Special Author's Note: This was written as a response to episode 35—inspired partially by Matt's incredible driving, Mark Danielewski, and his extremely talented sister "Poe" and her song "Hey Pretty."
Share the Road
The car handled like a dream. He knew it would—he had a knack for sensing that about a vehicle before buying it. It helped that any modification was lovingly hand-done, with late night joyrides down the empty streets or challenging a street racer or two thrown in for the fuck of it. He remembered a maneuver one of them had used on him, saw his opening in the traffic, and threw out the clutch. It would hate him the next day, but he'd say the necessary apologies and buy a new one. The whole carriage protested the speed and jerking swerves—fast, slow, fast-fast, slow gunning around turns and weaving like a madman between late night traffic. He drove until more wind and miles than he'd been prepared to expect reared up on him like the promise of freedom and he was almost foolish enough to believe it.
His mind was in total flashback. It was one of the rare slow days when they needed a supply run for chocolate and cigarettes and what passed for food. They'd been eating out a lot, eating money like it was candy. And having survived for years on what he could scavenge or steal, Matt couldn't get used to Mello's brand of extravagance. Candlelight dinners at five star restaurants, dressed like they'd just walked out of the loudest, wildest club in the city. Most of the time they had.
Mello passed the off-ramp that would have taken them to their collective hovel and drove until noon, when they'd hit real country, where the only traffic were produce trucks. He'd have the pedal to the floor knowing there was a turn, barely slow down and take it with a swing of the wheel. Matt's stomach would lurch, adrenaline would flood his brain and he'd laugh at the way Mello would grin and snap off a large chunk of chocolate when his survival instinct had Matt clutching the 'oh shit' bar.
When Matt had successfully complained that he was hungry, Mello jerked back on the parking break and ordered him to lie on top of him. On top of those smooth leather pants—which had probably cost more than his Wii when they were new. They were worn now, scuffed and shredded at the hem. Not that it mattered when all Mello wanted to do was get them off, discard the offending garments like another part of his thick, coarse emotional shell. Their lips trembled, shaped words into a language of passion and lust and unexpressed gratitude. The first time he'd found himself with Mello under him like that, Matt had been tired and panicked and afraid that his best friend had arrived on his doorstep coughing blood and almost missing an eye. Now, once the screams and panting had ceased to pound in Matt's ears, and Mello played lazily with his hair, asking for the sake of breaking the silence why he hasn't gotten it cut, all that mattered was the presence of the other—their dark language sleeping away in the back of their minds, ready to revive at a moments notice.
Matt needed that language now. He needed it like he needed a cigarette. So he lit one. An echoing chorus of cocking guns reached his ringing ears faintly above the keening whine of an over-taxed engine. Matt took a moment to lightly pat the dashboard and steel himself for getting out. He wished his goggles were darker, for lack of a blindfold. These assholes were his firing squad, after all and at the very least he didn't want to see all of those bright muzzle-flashes, sparking off like the lighter he always carried with him. He was still calm enough to calculate the time each bullet would take to reach him. He looked to the passenger's seat where Mello would have been if they done things his way, and for a second saw the grinning blond beckoning him to his lap again. Matt put two gloved fingers to a set of pale, ethereal lips and stepped out of the car.