Title: Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
Author: Naisumi
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance
Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn.
Spoilers: Uh. Alex's very existence! Or something.
Warnings: Angst, minorcharacter!death, slash...uh, yes. UBERsymbolism :D Profundity--all the usual. Oh, and: STNH! STNH! STNH! (Season Two Never Happened)
Notes: Ha, this is what happens when Nai tries to keep all the characters IC XD Mwee. I think I did pretty well o.O I actually rather like this fic, but eh *shrugs*
If you thought my other stuff had, like, symbolism? This is, like, the MOTHER of all Naisymbolism!fics. It's like...Steinbeck's "Chrysanthemums," only significantly suckier. Uh. Yes.
Additional Notes: This fic is dedicated to Mor! Because, somehow, this is all her fault. I haven't figured out how exactly yet, but I shall. >:D Also! It is Mor's birthday!! XD HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MORNESS!! *loves Mor!* :D
If anyone's a Beatles fan (Jesus Christ on a Popsicle stick, can anyone not like the Beatles?), yes, this fic is named after their song Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. However, the fic is not expressly named for the song itself, but rather for the controversy that the song has mustered.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the controversy, the gist of it is basically that there is debate over whether or not Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds is about the band's experience with LSD, or if it's about Lennon(It was Lennon, right? >.>;;)'s son Julian who, according to Lennon, drew a picture of Lucy--a girl from his class that he liked--in the sky...with, uh, diamonds. Um, yes.
Anyways! This fic was written under the influence of repeated listenings to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds and, another of the Beatles' songs, Nowhere Man. The latter has absolutely nothing to do with the fic, but it's purty drivin' music, ain't it? And that part is definitely because of Mor, who IMed me with, "Nai! Isn't this so a Scott song?!"
*hugs Mor* :D
As always, C&C is encouraged and craved and NEEDED DESPERATELY.
Enjoy! :D
--
The snow coated the ground like styrofoam frosting. Scott saw it as the sky, pink and pockmarked. It sparkled a little, and he thought of old Beatles songs with inferences of maybe drugs or inferences of maybe love. He sighed.
"C'mon," he heard from upside down. He sat upright and reached out to grab the door handle, pulling it shut behind him. It creaked, inched a little, then shuddered close. An answering slam from the driver's side shook the rearview mirror. He stretched out in the backseat.
It was a replacement for the now broken and dilapidated jeep--an old Chevrolet Stiver--gray all around: the outside, a chipped slate; the inside, half-dried modeling clay. He knew, because he remembered that he'd had to use some back in fourth grade in art class. He remembered the color of it, the slick feel, the crackling fault-lines as it broke in the kiln. He'd clumsily sculpted an airplane.
The trunk was half ajar, as if the exhaust pipe wasn't enough to let all the dirty chalk-like smoke out from the metal belly underneath. Lance had tied it down with rope, but it still gaped open and clanked up and down on the highway, sympathizing with the dusty wheels that carried it. The rest of the old rusted car wasn't much better; the passenger seat window had a slice of glass missing--they'd had to patch it with some duct tape--and the radio was missing the knob labeled 'treble.' All the seats sagged, the emergency brake was lock-jawed, overconfident in ennui, and the backseat was stained fruit-punch red from a dribbling box of Hi-C that someone had left in there for too many months, reminding themselves to take it out whenever they piled in and conveniently forgetting once they got out. There was a tear in the ceiling, scotch-taped with some cardboard band-aid. The floor leaked in the spring. It was the bane of Scott's life. It was Lance's second love.
A rumble started, the floorboard trembling violently, then settling for an ever-constant quivering as the Stiver chugged at the half-full gas tank. Scott moved his head to avoid the dip and droop of the seat, one of the seatbelt buckles digging into his temple. He closed his eyes, half-dozing. The backseat smelled like soggy tennis shoes and Pepsi.
"Where d'you wanna go now?"
The car lurched, swerved a little, and the end bumped up then down from the soft hiss and gurgle of gravel of the gas station space onto the rougher pavement of a busy intersection. Scott winced slightly at the subdued roar of wind rushing past the duct tape on the passenger seat window. Up front, Lance was channel surfing on the radio. The tuner squeaked when he turned it.
"I don't know," his voice was slurred from sleepiness. He couldn't seem to keep his chin up from his chest. "Anywhere."
"How about Vermont," Lance ribbed, "you wanna get hitched?"
"Shut up," Scott turned his back to him and tried to ignore the jostling. God, he was tired. It was, what, Sunday? He reached to tug down his hoodie that was creeping up his stomach.
"It's not easy facin' up when your whole world is black," Lance half-sang half-mumbled under his breath, humming a little and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Scott sighed and rolled onto his back. He tilted his head and glanced out through the windshield. Red light.
"I could not foresee this thing happening to you." He seemed to have given up on finding a decent radio station.
"You skipped a line," Scott yawned, running a hand through his short hair.
"I don't listen t'them a lot," Lance scowled at the traffic light, distracted.
"Oh." Scott looked at the radio clock, digital and eclipse blue--neon. 11:27. "It's the Rolling Stones, isn't it?"
"Yep. What, you know the song but you don't know who the hell wrote it?" Lance smirked up into the rearview mirror, and Scott offered a sleepy grin of explanation,
"Well, everyone knows that song."
His answer was a one-shouldered shrug as Lance pressed down on the gas at the flicker of green ahead, his left hand clutched loosely around the wheel and the other working the stick shift. Scott leaned his head against the headrest of the passenger seat, curling one arm around it. He carefully tried to rub the drowsiness from his eyes, sighing at the weight in his limbs. In the driver's seat, Lance was still singing, a little off-key, a few words missing here and there;
"I haveta turn my head until my darkness g--oes..." He got offbeat and settled for da-dee-dum-ing it quietly to himself.
Behind him, Scott sighed again, sounding very disappointed in himself.
"We shouldn't've stayed up so late," he said.
"Hey, I'm fine," Lance skidded to a stop sign, paused for a second, then squealed by it, the car lurching with the motion, "and I'm the one drivin', so shut up, you wuss."
"Badly, might I add," Scott murmured groggily. He arched an eyebrow, "You just turned without a signal."
"You're anal," Lance said good-naturedly.
"Shut up," Scott said, and scooted over so that he could drape an arm around the driver's seat. He uncurled his fingers, pressing his hand palm down on Lance's chest. The other automatically caught it with his own, though his eyes didn't leave the road. Scott glanced at the now unmanaged stick shift with half-shut eyes, then leaned forward a little and nudged Lance's neck with his nose.
"I'm hungry."
"You're real demanding when you're half-assed awake, Summers."
"Asshole."
"You woman."
"What?!" Scott frowned and lazily slugged Lance in the shoulder with his other hand.
Peering out the window, Scott watched as a nightclub blurred by, plastic-looking and dull in the glaring sunlight. He saw a few men in khaki-looking jumpsuits inside with T-shaped brooms sweeping up bottles and cellophane wrap and straws that looked like needles. His head pressed against the cut-short faux velvet of the headrest, he closed his eyes and yawned again.
They stopped at a McDonald's three-fourths of the way down the block from the dead and lagging club. His eyes felt sore, like he'd never been asleep at all. He never was one to stay up that late; when he did, it always felt like someone had sandpainted on his eyes the day after.
"What d'ya want?" Lance leaned on the counter between two cash registers. He kicked the bright-colored sign next to him that advertised cheaply manufactured toys that would break after five and a half hours.
"I don't know," Scott glanced around, listless, his eyes skimming fake-looking plants with too-shiny leaves, crumb-dotted tables, then, finally, landing on the glass sheen of the menus lined up like abstractly symbolic paintings on the wall.
"Value meal three, maybe?"
Lance fished around in his pocket, retrieved his wallet, "Yeah, okay."
"What are you getting?" Scott asked.
The other shrugged. "Probably number one."
"Oh."
In a comfortable haze, Scott idly wandered over to a slightly creased and wrinkled poster that said, 'Reach for the stars.' Someone had written, 'and fuck the bitch' in pencil under it and had retraced it a few times, darkening it to a metallic black. He frowned, half-turned--Lance was impatiently drumming his fingers on the counter, waiting for their food--before smudging out the words with two fingers.
"Service is so goddamned slow here," Lance complained of the fumbling high school kid who had handed them paper bags of food. They were speckled with grease. "That's one thing that ain't ever going to change."
"They'd get fired in New York," Scott said.
"They'd get killed in New York," Lance replied, then added, "I got you Coke--wadn't sure what else you'd like."
"Coke is fine." Usually he liked Slice--orange soda, like juice, only clearer and fizzy--but he was in one of his moods today. Sunday.
He'd ordered the fish sandwich with fries. It tasted like cardboard.
"Where to now?" he asked. It was still snowing outside and he felt strangely tired.
Lance took a bite out of his burger and shrugged. Scott absently noted that he'd been doing that a lot lately. Or maybe he'd always done that. He couldn't quite remember.
"I don't give a shit where we go," Lance said. "I gotta give the guys a call, though."
Scott was quiet.
The snow was getting thicker outside, flakes heavy like balled-up shredded paper. He wondered--idly--if the Stiver was starting to flood from the melting snow. He hoped not, but at that moment, he didn't particularly care. God, he was tired. It was too early--seven hours was too little sleep. Especially on a Sunday.
"You wanna go somewhere tonight?" Lance was crumpling the Post-it note yellow wrapper from his hamburger in a fist. Scott looked down at the sliver of stale bread that he hadn't been able to force himself to eat. He drank some Coke.
"I'm tired," he said.
"You slept for, what, eight hours last night?"
"Seven." He was feeling stubborn today.
"You've had less, you dumbass." Lance didn't care.
"Screw off, Lance," he picked up a fry and let it dangle between his thumb and forefinger, staining his skin with oil, then let it drop with distaste. It sank like sleep in the ketchup.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Lance asked, almost good-naturedly, leaning his elbows on the table.
"Nothing," Scott scowled out the window. "I'm fine--"
"Hey, don't bullshit me, okay?" Lance interrupted matter-of-factly; "I said I'd come with you even though you sure as hell didn't tell me nothing. So, you gonna come clean with me or what, Summers?"
Scott shifted uncomfortably. He heard someone yell in the back about onion rings and happy meals. On the other side of the room, a little girl loudly wheedled her mother about the Rugrats toys in her arched paper box.
"You want me to ask pretty or somethin'?" Lance said after a minute. He was smirking.
"Oh, shut up," Scott mumbled.
"Hey," Lance said, repeating himself, "don't bullshit me, okay?"
They sat for a while, and Lance kicked his feet up onto the table, singing off-key, "With some kinda love, there's some kinda hate..."
It didn't look like he had a care in the world. Across the table from him, Scott sighed like he'd been doing a lot lately and tried to finish his fries. Finally, he just gave up and got up, cleared his tray off into a trashcan, and sat back down, looking at Lance.
"Ready to go?" Lance didn't move.
"Lance, come on," Scott fidgeted.
"I thought you were tired."
"Lance."
"Scott," Lance mimicked, then said all the more seriously: "Don't bullshit me."
"Shut up." Scott was too tired to snap back. He leaned his forehead carefully on his arms and barely breathed. His glasses' rims pressed into his cheeks.
He heard a chair screech and stutter against the floor, then the sound of the trashcan lid flipping inward and the loud careless clatter of what was probably an ugly dirt-brown tray clanking against other ugly dirt-brown trays.
"C'mon," Lance's voice was quiet now, and Scott felt him grab his collar and tug him backward so that his head lifted like something useless, like magic; like waking. God, he was tired.
The room blurred in front of him, and he stood up without knowing where his feet were or where his knees were or where anything was. They stumbled to the old Stiver, and he rolled into the backseat without bothering to shut the car door behind him. He heard it slam, and felt the handle nudge the soles of his sneakers. He was too big for the backseat. He bent his knees and shoved his feet under the passenger seat. Up front, Lance keyed the ignition and turned the radio up. The bass pounded under Scott's ears and he felt muddy snow-water soak his socks.
"I hate this car," he muttered and rubbed at his temples. Lance laughed.
"What can I do y'for?" Lance said, punching the radio on and turning the tuner.
"I don't care," Scott yawned, pillowed his head on his elbow, stared at the ceiling.
"Fuck, I wish we had a fuckin' CD player," Lance sounded irritated.
"What, in this?" He smiled a little. Lance was cute when he was annoyed, but Scott was too tired to turn his head to try to sneak a look. "You don't even have treads on the tires."
"Well, beggars can't be choosers," Lance said, "so shut the fuck up."
"I said that we could take my car," Scott mumbled lazily, closing his eyes. He was comfortable, and if he tried really hard, he could almost ignore the squishing sound his shoes made against the floor.
"And I said that your car ain't got a fuckin' roof." Lance turned off the radio in disgust. "Good for nothin', I'm tellin' you."
"Jean listens to the radio all the time," Scott nestled further against the thick fabric of his sleeve, trying to adjust to the bump-and-push of the car moving on uneven pavement. "she listens to the news, though."
"Even that's stupid," Lance pitched his voice higher, mocking imaginary radio newscasters, "'Today, we bring you the tragic death of our town square's oldest and most cherished building!'"
He tried to make a sound that was meant to remind of a bulldozer and succeeded.
"'Let's hear what people have to say about this!'"
Scott chuckled and observed, "I think you have NPR and Fox News mixed up, Lance."
"Fox News," Lance said, "is the most meaningless piece of shit I've ever seen in my entire life."
"And you've seen lots of meaningless pieces of shit?" Scott hazarded with a smile.
"What do y'think?"
"You are a meaningless piece of shit," Scott tried, and Lance said helpfully,
"Our house is a meaningless piece of shit."
"Is everything a meaningless piece of shit?"
"Well, maybe not everything is a piece of shit," Lance replied, "but everything sure as hell is meaningless."
Scott couldn't tell if he was joking. He half-sat, and kicked the driver's seat, leaving a grimy shoe-shaped splotch of wetness.
"Bitch," Lance said.
"Your car's a meaningless piece of shit," he smiled and leaned back into the slumpy backseat.
"Take that back!" Lance sounded appropriately horrified. Scott laughed.
He folded his hands, his elbows resting lightly on his knees as he bent forward. The pavement rushed at them in the bottom half of the windshield with the sky bright pale behind orange traffic cones. They reached a traffic light, and Lance sank back in his seat, absently jiggling his right knee up and down.
"Lance," Scott said.
"Huh?" Lance didn't bother turning around.
"Lance," Scott said, softer this time.
"What, Summ--"
"Are there any hotels around here?"
Lance half-turned, looking at Scott over his shoulder.
"Why?"
"I don't wanna go anywhere." He was having problems talking, his chin resting on the top of the driver's seat's shoulder. He glanced at the traffic light.
"I told you," Lance sounded annoyed, "you can't possibly need more sleep--"
"I don't want to sleep," he mumbled.
Lance turned a little more and looked at him. Scott closed his eyes.
The car pitched forward and the wind hissed by the windows like sand. God, he was tired--he really was. He felt a little lightheaded, and he guessed it was because of those seven hours of sleep--because it was Sunday. He opened his eyes and stared out at the sky, and saw it as black when they passed under a tunnel, a brief flicker of cement darkness. He sighed.
It was a Motel Six, and when they got there, there were beds with no springs and someone had left an old copy of a JC Penny catalogue where the phonebook was supposed to be and some gum wrappers all along the windowsill. Lance looked at him like he was crazy, and just shook his head.
"Is your professor really a millionaire or is he just pretendin' to be one?"
Scott just closed the front door and backed Lance up until they were on a bed, sprawled like summer in a daze of fight-and-tug kissing. There was a draft, and it spilled onto his back with chills when Lance finally yanked off his shirt. There was silence and the sound of breathing and a police siren somewhere across the street. Scott made a small noise and nosed the waistband of Lance's jeans, his forehead pressed to the heated flesh of the other's stomach. Then:
"Scott, knock it off." Lance sounded strained.
"What?" Scott paused and gave him an incredulous look.
Lance rolled his eyes, "I know--I've never--"
Scott kissed him, his arms wrapped around the other's neck. His shoulders were uncomfortably hunched--the room felt small. The headboard creaked as it bumped against the wall at the motion.
"Summers," Lance said when they stopped, "What the fuck is going on?"
"Look, can we just do this?" Scott looked down, splayed his fingers on Lance's chest.
"I wish," Lance retorted, "but I don't have a rubber and you ain't about to pull one outta your ass, right?"(0)
"Lance," Scott said.
"Don't 'Lance' me," Lance muttered, rolling out from under him. "I swear you're turnin' into a girl or somethin'."
"Fuck off," Scott said.
Lance turned, his shirt half on, and grinned crookedly.
"Now put some emphasis in it, Summers."
Scott stood and spooned up behind him, nuzzling his neck.
"Lance, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"With me?" Lance glared at him. "What the hell's wrong with you?"
"I--"
"Look, whatever. If you don't wanna tell me now, I'm just gonna just go and use the payphone. I told 'tro that I'd at least call 'em and let 'em know I ain't dead or nothin'."
He paused, almost out the door, asking, "You're gonna tell me when I get back, right?"
Scott was quiet.
Lance left, sneering, "Fine."
The room had floral-print wallpaper--brown-yellow vomit-colored carpeting and a closet without a door. Scott sat on the bed for a little before standing up, putting on his shirt, and clicking the door to the hotel room shut behind him. The keycard bit through denim and cloth into skin as he walked, sharp and rectangular.
It had stopped snowing as heavily and was now flurrying lightly, blanketing the ground with a smattering of ice glitter and brief flashes of snow. He kicked at a clump of melting pinkish-white, and glanced around. Across the street, he saw Lance huddled at a payphone. He had his head bent and one arm up, hand gripping at the top of the metal frame of the phone. It was one of the ones without the glass boxes--probably to discourage people from calling from right beside the road. Or maybe the city was just cheap. Scott couldn't help but grin a little. All of a sudden, he wanted to run and tell everything to Lance. But when he looked up and saw the traffic light turn green, he somehow knew it would be useless to wait for the steady stream of cars to lag.
The woman at the reception desk in the lobby ignored him when he came in. There were vending machines with the iron grating down. He squinted past the bars of metal, fished for a few quarters in his wallet, and ended up feeding the machine nickels at a time. Selecting a Milky Way, he sat down in an armchair; stared at the glossy stack of magazines next to him. There was an edition of Sports Illustrated. He didn't feel like eating anything anymore.
He flipped the magazine over and picked up a copy of Times from under it. Outside, he heard a diesel truck hiss then move by in a rumble. A boy with a red cap on came in(1), said something to the receptionist, and left quickly. The vending machines hummed, self-contained.
"There you are."
Scott looked up. Lance reached out and batted the magazine close, looking at the cover.
"You're boring, Summers," he said, "c'mon, let's go get somethin' to eat."
Scott turned to stare outside. It was dark.
"Wait, wha--"
"It's almost six," Lance gave him a funny look. "Are you comin' or not?"
"I'm coming," Scott said. "I must've dozed off or something. I thought it was still early."
"Dumbass," Lance was walking ahead, "you fell asleep in there?"
Scott searched his pockets. "I still have everything."
Someone had taken his Milky Way, but he hadn't planned on eating it anyway. He didn't know why he bought it to begin with. He hadn't been hungry at all.
"Are you pissed?" Scott asked when they got in the car. He hesitated before getting in the passenger seat.
Lance didn't reply and just pulled out of the parking slot, nearly rearending another car. The wind sounded like a kettle.
"Nah," he said then, almost like an afterthought to the silence.
"Not really. You owe me some action, though," He grinned at Scott, and Scott smiled.
"Sorry," he said.
"Shut up 'bout it," Lance replied easily. "How you doin' now? Not still fucked up, yeah?"
"I'm okay," Scott said. "I'm not tired anymore."
Lance snorted. "Tired. What the fuck was that, anyway?"
Scott shrugged and leaned back a little in the seat. After a few minutes of driving, streaks of neon and splotches of brightness passing on both sides, Lance started softly singing off-key,
"Let's roll it down the gate, crash right through and infiltrate. Yeah, yeah, yeah--we don't like much; your music blows, your style sucks..."
Scott turned to him as he trailed off.
"How's the rest of it go?" he asked.
"Hell if I know," Lance grinned. "They only have thirty-some seconds in the store."
"Yeah," Scott said, and they were comfortably quiet again. He could see Lance and "the guys" hanging out in a music store, listening to CD samples all day. He could see Todd lifting one or two, then griping about how they couldn't lift or afford the other fifty he wanted. He could see a saleslady stalking them with a cardboard-paper roll in one hand and a walky-talky in the other, ready to call security on a couple of no-good hoodlums.
"Hey," he said all of a sudden. Lance glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "How is everyone?"
"They're okay," Lance said. After a moment: "Your prof wanted to say some shit, too."
"Oh, yeah?" Scott looked down at the floor, picking out the off-white brightness of his shoes against the grimy floormat.
"Yeah. They're alright over there, too."
"Well, that's good." Scott shifted uncomfortably.
Lance didn't say anything, flicked on a turn signal--the right one--and backed into a parking space in front of a Wendy's, his headlights lined up with everyone else's bumpers. He sat back in the driver's seat and looked at Scott. Scott looked up at the clouds through the windshield, a paler shade and soft around the edges against the dark of night.
"Red says she misses you," Lance said grudgingly after a minute.
"Oh." He smiled a little. Lance sounded jealous.
"Yeah. Well, let's go."
Scott didn't move.
"Summers?" Lance opened the backdoor, sat down beside him in a rush of motion and cold air--turned and looked at him expectantly.
Scott was quiet. Someone walked by, talking and laughing, and got into their car, started it, pulled away--vanished.
"He's dead," he said after a moment.
"Who?" Lance was still looking at him.
"Alex."
Lance looked away. Headlights glowed in the rearview mirror, casting too much brightness into the backseat.
"How?"
"Oh," Scott turned to look out the window, "it's kind of stupid, actually. It's his own fault, you know."
Lance didn't say anything, then asked, "Is that what you think?"
"No."
"Did he off himself?"
Scott thought about it. He put his hand up on the ice-frosted window; watched his body heat smear away the paleness.
"I guess, in a way."
He looked back at Lance, who was nodding,
"Drugs?"
"Yeah." Scott was quiet for a little. "It wasn't to prove a point or anything. He was just being stupid."
Lance leaned back in the seat, propped his feet up diagonally from him so that they were on the passenger seat's armrest.
"I mean, it wasn't like he'd used it any other time," Scott said. "It wasn't deliberate. He didn't mean to die."
"They never do, do they?" Lance said. "Hey, you don't blame this shit on yourself, d'you?"
"No." Scott said. Then, "Yeah. I guess."
They didn't say anything for a while after that. A few minutes passed, and Lance shifted, lifted his legs, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"So, this is why you wanted to get outta Bayville?"
Scott put his head against the window, feeling the chill seep into his skin.
"I guess so. I don't know why I thought it'd help."
"It's not gonna."
"I know."
"Hey," Lance reached over, punched him in the shoulder, "are you hungry or not?"
Suddenly, Scott felt irrationally angry.
"Is that all you have to say?"
Lance just looked at him. "Do y'want me to figure out the meaning of life or somethin'?"
"Fuck you," Scott said, and turned to stare out the window again. He heard Lance sigh impatiently, and felt the car rattle a little as the door opened and slammed close. A second or two later, Lance appeared on his side of the car. He jerked the door open, grabbed Scott by the shoulder, hauled him out, and banged the door shut.
"What the hell are you doing?" Scott demanded, shaking Lance's hand off.
"We're goin' for a walk," Lance said.
"Great time to try to be romantic," Scott snapped, "I don't want to go for a walk."
"I don't give a shit," Lance retorted, "We're gonna go for a walk, and you're gonna tell me why you're stupid enough to blame everything on yourself, and then I'm going to kick your ass for having such a fuckin' low self-esteem!"
"Oh, thanks," he replied sarcastically, "I know that the first thing that comes to mind after a funeral is, 'Hey! Let's go get our asses kicked!' That's always a real pick-me-up, you know?"
Lance shoved him against the car, and Scott pulled back an arm, fingers curled so tightly into a fist that his nails bit into his palm. Then Lance said,
"Hey. Do you wanna go or not?"
"Fuck you!" he repeated. The other scoffed, let go of his shirt with a push-and-pull motion, turned and walked away. Scott watched him go for a few moments, then sighed and leaned down to check the door handles. Locked. He glanced up, then jogged, catching up to Lance as he turned onto a stretch of sidewalk.
They walked, neither saying anything until a good ten minutes had passed. Then, Lance started, his voice low,
"Look, it ain't gonna get easier. You just go by the minutes and deal with 'em that way, y'know?"
"No, not really."
"Aren't your parents dead?"
Scott scuffed at the pavement with his shoes, ducking his head against a hiss of wind.
"That's different."
"Why?"
He faltered. "That was a long time ago. That wa--"
"It's not like you didn't give a shit about 'em, right?" Lance said. "What, d'you think that you owe your brother somethin'? Just 'cause they're dead?"
Scott was quiet. God, he was tired--he didn't even know where he was walking, or if he was walking at all. There was silence again.
"You can't take this shit personally," Lance said at last. "He wasn't thinkin' 'bout you when he was getting' high. I bet he wasn't, y'know? There's just no way. There's no way that this was your fault."
"I didn't even look for him!" Scott blurted out. Inside the front pocket of his hoodie, his hands were shaking. He clasped them together, but it didn't help. He could feel Lance looking at him, and he could practically see the incredulity of the other boy's expression in front of him, even though he could barely even make out the outline of the ground in the dark.
"What the hell do you mean?"
"When we were separated," he tried to squeeze all the sound out of himself as quickly as possible before he ran out of air. He felt like he was going to suffocate. "I didn't even bother thinking that he might've been alive. I didn't--I mean, I hoped, but I never really believed it--I never did, you know? I didn't."
He could hear his footsteps scraping across the cement, the sound of the denim of his jeans rustling as his legs moved jerkily. He tried to calm down--to stop shaking.
"Why does it matter?"
"What do you mean?" He felt like he was screaming when he asked it--he felt like he wanted to kill someone. Lance had stopped walking and was looking at him, eyes dark.
"What do you mean why does it matter? Don't you understand!? I didn't look for him. I wasn't there!"
All there was between them when his words faded from their shout was silence.
"So," Lance said slowly, "just because he didn't have a big brother, he's a junkie?"
Scott looked at him.
"That's what you just said," Lance was looking back. "You just said that just because you didn't look for him, he started hittin' a bong."
"That's not the point," Scott said quietly.
"Then what's the point?"
"I--" Scott cut off, looked at the ground, a tree-shaped shadow, the sky with clouds of pale, Lance and his eyes and his lips set in a thin line. "The point is that--that I..."
"Should've known," Lance finished for him before he could, and all he could do then was nod. There was silence--the sound of bass and hip-hop reverberations down the street--the sigh of faint laughter in the distance. Then, Lance said conclusively,
"That's bullshit."
Scott turned to him and stared. He couldn't think of anything to say and all he found when he tried to read the slouch of Lance's posture and his arms crossed across his chest, all he found was certainty and nothing more.
"That's bullshit," Lance repeated with certainty, "I'm tellin' you, Summers--you're seriously fucked up."
When Scott didn't answer, he continued, almost laughing, "What're you runnin' from? You're the only one who's blaming yourself--even your X-geeks got 'nough sense not to lay it on you--"
"Shut up, Lance," Scott cut in viciously, "Just shut up, would you?"
"Or what?" Lance said, "Are you gonna run away?"
"Fuck you!" Scott yelled and flailed in the air for cloth and flesh--connecting and throwing a desperate punch. He couldn't breathe all of a sudden, and he felt Lance's hands fisting the front of shirt. He leaned his head back, the uneven ragged bark of a tree snagging at his hair like velcro.
"Listen, Summers," Lance said, and his voice was low, "You ain't goin' up and you ain't goin' down, are you? 'cause I don't see you offin' yourself--you ain't that stupid. So, the way I figure is that all that's left to go is forward or backwards. Which way is it gonna be?"
The hands smoothed to gentle, almost violent in abruptness, and he felt Lance's lips on his, hot breath then misting heat in his ear and on the curve of his neck.
"What's it gonna be, Scott?"
Scott couldn't help but lean into the warmth, and he found himself clinging to the other, not desperately or even consciously--only simply; barely even knowing how to let go.
"I don't know," he said after a moment, feeling empty and sort of dazed. Lance was kissing the side of his neck and he let him. He felt a little hungry and a little more than tired.
"I don't know."
Lance stopped and just held him. Then, quietly:
"I'm freezin' my ass off."
"Me, too." Scott leaned his forehead into Lance's shoulder and didn't move for what seemed to be the longest time.
"Let's go," Lance said very slowly and very softly. It had started snowing again.
Scott was quiet only to say weakly seconds later, "Okay."
They parted, walked a few feet from each other, and reached the parking lot without incident, the moon heavy and full in the sky above them. Scott went to slide into the backseat again, hesitated, then click-pull-creaked the passenger door open; climbed in.
"So you're not hungry?" Lance asked as he got in his side.
"No, not really," Scott fidgeted listlessly, then reached over and buckled his seatbelt, fumbling with it as it jammed at first.
"Mind if we stop by a drive-through?"
He shook his head and glanced at Lance, who was watching the traffic streaming from the left.
"No, that's fine."
God, he was tired. Was it still Sunday? It didn't feel like a Sunday. The old Stiver whined as Lance pulled up to a stop, and the car rocked back a little at the pause. Scott heard him ordering something, but just leaned his head against the window and sighed.
"D'you want anything?" Lance was looking at him--he could feel it.
"No."
"You sure?"
"Mm." He was beginning to drift a little. If he opened his eyes, though, he knew that it'd all just disappear. If he spoke, maybe he'd start crying. He just sighed.
The car coasted to the next window and lulled him with the static noise of engine rumble. Softly, through the cellophane of sleep that was slowly crinkling his consciousness to darkness, he heard Lance say quietly,
"It's gonna be okay. You know that, right?"
He couldn't answer.
It was early morning when he woke under the thin, plastic-feeling blanket at the motel. 5:53, read the cheap digital clock with sly cherry red numbers. Beside him, Lance was turned on his side, arm thrown over his face. He was snoring softly.
Scott stumbled out of bed, grimacing as he realized Lance had left their shoes by the door. Usually he liked keeping his shoes by his bed for the sake of cleanliness. Lance didn't really care either way.
He clumsily plucked a new change of clothes from his duffel bag, tossed haphazardly the afternoon before beside a TV with suspicious brown stains. He washed up in a haze and was only tentatively awake after a shower and brushing his teeth. He put on his shoes upon exiting the bathroom and sat down on his side of the bed.
6:17.
Lance had still not woken, his face now buried in the folds of a crisp, pale pillow. Scott watched him and wondered when he'd gotten to sleep. Lance was a chronic insomniac from illness of the nerve ends of dimly lit alleys and the synapses of gutter grates stained with blood. Sometimes he only slept two or three hours. Sometimes he just didn't sleep at all.
Scott leaned over and brushed back the bangs from Lance's face with hesitant fingertips. He looked so very gentle when he slept. He looked so very determined--maybe determined to be happy, or to be gentle, or simply to be.
He seemed so much more understanding than earlier--just lying there, eyes closed. He seemed so complacent, to just breathe and not mind a word. He seemed almost like he was dead.
"Lance," Scott whispered, then, "Lance, wake up."
Lance grunted and rolled fully onto his stomach. He didn't move.
"Lance," Scott was starting to get nervous, "Lance, wake the hell up, would you?"
No response.
"Lance, wake up!" Frustrated, he slid back from Lance, ready to start yelling. He was shaking. Lance woke up before he could completely start hyperventilating, though, and peered blearily at him.
"Scott? What the hell's wrong?"
Scott stared at him, worked his mouth soundlessly, and thought about beaches with sand and sunflowers and "Sure, I'm fine"s.
"Nothing. I was just trying to wake you up."
Scott looked down at his fingers; clenched them together.
"You wouldn't wake up."
Lance half-sat, yawned, ran a hand through his hair and glanced around without interest. Scott looked at him and thought of sex.
"Do you want to take a shower?" Scott asked. Lance noticed his damp hair and the towel around his neck and the light that was still on in the bathroom, humming with the fan.
"Sure," Lance said quietly.
Scott smiled, though it felt strange and stretched, and reached for Lance, who pulled him safely into his arms.
"Spree?" Lance offered him the brightly colored roll of tinfoil and sugar without taking his eyes off the road.
"Thanks," Scott popped one of the tart candies into his mouth, pinching the inside of his cheeks together. It was sour and made him suck on his tongue. Cherry.
"Are you feeling better today?" Lance asked almost flippantly.
Scott looked at him and marveled. At what exactly, he wasn't sure.
"I guess so."
"You're not fucking tired, are you?" Lance's voice sounded like spite. No--not spite. It was harsh, but Scott wasn't affronted. He wasn't sure why, but he wasn't.
"No, I'm not."
They sat in silence for three traffic lights, then Lance said casually, "You fuckin' passed out on me last night, y'know."
Scott smiled as he recognized what he had secretly termed well hidden "fuckin' worry." It usually involved him yelling at Todd or Pietro--'Where the fuck were you?' or 'What the fuck was that?' or 'Are you fuckin' insane?'
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Scott said. "That's all you're about, isn't it?"
"Dipshit," Lance said, and rolled a stop sign. He flicked off the guy in the chic black Saturn who'd honked at him for cutting him off.
"Where're we going now?" Scott wished he could get his seatbelt on, but it was stuck.
"A movie," Lance said. "You're payin'."
"A movie," Scott frowned, "at 9 in the morning?"
"Yeah," Lance grinned at him, "to pass out to the sound of silver screen big-shots strokin' it up--feels just like home."
Scott scrunched up his nose. "Everything I never wanted to know about Maximoff."
"No," Lance said, "What you never wanted to know is what he did in that seat."
They'd reached the movie theater, and Scott darted out of the passenger seat. Lance was laughing.
"Fucker," he said.
"Fuckee," Scott corrected.
"Is that with a y or with e's?"
"Why?" Scott asked, turning up his collar and straightening his jacket, "Are you going to make it into a bumper sticker?"
"No, I was thinkin' a brand right on the ass."
"Ouch," Scott said.
"Still tender, Summers?" Lance leered.
"Not for me--for you," Scott grinned, "If we're getting corresponding brands, that is."
"Oh," Lance said. "Ouch."
Scott laughed.
There wasn't anyone in the theater save for a half-awake cashier three windows down and the guy selling popcorn--who wasn't really selling popcorn, anyway, because there was nobody to sell popcorn to, and because he was more interested in trying to pick up the girl selling caramel and jellybeans two counters over. A cardboard cutout of some cartoon character stood in a corner, eight feet tall, and the arcade was blinking, spinning with occasional flashes of color and light. The sound of traffic outside swelled like steam.
"What do you want to see?" Scott asked. He felt almost fidgety for a moment and leaned over and slid his hand in the back pocket of Lance's jeans. Peering at the list of movies, Lance unconsciously shifted closer to him at the gesture.
"Hell if I know. I don't really care."
"Oh," Scott said. He leaned his head on Lance's shoulder. The candy girl was looking at them nervously out of the corner of her eye. Prism colors of candy bar cardboard and rainbow bites glittered glossily in the glass display case under her. She drummed her fingers.
"I don't know. I don't think I want to see any of this stuff."
Lance looked down at him, held his gaze, then said quietly, almost gingerly,
"Scott."
"Lance," Scott said with the same smile as before.
"You should go back t'Bayville," Lance said.
His smile faded like a picture.
"Why?"
Lance gave him an incredulous look, "Are you kiddin'? 'Why?' Summers, what the hell're you doin' here? What're you tryin' to do?"
Scott drew away slowly, crossing his arms and tucking his hands at the sides of his waist.
"Scott," Lance started, and Scott interrupted quietly,
"It's Monday, isn't it?"
Lance looked at him as he continued, "It just keeps going. That's all, Lance."
He glanced over his shoulder at the empty parking lot outside of the glass-paned doors.
"Nothing stops. It's like--it's like we slow down a little and sometimes we catch a break, but that never lasts, does it, Lance?"
"Summers, what're you tryin' to say?" Lance asked slowly.
"Just what I'm saying," Scott said. "Nothing ever stops."
Leaning his arms on the counter before the unmanned cash register, Lance said just as slowly as before, "And d'you want it to stop?"
Laughter echoed further beyond the entrance of the theater. The boy selling buttered popcorn and Pepsi leaned his elbow on his knee as he bent over, his eyes trained on the girl's. She smiled, and her teeth glittered in the dim light. There weren't any windows back there. There weren't any doors, except for the swinging service gate that led into the storeroom. There was no one except the two of them with the linoleum under their feet and the carpeting elsewhere.
"I don't know," Scott said. His vision swam like darkness. The sunlight escaped him, as if red itself as a color were gauze. "Can it stop?"
Lance reached for his hand, and led him outside, pushing the door open with his shoulder. He sat down at a bench, waited for Scott to do the same, then leaned forward, his hands clasped. He didn't answer.
The sun stretched further than them and billowed around the few parked cars like ash. A white SUV swerved in with a slow sigh and stopped, glowing in the brightness. A girl and her boyfriend walked by them, giggling and bumping shoulders. Their hands were entwined. A few minivans parked close to the theater and children with their voices pitched to be heard skipped with buoyancy, their wrists held by loving parents, their fingers relaxing, then reaching for something more.
Traffic rang like the static of stereo surround-sound, and conversation seeped into the background like the dying grass. It seemed like it would snow for a little bit, but it only flurried for a half an hour or so. The horizon melted into the sky, a gradient pale. Newspapers rustled on the ground like discarded candy wrappers of the media, empty shells of stories printed on flimsy gray, the events boiled down to simply colored sugar, digested, and forgotten. There were no people lingering on the sidewalk, and the air bit sharply like a crest of saltwater foam in December. A car swept to a halt in front of them, let some girl out--she was talking on her cell and almost forgot to wave--then moved away at a crawl, as if the driver were looking over his shoulder at her.
Scott nearly jumped as Lance's head drooped onto his shoulder, heavy with sleep. He opened his mouth to wake him--but stopped at the deepness of breath--the flutter of eyelashes, perhaps by dreams of jazz or coffee or warehouses with rusty chains. He thought of a song that everybody knew and knows and would know but can't sing. He forgot the lyrics and didn't bother remembering the title.
It was starting to snow again. Scott tried to ignore how he was shaking; Lance seemed fine. It must have been some time in the afternoon now--he wasn't sure how late. He didn't want to pull back the sleeve of his coat to find the time on his wrist. It was too cold; it was too much effort. He looked down at Lance, thinking about the question Lance had never answered.
"I didn't think so," he said then, softly.
It grew darker, and the sky turned to smoke. It looked like rain, or maybe sleet. Lance woke up, his head jerking up a little sluggishly. He yawned.
"What time is it?" he asked. He stretched and threw an arm around Scott's waist.
"Oh," Scott was reluctant to look at his watch, "almost twelve."
"Fuck," Lance said, "It's been almost three fuckin' hours."
"Yeah," he agreed, "it has."
"D'you still wanna go see a movie?"
"No, that's okay." He didn't bother mentioning that it had been Lance's idea to begin with.
"Hungry?" Lance stood up, straightened his shirt, dusted off his jeans.
"A little."
"You wanna get somethin' to eat?"
"Maybe later."
Lance stared at him hard. "Then what the hell do you wanna do now?"
He was quiet.
"Go home, I guess," he said.
Lance didn't say anything at first. Then, softly: "C'mon."
He cuffed Scott on the shoulder. "Let's go."
It had started to snow now, and Scott couldn't help but think of fast food and jellybeans, dim lights and posters defaced by cynicism. He wanted to ask Lance what he thought of it all--what he thought of 'reaching for the stars' and abrasive graphite darkness whispering 'fuck the bitch' from the stadium right below--very frankly, very bitterly, almost like sin. He had a feeling that Lance would understand it more than he did--he had a feeling that Lance might be able to explain it to him--explain the sand in his eyes and the slow drag of his thoughts (denim in the tide)--but when he looked to ask, Lance was walking ahead of him, already at the car.
"Another day or so and we'll be at Bayville."
Lance grinned at him over the top of the car;
"Makes you wish you'd never come back, yeah?"
"Do you want me to drive for a little?" Scott asked.
"Nah," Lance ran a hand through his hair and opened the driver's side door. "Don't worry 'bout it."
It was Thursday, and they'd just stopped for some gas at a BP. Lance was going insane; the Stiver seemed to be really cranky--
"C'mon, baby, why won't you work?"
Lance was pushing the gas pedal, trying to coax the weak, wheezing rumble of the engine to a full, rattling purr. The car refused to cooperate.
"Fuck it," Lance said.
"We should pop the hood before it starts smoking," Scott suggested.
"Fuck it," Lance repeated and got out of the car. Scott smiled and kicked his door ajar slightly as Lance continued, "I ain't got any tools or shit in the trunk, either."
"I told you this was a piece of junk."
"Oh, shut the hell up," Lance grumbled and Scott laughed.
"At least you didn't name it," he noted. "If you'd named it something, I would've gotten really worried then."
"Hey," Lance said, "don't talk about Stacy like that."
"Stacy," Scott echoed and gawked.
Lance grinned.
"Just fuckin' with you. What do you think I am? A freak?"
"Yeah, you could say that," Scott shoved him toward the gas station's convenience store with a laugh.
The sky was the color of oyster shells--all dense with a sheen and sip of creaminess. He turned on the radio and propped one foot up on the dashboard. There wasn't much on that he liked--he twisted, tuned, turned it back off. Paused at the sound of steel drums that had been cut off with a push. Turned back on the radio--listening to music from Tahiti with stark white outside.
'You don't like it? Why, dude? Are you insane?!'
'I don't know. It sounds like xylophones.'
'Oh, that's what everyone says. Listen, wouldja, Scott? Just listen to it.'
Salt in his mouth, in his eyes--from them?--the spray of wind, a breath of snow. He remembered the lyrics to that song he'd been thinking of earlier, but had forgotten again just as quickly. The sound of steel drums echoed like organs, and he remember being told about oil--black with a film of rainbow--and rebellion and fascination with some intriguing foreign taste. He remembered with a sigh the smile and laugh and "Hey, c'mon"s--he remembered being tossed in the ocean and--strangely--not giving a damn. He remembered not so clearly at all.
"Scott?"
He heard Lance's voice, but all he could do was turn off the radio and lean back into his seat. Lance vanished from his side for a moment and reappeared next to him behind the wheel.
"Let's try this again," Lance said and Scott smiled weakly, closing his door with shaky fingers.
The car sputtered and whined, sounding like some kind of bomb, ticking away the seconds.
"Oh, fuck it." Lance punched the steering wheel and the horn squawked indignantly.
"Still not working?" Scott asked.
"Fuck it!" Lance shifted the car into park, then tried drive again. The Stiver seemed to rouse itself, then hummed contentedly.
Lance grinned, not just a little smug.
"Well, it is now."
"Magic hands," Scott said.
"You know it," Lance leered.
"Shut up and drive," Scott smiled and looked into the side view mirror.
"You wanna stop somewhere and hang out for a little?" Lance asked after some time. His hand inched toward the radio knob, tapped it on, and he gave Scott a sidelong glance when the previous station came on.
"Carribean music?"
"Tahitian." Scott shifted uncomfortably.
"Needed t'warm up?" Lance smirked.
"Shut up," he said too quickly.
"Why're you listenin' to this?" Lance was frowning. What he knew Lance meant to say was, 'Why are you really...?' Period, period, period. Elipsis, question mark, eyebrow raise.
He was quiet. It was Thursday, but God, he was beginning to feel tired again.
"Oh, I don't know," he said, "I was just curious, I guess."
"Curious," Lance repeated vaguely, like he was distracted or something.
Scott was quiet, then continued all of a sudden on an uphill swerve,
"I don't even like it. It sounds like--like xylophones. Doesn't it?"
Lance didn't reply, and he answered his own question with conviction,
"Yeah, yeah--I think they do. I think so."
There was a traffic light ahead, conveniently flipping from red to green three seconds before they passed underby with a sigh.
"And organs--sometimes," Scott said. "They sound like organs sometimes. Especially when you listen to them in the winter. Don't you think? They echo a lot--they echo like--like hell when it's cold out."
"Scott," Lance started.
"No, no," he cut in, his words blurring together like steam, "I don't like it. I can't see how someone would--it's so happy but it sounds so empty. Like you're banging on something--some pots and--and pans or something. You know?"
"Scott, shut up," Lance said.
"Oh, you shut up," Scott said. "I'm not bothering you, am I?"
"Are you outta your fuckin' mind, Summers?" Lance's eyes were still on the road.
He was quiet, then said softly, "I guess I am."
Lance turned sharply to him for a second, something angry in his eyes--something furious and worried--worried, like he was going to ask, 'What the fuck is goin' on?'
"I don't know, Lance," he said, watching Lance's profile. He was clenching the wheel. Tight.
"I guess--he just--he listened to that stuff all the time. Alex, I mean. I mean Alex used to."
The name seemed foreign and pushed the blood from his face like sand from the sky of an hourglass. He felt tired and cold and then he just wanted to feel someone hold him.
"I never liked steel drums," he said, "They sound like xylophones."
"Hey, if you wanna talk, just say so," Lance said loudly. He wondered if Lance meant to ask that as a question.
"Sure," Scott said, "Sure, but I'm fine."
Lance pulled off of the road next to an old set of railroad tracks. It was night out and the local roads were slick with blackness. They made him feel uncomfortable--nervous--like he had to keep turning around and looking over his shoulder, and at any moment, he might see something there sitting on its haunches, ready to devour him with teeth as sharp as its claws. He wished he had a flashlight.
It was as dark as a suicide pact outside. There was nothing except the quiet hum of the car and the sound of the wind playing solitaire in the trees, the ruffle of leaf-cards trickling like a brook. It seemed like, at any given moment, he might just die and no one would know, and he wouldn't even know, and Lance wouldn't even know either--it was that kind of quiet; the quiet when there's no breathing except for the careful sigh of lying; the quiet of sleep right before a dream playing like a script in gold.
The moon was gloomy out, its lights filtered through so that the brightness shone through dim behind the clouds. He looked at it, and watched it veiled by the color of emptiness.
"What the fuck is goin' on?" Lance asked, and he nearly smiled.
"I knew you were going to say that," he said.
"Oh, yeah?" Lance turned around in the driver's seat so that his back was pushed up against the door. His legs were still stretched under the dashboard and wheel.
"Yeah." Scott looked down and tried to see the floor of the car. He couldn't tell if it was flooded or not.
"Summers," Lance said then. "Why'd you bring me?"
"What do you mean?" He looked a little harder. He could almost make out the gray-pale of his tennis shoes, a ghost made of modeling clay that might break if he looked too hard.
"You coulda brought Red, or Wagner." Lance rested his head against the window, and his hair smeared a pattern of clear against the smoke of condensation on the glass.
Scott was quiet. "No, I couldn't've."
"Why not?" Lance turned his head and looked at him. He just looked down into the darkness. The chill of snow crept along his ankles. It'd probably flooded.
"Oh, I don't know. I don't think they would've understood."
"What," Lance grinned, and it shone bitter-bright in the night. "they never got fucked over?"
He didn't say anything and Lance added, "That's a lit'le hard to believe."
"Why?" he asked.
Lance snorted incredulously. "I'm sure Red had at least one Barbie dreamhouse broken in her lifetime."
He felt a surge of righteous indignation for Jean, who had had more misfortune than pink plastic shattered on hardwood floor and tea spilled on her favorite dress--who had had the misfortune of having to smile despite ash-colored television sets behind her eyelids and the stereo of acid sewage-stained corruption in her ears. Then it died back down, and all he could do was sigh.
"Jean's not like that. She's had a hard time, too."
"Whatever." Lance was still looking at him.
"Are we allowed to be here?" Scott asked.
"Why not?" Lance half-grinned again, and thumped a fist against the wheel. The horn sounded, guttural and sudden, like how a flash of green or orange or something neon might feel after being in the black for so long. "Arrest me for havin' car trouble, officer."
"What car trouble?" Scott smiled a little because he didn't know what else to do.
"I'm sure there's somethin' wrong with this thing that I could get arrested for."
"Yeah, that's a given." Scott looked back out the window and there was nothing but snow on dark.
"Scott," He felt Lance shove him a little in the shoulder. Scott turned and looked at him. "What the fuck is goin' on?"
"I--"
"Hey," Lance was scowling. He must have been. "Don't bullshit me, okay?"
He opened his mouth again, saying, "I--" but nothing else would come out. He wanted to scream. 'I' what? 'I hate myself'--'I should've been there'--'I should've looked'? It snowed faster outside, and the flakes were so thick they blotted out the brightness in the sky, and all there was outside was a shroud of blankness. It collected in a pool of white that clung desperately to the earth, unyielding and already asleep; unwilling to heed its cries; its need to belong to that greater thing that was life itself in the shadow of grass and around the roots of trees. And all that was left when the snow was too white to see through was:
"I knew."
For once, Lance didn't seem to have a straightforward answer for him. He waited, then turned to look at Lance, who wasn't even looking at him. It seemed as if he hadn't even heard.
"I knew," Scott repeated, a little louder. His hands were shaking, and he gripped the edge of the seat with one and curled his fingers around the door handle with the other.
"I heard you," Lance replied quietly.
"I knew, Lance," he said without needing to.
Lance remained silent.
"I tried to talk him out of it." He looked back outside. There was a bright light in the distance. The sound of a train approaching rippled in the night, out of breath, ghostly, ephemeral puffs of sound vanishing into the trees like rain in a pond.
"I really tried. He told me everything was okay, though--he said that everything was okay."
He paused, tried to take a calming breath, and couldn't.
"I ought to've told someone," Scott said. "Anyone."
"Who would've you told?" Lance asked. It was very flat, as if he already knew the answer.
"I don't know," he sighed. He wondered if he was boring Lance, and asked so, saying: "You didn't have to come with me. Are you tired?"
"Shut up," Lance said.
"I don't mean to whine or anything."
"Shut up," Lance repeated, and was quiet. Then, he asked slowly, "How long did you know?"
"I don't know." He opened the car door a little--it popped open, hollow like twilight--and swung his legs so they dangled outside.
"For a little bit. A month or two. I didn't know what to do. He never told me why." He paused. "Yeah, he did. He told me it was for fun."
"What was it?"
Scott didn't know.
"Probably crack or something." He laughed, but it was lost in the rumble of steam and metal outside; the rush of wind and second of sound as the train hissed by. It drummed out a rhythm, wheels against rails.
"Scott," Lance said.
"Shut up, Lance," he gasped, and leaned his head against the side of the door. The metal was cold. He wasn't crying.
Lance didn't say anything, then replied, half-smiling, "You shut up."
"Shut up," he sobbed. He wasn't crying, but God, he was tired. "Shut up. Why didn't I say anything? God. Why didn't I?"
That was all. 'God.' No 'God, why?' or 'Fuck God'--just 'God,' and that was all. Lance's hand found its way to his shoulder and he tried not to shiver. Outside, the train sang near a close.
Now: "God, I'm an idiot."
It was quiet with blank noise.
"Yeah, you are."
"Fuck off," Scott said and nearly laughed.
"Hey," Lance said. "If you say so."
"What're you talking about," he mumbled. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Fuck the world, right?" He heard and he got the feeling that Lance was smiling, saying, "Fuck me, fuck you--just fuck everyone."
Scott turned to look at him.
"I can't even remember what his favorite color is," he said, and it was almost a whisper.
"Just fuck the world," Lance continued, like he hadn't even heard him. "Life's a bitch."
"He liked steel drums, though. He was learning how to play."
"Life's a bitch, Summers, a fuckin', goddamned bitch," Lance's voice was getting louder--impatient.
"I never heard him play," he said, "I never heard--"
"Scott!"
He was thrown around, and Lance was suddenly there in the darkness, inches away from his face.
"What is it?" Scott mumbled weakly, not really caring what what was or what that was or what it was in the end.
Lance stared at him for a second, looking for all the world as if he were about to punch him or yell or something; fuckin' worrying about fuckin' worry. Then he kissed him. The train was clanking outside faster now, hurtling by in a daze of pinstriped moonlight and graffiti-tattooed night.
"Fuck it all," Lance rasped when they parted, "Fuck life. Fuck it, you understand, Summers?"
Scott stared at him, almost able to see dark eyes flecked with starlight reflecting off the gravel on the ground, and thought of wilting sunflowers; double-pointed, teardrop boards wrecked by salt and dust--he thought of ash over the sea and sand castles made clumsy by waves, and he wanted to scream or cry or laugh. He needed to feel the wind over him like grass under his feet after rain--barely there, but tenuously glossy with half-death, near-death, non-death.
He understood.
He understood, and it made him choke on the dryness of his throat; made his eyes burn a little at every blink. He shoved Lance a little, his fingers clutching at shoulders that felt like warmth.
"Shut up," he said, and Lance grinned at him. He looked at him, and looked back outside. The train had sighed to an end, silence ringing like wind chimes at the ocean.
"How long 'til we get back to Bayville?" he asked.
"I dunno. Pro'lly by midnight or somethin'."
"Oh." He pulled his legs back inside, looked down, and grimaced at the dirty water that the ragged denim of his jeans' fringe sopped up. "Are we taking the scenic route?"
Lance grinned, and shrugged Scott's hands off, and slipped his own up under Scott's shirt, "I think that'll take another--oh, three days, maybe." (2)
"Three days," Scott repeated. "That's pretty long. Guess we'll have to stop at a hotel or something, right?"
"Right," Lance said, and Scott smiled.
"I'll drive," he offered.
Lance eyed him suspiciously, as if he wasn't sure if he really was okay now, or as if he didn't want to turn the steering wheel over to anyone else.
"Just until the hotel," he said, and Lance nodded grudgingly,
"Okay, fine."
"God, Lance," Scott laughed, "I'm not going to break it or anything."
"You're a fucktard," Lance reminded him, and he punched him in the arm.
"A fucktard with no upper body strength," Lance was forced to add after the fact.
"Shut up," Scott said with a smile. When he slid into the driver's seat, he felt a pang of hollowness in his chest, as if a familiar thorn had been removed. It made him cringe--with guilt, or remorse, or whatever else, he wasn't sure. All he knew right then was the pain had dulled slightly. It didn't make things alright; it didn't even make things okay. But it made him see tears and the shore and family when he closed his eyes, not anger and the redness of his ceiling and emptiness.
It was because of that that he knew it would be alright--eventually so, conclusively so. It was because of that, and because of Lance's hand on his knee, and the sound of steel drums on the radio when he turned it on. And when he keyed the ignition and pulled onto the road, he thought of old Beatles songs with inferences of maybe drugs or inferences of maybe love, and knew for sure which it really was.
~fin~
(0) When Mor read this, she told me that her initial response to Lance saying, "And you ain't about to pull one outta your ass, right?" was Scott replying, "Are you sure you didn't leave one up there?"
Another reason why Mor is the best. (;
(1) A cameo by the shibbiest fucked-up kid since the Outsiders gang: Holden! Holden hails from The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger! Your English teachers will cram, or have crammed, this down your throats, and if you have an ounce of sense, you'll enjoy every minute. ...Okay, maybe you'll only enjoy it if you're a freak like me :D
This cameo happened because Nai is a freak and can't control her subconscious. I realized that there's one element that's kind of similar to something that happens in Catcher. Well, it was a first. But then it wasn't. Uh...Well, I just love Holden :D
(2) For those of you who do your homework, no, this number wasn't chosen randomly. (;
Oh! And for those of you who care, the songs Lance mumbles/sings are, in this order:
Paint It Black ~ The Rolling Stones
Some Kinda Hate ~ The Misfits
Chariots of Fire ~ Rocket from the Crypt, who I was going to see BUT THEN MY PARENTS CRAPPED OUT ON ME AND REFUSED TO DRIVE ME. ...Not that I'm bitter :D
I see Lance as more of a garage rock/grunge dude, so I was going to make him sing some Pavement or something, but then I was like, "No, Lance is not going to sing about porpoises and hand grenades." *coughs* Things you never wanted to know about the behind-the-scene action of Nai!fics. Anyways...this is a very long "afterword"-type thing O.o
I'll just leave off with, thank you to sugar.coated for being so shibby and patient (I still haven't replied to that e-mail O.o Bad Nai! -.-); thanks to Olhado for being just plain shibby and for also being patient, because I need to finish that Kurt fic sometime this century; UBERthanks to Lyo for her amazingly wonderfluous Kenomi and for being Sexier Than Sena; and a heartfelt HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Morwen O'-fucking-CONNER! :D:D:D
Oh, and please review? I'll be so happy and I'll love you forever! (;