing her attention back to the road. "It's going to be a long ride."
Reaching back obediently, sure enough, a soft woven quilt was pulled to the front. The orange colour of its fabric was faded, edges slightly frayed - Blake recognized it immediately. It was the blanket Yang's mother left her - of course she brought it with them.
Wrapping herself up, the smell of citrus and indescribably, Yang , filled her nose. Taking a deep breath in from the cloth helped her relax, somewhat - enough to distract herself with what was around her and stay grounded until whatever this hysteria was could pass.
A deep breath and a minuscule hesitation, "Thanks, Yang. I mean it." Blake says, hoping that it could say enough.
Yang simply hummed in response, a small smile forming.
Blake was used to the counters of the leather seat, the lacquered restored wood of the dash. The passenger seat came with the familiar sensation of almost stepping back in time to when this old truck was in its prime - when its paint was fresh, lights newly installed, milage a fresh start for thousands of miles to come.
Allowing her mind to wander with some hesitancy was a luxury Blake indulged in - something to take her away from the growing pit in her stomach. The day that the pair had found the truck in its automobile graveyard felt lifetimes ago.
(Yang's voice was brimming with excitement. The last time she was like this was at the varsity championships, when she held the soccer trophy high over her head.
"She's a beauty, Blake! I can't believe someone would leave an F-Series here!"
Blake could only let out a breath in exasperation as Yang ran towards the car, shoes kicking up dust behind her. It was a warm summer day, August, when the heat had settled like a blanket in the motionless air. The sun beat down on their faces and shoulders, but Yang didn't seem to mind in the least. It painted the blonde's cheeks and shoulders with more freckles than you could count - it's true; they tried two weeks ago.
Circling around the beat-up car with a shit-eating grin, Yang's eyes lit up with wonder, with possibilities, hypotheticals. She traced the dusty contour of the vehicle's rusted exterior with a hand, soaking in the texture of the paint, the metallic smell that filled the air, how it bent and arched like the curves of a statue.
"I won't doubt your skills, Yang," Blake says skeptically, following her footsteps that danced around the truck. "But seriously, is this hunk of junk even fixable?"
"Oh, please," Yang scoffed, running her hand over the door's handle. "I'll have her up and running before summer ends, I'll bet on it." The handle let out a loud crack before unlocking, dust falling from the roof as Yang pulled the door open. "After you, ma'am." She says, holding the passenger seat's door open wide.
"If you think I'm getting in that thing-" Blake starts, before Yang cuts in.
"I'll do your English report, Mr. Ports," Yang says quickly, holding the door open wider and wagging her eyebrows. "The one about ancient history, you hated the first chapter of the book so you never read it but I did."
Blake couldn't help but let out a laugh, giving in to her persuasion. "You cut a hard bargain, Yang." she says, walking up to the truck slowly and eyeing the dusty interior. "But I'm not touching anything, and you have five minutes. Max."
Taking a front-row seat in Yang's particularly messy adventures wasn't very high on Blake's favourite summer pass-times, but something about the truck had a magnetic charisma to it - something that couldn't quite be described, even less deciphered.
Despite being covered in what seemed like several generations of dust, the leather interior had actually preserved decently. The lacquered headboard needed some shining, some replacement pieces, some genuine hardworking love, but Blake had to admit that Yang was right - it did have potential. Maybe she's been hanging around Yang's garage too much, picking up a few things whether she liked to or not.
Blake took a seat gingerly, careful not to sit in too big of a pile of dust. In contrast, Yang ran over to the driver's side and threw herself in, grasping the leather steering wheel excitedly. Smiling, Blake watched wordlessly as Yang took in the antiquity of the truck, its broken parts, its charms. Like a little girl in a candy shop, except this shop had a manual transmission and a cracked rear-view mirror.
"Look at this!" Yang exclaims, leaning forward to look at the toy curiously.
A rusty bobblehead sat on the dash - some hockey player donning a faded and chipped blue jersey. Its caricature features were so cartoonish it almost made Blake burst out in laughter at first glance. Yang flicked it and it wobbled stiffly, rusted metal spring creaking in protest.
"There might be things left in the glove compartment," Yang says, gesturing to the small latch in front of Blake's seat. "Maybe a thick wad of cash? Or a murder weapon, would we be accessories to the crime now?"
"Well, if there is a bloody knife in the glove box, I'm putting the blame on you." Blake replies, pulling the handle. The compartment falls open, revealing some yellowing papers and other miscellaneous items that threatened to spill out.
"Insurance papers, nice knowing we're still covered," Blake jokes, sorting through the mess. She pulls the papers out to reach some items shoved to the back, left forgotten by its previous owner. "Some pens, a box of cigarettes, newspaper," she says, continuing her search. She pulls out a small tin that rattled noisily. "oh, some old-fashion mints."
"Score!" Yang proclaims, lunging over to grab the small tin. "They look unopened, you think they're still edible?"
Its AUGUSTINE label seemed untouched, yellow paint unchipped and still bright as if it was bought yesterday. Yang turned it around in her fingers and shook it. It seemed unopened - mints rattled around audibly inside.
"I think I recognize this brand," Blake says, watching as Yang peeled off the plastic casing. "It was from this old ad, I think the company went bankrupt a few decades ago." The lid popped open and a small puff of white powder dissipated to reveal a full tin. "Whoever bought these mints must have left them in this car for years."
Yang looked up and stared at her with a wide grin - Blake has known Yang for long enough to know exactly what was going to come. She's made way too many mint puns for a single lifetime - at this point, there has got to be no material left. Groaning, Blake covered her ears with both hands.
"They should probably call them meMentos, if you know what I mean." Yang says casually, as if she wasn't waiting to make that joke the second she saw the tin. Her laughter filled the car, doubling over as Blake pretended to gag. Yang shook a few mints out, offering them as a peace offering in an outstretched hand. It was a miracle that none of them fell, her body still wracked with stray giggles.
"Please," Blake says wryly, "I have to put up with your god awful mint puns already. I would not like to have that ancient thing."
"Oh come on," Yang says, bouncing the candies around in her hand. "What's the worst that could happen?"
"I don't know, death?" Blake says dryly, set on not dying because of a mysterious mint. "What could possibly happen from consuming something forty years past its expiry date."
Yang threw four mints into her mouth with no hesitation to Blake's horror. She swirled them around, running a tongue over her bottom lip. "Mints don't expire, dummy, now eat one." She shook another one out of the tin and offered it again.
Blake watched her eat the mints skeptically - Yang didn't seem very dead, yet . Luck seemed to follow her around as if it owed her from a past life.
Against better judgement, she took the candy and hesitantly placed it on her tongue. The soft flavour immediately began the melt - a taste much mellower and sweeter than the cheap brands she usually bought from the corner store. They happily ate their mints in silence as they explored what mysteries remained of the truck's interior.
A few postcards were found tucked into the visor dating back to the 1970s, an empty paper cup with coffee stains, and exactly $2.43 in change.
"Wait, Blake," Yang says, after nearly an hour passes of sitting in the truck. "I think the radio still works, or at least I can probably make it work" She played around with the dials, feeling for anything loose. "These old radios, I used to tinker with them when my dad was working." She says, occupied with tightening a small screw with her nail. "He wouldn't let me help him with the cars, so I'd do whatever I could on his old Philips model."
"You think you can fix it now?" Blake says, watching as Yang brushed away some dirt from the small display. "We don't have any tools."
Yang let out an airy laugh and continued working on the radio. "It's fine, I think I got it now." She says, replacing the last knob. "Let's just hope that it runs on an external battery like the ones I've seen."
A push of a button, and the speakers flare to life - a miracle, really.
Laughing, Yang closed her eyes and let her head rest on the seat. Turning, Blake followed suit - both of them listening to the crackly static-filled voices that played quietly through the old radio.
The air was thick with dust - not uncomfortable nor daft. Rather, it settled with a sense of timelessness - preservation that worked slowly, quietly, methodological in its mysterious ways. It was like a time machine that they had stumbled upon on that summer day; a place that they could hide and not have to worry about anything past the stained windows. The world was insignificant when you couldn't see it, couldn't hear it.
Yang's head was full of dreams for that old truck; idea after idea, some spouted before the last was even finished.
Excitement that came, again and again, no matter how many times they returned. Yang was hopeful - unbelievably so, and all Blake could do was smile and watch as they all came true.)
Those days were long past, and those feelings of escape became concerningly realistic as they sped away in the dead of night. Blake gazed over at Yang warily, suspicious of the silence that spanned longer than what was comfortable.
"You okay, Yang?" Blake asks, the only sound heard being the rumble of the engine and her own breathing. She reached over and placed a hand on Yang's arm. It was warm, familiar, its muscles shifting under her touch as they took a right.
Blake knew she tried to hide it - the fear that wrapped around her body and mind from the moment they started moving.
Yang's hands shook imperceptibly where they gripped the wheel, holding on so tight her knuckles stretched white. Staring steadfastly in front of her, Yang's face was unreadable and blank. It was several moments before she finally responded, street lights passing and illuminating her face as the hard shell she put up started to crack.
"I'm okay, I think," Yang finally says. Blake gave her arm a squeeze and her body relaxed a small amount, lying back into the seat. "Okay enough to get us through the night and to the next city."
"Are you sure?" Blake says, not bothering to hide the unfiltered concern in her voice. "You can always pull over and I can drive for a bit, maybe get some rest?"
Yang laughed, and Blake let out a sigh in relief - the familiar twinkle of her chuckle washed away some of her unease like a tide on the beach. Ebbing and flowing, and she hoped that it would return - eventually, with enough patience.
"Please," Yang says, starting to lighten up. "I have no idea how you got your driver's license, I wouldn't trust you on bumper cats."
Blake smiled, watching as Yang's face pulled itself into a grin. "Would you believe me if I said that I paid off my driving instructor?" She says, baiting for Yang's usual witty bite back.
"I doubt you have enough money to make up for that much lack of skill," Yang teased - and then, she was back. Her best friend was back; not the scared and wounded puppy that limped away to lick at its wounds in silence. She had open wounds but they'll deal with them together - they always have.
Their conversations felt normal, the passing back and forth between them that slowly but surely lightened the mood. It was done with the intent that both of them didn't have to acknowledge - to pull their own darkening thoughts away from the significance of their actions. But they continued on with smiles and quiet laughter that passed the time quite fine.
Blake turned on the radio as Yang pulled onto the interstate, the sun starting to rise on the horizon.
107.3 FM, Yang's favourite channel - it was muscle memory, the exact turn of the knob that stopped when the static cleared away. Some old country tunes streamed through the speakers, played for old truckers and whoever else was awake at 5 am.
Yang was right, about the radio. With some replacement parts and a few adjustments, music flared to life from the speakers and streamed out of its open windows - loud enough to make Blake drop her book into a puddle of motor oil. Yang nearly cried from laughter that day, watching as Blake made her way through the four stages of grief over her precious book.
("It gets stations you can't get anymore on any modern radio, I swear."
"So you just want to listen to old country songs that nobody knows all day?"
"Doesn't it feel cool? Having a radio station all to ourselves?"
"I guess, but what if you accidentally lose the channel, or forget about it?"
"That'll never happen, it's all up in my brain by now. I can't possibly forget."
"That's what you said about my birthday, but you still forget every year."
"Okay, that's different. But this is special, we have a radio station that no one can listen to but us."
"I think it's lonely honestly, it makes me feel alone in the world."
"Well, you can be alone with me.")
Yang had finally relaxed after the hours passed by absently, hand finding its way into Blake's lap. She drew patterns lazily along the thickened skin of her palm - flowers, faces, words to a song that was never sung.
Yang's soft humming to the old radio's songs along with the gentle rocking of the road must have lulled Blake to sleep at some point, fading to quiet comfort with the warmth of Yang's hand held gently between her own.
A dreamless sleep - peaceful, quiet, where nothing existed didn't chase and speed up and scare. Blake didn't dream, she didn't need any - she was already living one; Yang by her side and a thousand miles stretching endlessly before them waiting to be explored.
And maybe it could wait, till the next sun, till the next morning. There was no rush - tomorrow would always come. And maybe it was the small things that could really last - the lingering touch of Yang's fingers on her cheek, the warm flush of her skin under a hot summer sun. Time wouldn't wait, but they could make it last. They didn't need a time machine, or a rusty truck in a dusty graveyard barren of nothing but crows.
Maybe in this lifetime, or maybe the next - I'll rewind as many times as you want, as many times as you need - that's what Yang whispered to her when the night fell and the prying eyes of the world fell shut. You just say it, and I'll choose you. Again and again, in this lifetime, and the next.