Word Count ~ 5600
Notes: If I disappear suddenly it's because of the research I was doing for this chapter. I'm fairly certain I'm on about six different MI5 terrorist watch-lists at the moment.
INDIANA
"Not gussied up or cute, Lafayette is a sturdy town, persistent in its character."
Brendan had read that in The Smithsonian.
Steven had swiped it for him because he'd never had one before and Steven likes to give him things, likes to collect souvenirs of their chaotic, nomadic life, a stamp book, a local paper, a fine piece of jewellery. On one really weird occasion he'd stolen a ladle from an expensive restaurant kitchen. Brendan still has it, somewhere.
Patricia Henley had been right, though. Lafayette is a sturdy town. Makes Brendan want to use pressure and fire and chemicals to see just how sturdy.
They're not in any dire need of cash, not between Brendan's iron-clad poker face and Steven's quick and nimble fingers, but sometimes he just likes to do things for the hell of it, just because he can.
Brendan finds the place, quaint little red-brick building, ribbed vaulting and Gothic arching, pretty white doorframes and classic pointed windows. It's in a prime spot, close to the road but set back from the other buildings by a long path and green squares of neat grass and white rose bushes, whole perimeter of it just space. There's money in there but he's not in it for the money. The building is beautiful and he intends to give it some scars.
He develops a love for the ice-cream they make at this little parlour on Concord Road and he and Steven visit every afternoon, sit outside at little intricately, woven-iron tables, white brick store-front and red-striped awning over the front bay window. They try the different flavours, different toppings, cream and sauce and sprinkles and fruit, make a mission out of getting through all eighty before they skip town. Brendan closes his eyes and Steven feeds him cool cream from a dainty, long-handled spoon and he guesses which two or three Steven's mixed together. Sometimes, Steven kisses him instead, open and slick, taste of strawberry or mint on his tongue and Brendan tells him he didn't quite get it that time, gimmie some more.
Every day on their way back they cross the street, walk two blocks, turn the corner, walk two more. Every day they pass Brendan's little red building.
Brendan drives to the local gas station and fills up a canister with diesel. He buys several large, plastic water bottles, the kind he uses to fill up his car radiator, and gets Steven a bag of pear drops as an afterthought, loves the way they taste on him.
They find an out-of-the-way, dingy hobby-shop. Steven had wheedled the information out of a drunk, old geezer in a dive-bar up State Road. Brendan had slid home ball after ball across the pool table, played two guys for every penny they were worth, and Steven had drunk whiskey and smoked cigars with Ole' Jimmy Bridewell and talked about his grandkids, Ivy and Sarah and James. He'd carefully told Ole' Jimmy about Leah and Lucas, manipulated him, made himself open and relateable.
"Miss mine. An't seen 'em in a while."
"Happens, son. People change."
Jimmy had been there, he tells Steven. 1964 and all his friends had held their draft cards proud and marched off to kill the evil Viet Cong. Jimmy had a girl in the YSA and she'd convinced him to rally at Times Square with her. He'd stood up on the monument and burnt his draft card with twelve other men and the crowd had cheered for them like they were the God-damn Stones or something. He'd fought for his country with peace signs and slogans and when the retaliation came, petrol bombs and Molotov cocktails
The place Jimmy tells them about is close to the town center. It's supposed to be white concrete but it's had a half-arsed makeover recently, green paint rolled halfway up the front walls like someone started the job and forgot they'd need a ladder. Inside it's cool, expensive, top-notch air conditioning set off against the suffocation of dust and decay. Brendan's relieved; it's thirty-five degrees outside and you gotta keep those chemicals cool. It's the satisfaction of someone around here knowing what they're doing, the satisfaction he feels at competency.
They don't have a license to even breath the fucking air in this place so Brendan distracts the guy behind the counter, real anarchist type, shaved head and thick black-rimmed glasses, Mikhail Bakunin printed on his black t-shirt; no Che Guevara for this guy, he's no pop culture consumer. His name's Stuart and he talks to Brendan about high-end explosives and socialism and Brendan hopes he doesn't make a hobby out of combining the two; if Brendan's going to blow shit up he's doing it for shits and giggles not to forward the cause of humanity.
They're all fucking damned anyway.
Steven comes up close to his shoulder some minutes later, smile firmly in place, and Brendan considers him for a moment before dipping his head and brushing their lips together in a kiss. He slants his eyes over to Stuart, just curious, really, and Stuart nods and touches his fist to his chest like an offering of something. Brendan doesn't need his fucking approval, he really was just curious, but he likes Stuart and he doesn't like many people so they leave with nothing but a thanks for the chat, see ya around.
They pay for a cheap motel room even though they're staying at the Hampton Inn. It's a by the hour job, middle-aged clerk giving them a knowing look, almost obscene the way she touches her tongue to the corner of her lips, looks between them like she might be after an invitation. She calls Brendan sweety and touches his fingers when she hands the keys over and he thinks - shouldn't have done that, love, before Steven's right there, snatching the keys out of Brendan's palm quick as lightning and there's suddenly a gash across the clerks wrist, blood welling over against torn skin. She looks down at it in stone-cold shock and Steven says oops, proper clumsy, me with a sweet smile and she's giving him a half-laugh, kind of hiccuping choke like she's not sure that the fuck just happened.
Steven takes Brendan's arm tightly and drags him outside. They get the bags from the trunk and Steven unlocks the door and dumps everything on the bed before he whirls around in the center of the room.
Brendan drawls, "you sure you don't wanna invite our new friend in?" and it gets Steven moving across the floor like nothing could stop him.
Brendan meets him halfway, sees Steven bend his knees ever so slightly and he dips low when Steven pounces on him, graceful and lithe like a fucking cat, and Brendan gets his arm tight around his back, one hand hooking under Steven's thigh and Steven fucking climbs his body, pushes against his shoulders to get height in the circle of his arms and tangles his fingers into Brendan's hair painfully and kisses him, devours his mouth, hard and claiming and possessive.
He forgets all about why they even got this room when Steven rolls his hips, friction of rubbing denim against his hardening cock, and he pulls Steven's thigh up tighter around him, angles his body with the arm low around his waist until the pressure's perfect and they're just moving together, sloppy mesh of tongues and hips meeting to match.
Brendan sweats through the thin material of his t-shirt, feels Steven's back damp against his bare forearm. The humid air, tinged thick with the smell of sex already, and the anticipation of what they're about to do makes his head spin. He walks forward, throws Steven down onto the bed next to the bag of chemicals and leans over him, arms braced to either side of his shoulders.
"We got work to do, baby," he says in a low rumble and Steven laughs, delighted, and arches up to kiss him some more, soft and lazy.
Brendan finds the air-conditioning unit and flicks it to reluctant, sputtering life, goes to the window and shuts the thin curtains, seam to seam. He watches Steven sort through the containers and bottles and goes into the bathroom to grab towels. He puts on the old alarm clock radio and they strip down to bare chests to avoid burns and stains as well as the still-crawling heat.
Between then they get the chemicals and equipment set out on the wooden surface of the room's low, round table.
Steven's an ever-constant distraction, skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat, liquid gathering in the dip beneath his throat, and Brendan stops him on his way to the bathroom to empty out the water bottles to dip his head and lick away the moisture with flat strokes of his tongue. Steven's hands slip against his shoulders and he moans and pushes himself up against Brendan's mouth to the rough and lazy drawl of Otis Rush.
~ you know I can't quit you babe ~
"Thought you said we had work to do," he reminds Brendan breathlessly.
~ when you hear me holler baby ~
"What, you can't empty some bottles out with me leeching all over you? Multi-task, Steven," and Steven sloshes water over the back of his neck and asks, what, like this? He's only kind of annoyed because it cools him down some and splashes against Steven and the skin under his lips goes slippery, running wet with rivulets of water that he catches with his tongue. "Very cute."
~ you know you're my desire ~
Brendan grabs a towel and dries them both down, takes a minute extra with Steven, swipes the cloth down his body slowly, doesn't take his eyes off Steven's fever-bright ones. He knows that Steven can't wait to watch his fingers work at fine powders and mixtures, fucking loves to see Brendan create like that and Brendan loves to show him, loves to play things until they work and sing for him.
They kneel against the shabby carpet at opposite sides of the low table and Brendan gets to work. He shakes out fine aluminium powder onto a sheet of paper, peppers potassium perchlorate over the top and rolls them together by shaking and moving the sheet until they're evenly mixed. Steven measures out the diesel oil from the canister into the large bottles, dried with sawdust, can't have water getting into the mixture, and pours a quarter in each of the four and Brendan makes paper funnels and folds the flash powder into the bottles and rolls the mixture together until it clumps.
Steven watches him with rapt attention as he adds the ammonium nitrate from the bottles Steven swiped from Stuart's little hobby shop. There's hardly a risk of this shit going off just from knocking it about but he's fucked up before and nearly blown his hand off, got the scars to prove it, small shiny starbursts across his wrist and palm. Live and learn. Adapt. That's what he and Steven do, they learn and adapt and fucking live like world's about to end.
He grins over the filled bottles and Steven blinds him with a smile in return.
"We ready?" he asks and Brendan puts his palms on the table-top, levers himself up and gets his knee against it, half crawls across the bottles and powders and chemical containers and gets up real close, inches between them.
"Gonna make 'em burn," Brendan growls into him and Steven surges up against him, kisses him deep and rough and no finesse just pure, animal savagery like he could tear Brendan apart with just his lips.
"Brendan," Steven sighs against him and Brendan has to touch.
He skirts around the table and pulls Steven up against him, sweat damp skin sticking up the length of their bodies, and Brendan rubs a thumb under his eye, touches a path down his throat and chest and stomach and doesn't look away from his face. Steven's skin pricks with goosebumps; he's hyper-sensitive and aroused and responsive and Brendan wants that sensation under his mouth so he chases the path of his fingers, ducks and presses his tongue, flat and soft, and follows it with his lips, sucking slow and wet kisses across Steven's body until he shivers and tangles his fingers into Brendan's hair, so fucking sweet the way he sighs and and cradles him close.
Brendan drops to his knees, palms of his hands spanning Steven's hips, huge and possessive. Steven looks down at him through dark eyes, mouth fallen open, spit-shine of his lips like a beacon but Brendan's too low for that now, too absorbed in what's happening down here, push of Steven's dick against his chin through rough denim. Steven strokes a thumb across his bottom lip and Brendan takes it into his mouth and sucks on it whilst he pops Steven's buttons and drags down his zip real slow.
"On the bed, Brendan - I wanna suck you off at the same time - " Steven tells him raggedy and Brendan groans around his thumb.
"You're just full of the best ideas, ain't you?"
"Not just a pretty face, me," he says with a sloppy grin and Brendan helps him out of his jeans, wraps him up in his arms and stands, sweeps Steven off his feet easily and topples them to the bed, rolls over until Steven's in his lap.
He pushes Brendan back against the mattress and grinds against the denim covering his erection, kisses, wet and messy, down his chest and stomach with the slow drag of his tongue and Brendan's eager to feel that hot mouth around his dick, could sob from the anticipation of it, fuck. Steven undoes his fly and nuzzles his plush lips against the length of him, pushes a palm against his stomach and Brendan tenses the muscles there, shows Steven how much he wants it, tells him he's fucking beautiful, that he wants his mouth, wants to make him come trying to scream around Brendan's dick.
Steven kneels upright across his thighs and takes him in one firm hand, and just watches him, lidded eyes and breath shaky, while he strokes his fist up and down, slow and steady.
"Feel good, Bren?"
"Yeah, Steven," he whispers, pushes his hips up, digs his fingers into the bed covers.
It goes on and on, Steven's eyes blazing a hot trail across his body and just his hand, just the steady up and down, fucking amazing and just enough to make him half-crazy but no more. Brendan alternates between rolling his head back and watching himself disappear through the slip-slide of Steven's fingers. He feels like he's some kind of trance, caught in a haze like a good stare until there's wet heat all around him and he's crying out, pushing up into it, sudden slick lips and tongue dragging across his heated flesh. He looks down, Steven's bright, blue eyes and the stretch of his mouth.
"Oh, fuck - come here, Steven," he urges and pulls at him, one hand around Steven's shoulder until he comes off with an obscene pop and shuffles up the bed, turns and throws a leg over him to straddle his face and Brendan kicks his way out of his jeans before Steven's leaning over his body and swallowing Brendan down again in one smooth slide.
It takes him a minute to get his bearings but he does, puts a fist around the base of Steven's cock and a hand flat against his lower back and guides him in, pushes at him to find a rhythm and then Steven's thighs are shaking, length of him buried deep in Brendan's mouth. He gives it back good, takes Brendan in all the way, head tight and squeezing against the back of his throat, damp and suction, messy, slick sound of slurping, and Brendan spreads him apart with both hands and slides two fingers up inside until he clenches his hands painfully against the skin of Brendan's hip.
"Fuck - Bren - " he chokes out, Brendan's dick resting against his bottom lip, can feel the movement when he talks.
Brendan fingers him, rough like he likes, and Steven presses close into his mouth, buries deep, explosion of salty pre-come across Brendan's tongue and Brendan relaxes out, lets Steven ride him, smooth in and out slide, seals his lips tight against the head and flicks his tongue. Steven kisses his mouth against the length of Brendan's dick, moans and breathes hot puffs of air against him and then takes him back down so far that Brendan's hips jerk and his thighs tremble and he pushes up and Steven doesn't relent, just takes him all the way in until his lips are pressed, snug, against the hair at the base.
He's dizzy with lack of oxygen, works his mouth and moves his hips, pushing up into the velvet heat of Steven's willing throat in small, stuttering bursts. He slides another finger up into Steven's body and just fucks him, all the way in and all the way out and he feels it, feels Steven's muscles tense and his hips go erratic and he's pulling his mouth away and coming down Brendan's throat with a whine until he's swearing and shaking and Brendan has to hold him up to stop from choking.
He strokes Steven's back until he's calmed down before sliding his palms against the back of his head and asking, "ready?" and trying to keep his patience. Steven seals his lips back tight around him and Brendan pushes him down all the way, allows himself a moment to enjoy the slick, wet slide before he pushes up and holds Steven down against him, fluttering throat and sloppy noises, fucks into him until his orgasm punches out of him with force, knocks him winded, and Steven takes over, slurps him up and down until Brendan's boneless and sprawled, muscles trembling, head heavy.
Steven nuzzles against him, sucking softly against his softening skin, pressing his tongue against Brendan's hip and thigh like he's making a meal of him. He climbs off Brendan's body, swings back over so he's straddling Brendan's hips, runs his palms up and down across Brendan's still sensitive, shivering skin and follows with his lips, soft and dragging and sweet. Brendan gets his elbows under him for support and watches, tips his head back when Steven sucks against his collarbone and swipes his tongue on a path up his throat, rubs his nose against his chin.
"Hey," Brendan breathes into the inches between them. His voice is hoarse, throat used.
"Hiya."
The line of Steven's mouth is red and puffy and shining and Brendan sits up, raises a hand to touch, strokes a thumb across his lips. Steven cards his fingers into Brendan's hair and scratches against his scalp and makes him sigh.
Brendan soaks in his details, stares and drinks and tries and tries to quench that thirst but it's the constant torture of dehydration, the lingering, eternal suffering of not being able to get close enough, not having enough, no being able to touch everything all at once. Even now it's unbearable, makes him itch for fire and blood, anything to slake this lust that never leaves.
He watches Steven's eyes, blue swallowed up by black pupil, framed by delicate, too-long lashes, intense and weighing the fucking world the way they watch Brendan in return. Steven's edgy in his lap, jittering ever-so-slightly like there's a vibrating electric current thrumming under his skin. Brendan feels it sparking out of him and directly into his own veins, knows the same stuff runs through both of them. They exist on a wave-length of their own, some fundamental particle, fabric of the universe; it hasn't been discovered by science yet, it's theirs alone.
"Time to go."
Steven swallows, nods.
They dress and pack the bottles carefully into the hold-all bag. Steven delivers the keys back, won't even let Brendan hold the damn things, and Brendan waits by the car. He's quick enough but Brendan knows his boy.
"You realise the last thing we need today is drama?" he asks dryly.
"No drama," Steven says and holds up his hands, palm forwards. Brendan grips one wrist tightly and drags him close and Steven rolls his body against him, looks up at him, inhales deeply. He turns Steven's hand over, sees the red welts and scratches across the thin skin over the back of it. He looks back across the car park, no vacancy sign turned around in the glass door, raises one eyebrow. "We'll be gone soon, anyway." Brendan raises an eyebrow at him. "We'd be gone but she'd still be imagining what it felt like to 'ave your dick in her."
Brendan throws his head back and laughs. "There's plenty of people wonderin' that, Steven."
"Not if I 'ad anything to do with there wouldn't be." Steven says it dryly, quirk to his lips, but Brendan knows he fucking means it.
"Steven," he croons, "that'd be basically genocide."
"Alright, calm down, Mr Modesty."
Brendan laughs, swipes a kiss from him.
They climb in the car, swing by the Hampton to pack up and shower. Brendan drives to an empty stretch of road and fixes the car with new plates. He's only done this a handful of times but this car is worth the effort. He's not quite ready to part with her yet. He hauls the hold-all over his shoulder, watches Steven tuck his colt into the back of his jeans.
They start the trek across the small patch of woods separating the road from the rest of town, perfect for slipping in to, getting lost in. Steven chatters on, pushes him with his shoulder, picks up drying leaves and throws them in the air like confetti whilst Brendan whistles the wedding march.
At the very edge there's a four foot wall and beyond that a road. Beyond the road lies Brendan's little red-brick building.
Steven hops the wall and Brendan hands the bag over, climbs over himself. Steven kisses him, quick press to his lips, and crosses through the traffic, slips inside the bank, and Brendan studies his watch, waits the requisite five minutes before he heads over himself. He unzips the bag, two bottles close to the doorway, couple of feet between them. One underneath the wall-mounted air-conditioning unit, one further along the wall, close to the corner where he knows the gas boiler is tucked up in a maintenance cupboard.
Then he goes inside.
It's small and quaint and perfect. They've picked the busiest time, Brendan's got an itch needs scratching, and there's queues at the three glass windows, couple of people sat in little cubicles off across the room, people living their lives, talking about mortgages, loans, starting up businesses and getting that cash together for a proper wedding. He thinks, ain't gonna happen folks, today's your last, and spots Steven sat in one of the comfortable oval chairs, chatting to a guy in a pale blue, bank-issued blazer and a pink, silk neck scarf. He's smiling pull pelt and the guy looks fucking blinded, completely taken in, hanging on Steven's every word. He's got one hand reaching out, hovering, almost touching Steven's bare arm, close enough for body heat.
Steven's eyes flick up and catch on him briefly and Brendan braces himself in the doorway, reaches into the bag and pulls out the shotgun.
"How 'bout nobody does anything stupid and I won't have to use this, eh?"
Most of the twenty or so people inside go still, wide-eyed in barely processed shock. It's the bodies natural reaction. Stillness. It makes them feel invisible. They don't know it yet but they're literally petrified. It'll catch up eventually, it always does. That's when they get reckless.
He watches for the couple of real dangerous ones. He'd clocked them straight away, one of the cashiers and one of the customers. The woman in the middle cubical, calm and inching a hand slowly downwards, and the guy with the ratty jeans and the buzz cut, looks marine, looks trained to handle stress, looks between Brendan and his gun like he's calculating how long it'll take to drop them both.
"You - " Brendan says, cocks his weapon at Steven. Steven with his hands up in front of him, expression on his face like dark focus, Mr Cashier edging his way in front of him like he thinks he's a fucking hero, like he wants to protect Brendan's boy from the big bad bank-robber. "Girl in the second window, she's goin' for the alert, and the guy with the army cut, he's a trouble maker."
There's a rustle of sheer confusion spreading like a wave, a stretched-long moment of intaken, held breath, and then Steven's moving, smooth like cool, running water. He's got his colt cocked, aimed and triggered, once, twice. Two bullets. Two crumpled bodies. Danger passed. Then, Steven points his gun into Mr Cashier's rapidly falling face.
"But - "
Steven smiles, bites his lip.
"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you. If you didn't notice - boy's a crack shot," Brendan tells him, low, warning. He throws the hold-all at him and he catches it on pure instinct. "You're comin' with me."
Brendan strides over, grabs the scarf around his neck and drags him through the little side door and back behind the windows. "You two, get out there, go on."
The two other cashiers, guy and a girl, both about Brendan's age, both drip-white and trembling, scramble to their feet and shuffle past their dead colleague and her growing, spreading and rolling puddle of blood and out into the main floor.
He throws Mr Cashier to his knees against the cabinets and the kid knows what to do, ain't stupid, Brendan'll give him that much. He starts to fill the the bag with shaking hands and Brendan's shotgun a foot away from his head and Brendan's focus splits between his movements and Steven through the glass.
The people out there watch Steven, too. They're afraid and mesmerised. He's a living, breathing juxtaposition. He's fair and beautiful and sweet as fucking apple pie and he holds a weapon like he was born with it in his hand, like it's an extension of his body.
He can't blame them for their fascination. He enjoys it. He loves the way Steven dangles himself like bait and they bite every fucking time.
Mr cashier's not moving now, just looking up at him through watering eyes and trembling lips. Brendan gestures and he gets up, hands him the bag, heaves in breath like he's losing it, chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow motions like he's choking on air he can't breathe.
"It's okay, son. You did good," Brendan tells him and watches the tears fall. "I saw you admiring my boy out there, before." Brendan watches the colour drain out of his flushed face. Another natural reaction. He loves to bear witness to the way people's bodies respond to him, to his words, to his weapons, to his hands and tongue and cock. "It's okay, hey - it's okay - " Brendan shushes his choked off sobs. "I'm glad. It's nice. He's a sight for sore eyes, that one. You seem like an okay bloke, most men don't get to die with an image like that the last thing they see."
The kid opens his mouth in a whine, a high-pitched litany on nonononono and Brendan closes his eyes for a second, breathes it in, desperation and fear and he presses two barrels against Mr Cashier's chest and squeezes the trigger. The kid lurches back, force of it staggering his instantly failing body, open cavern where his ribcage has been cracked wide open, hot blood and muscle and shredded skin. There's tittering screams from the other room and a sickening slap against the ground where the body lands, eyes dull and wide-open. Lights out.
Brendan hauls the bag over his shoulder and pushes through the door. Slightly less than twenty eyes fix on him in abject terror. Steven raises an eyebrow.
"He did somethin' stupid," he says by way of explanation and Steven snuffles a laugh.
Brendan gives the room one last sweep, spots something he didn't before, a woman stood with two children. She's mostly in front of them, shielding their light from the darkness with her own body. He looks to Steven and flicks his head and Steven spots them, too. Nods.
"Come 'ere, you two," he says softly, lowers his weapon and approaches the woman slowly. "Don't be scared, I'm really not gonna hurt you."
"Get away from them, don't you touch - "
"Look, love. I'm getting 'em out of here, okay? You can take 'em to the door yourself if you want. I'm not gonna hurt 'em."
Her eyelashes flutter, rapid blinking to match the rise and fall of her chest. She takes each of her children's hands and leads them cautiously close and Steven faces them, posture loose and non-threatening, and he backs up towards the door as she follows. She kneels and tells them to run, far, into town, anywhere, and they try to cling to her but she pushes them, forces them towards the doorway until they go.
They're just kids; they haven't had time to become their parents yet. One day they will, though. He might catch up with them and then it's fair game. Children don't stay children forever.
"Right, well," Brendan announces, takes a breath, feels Steven come up close to his shoulder. "It was really lovely doing business with you all today. Umm - hope you all - y'know - whatever."
Steven laughs, real dopey guffaw next to him and he nearly cracks up at the sound of it, giddy now, totally swept up in excitement and the pounding rush of blood that comes from pure adrenaline anticipation. He slips the shotgun back into the hold-all, takes Steven's hand and pushes their fingers together and Steven raises the hand with the gun clenched in it, kisses his little finger and blows it into the room.
They stagger out into the bright sunlight like a couple of drunk teenagers and Brendan pulls Steven into his arms at the bottom of the path, holds him tight against his body and smiles against his mouth. Steven grips the silver cross around Brendan's neck and brings it up between them and Brendan presses his lips against it and Steven's fingers and Steven does the same before he lets it drop and slides his tongue inside Brendan's mouth, slow and heady, air thickening and stretching like melted tar.
Brendan runs a hand down his side, trails his fingertips against Steven's wrist, and he takes hold of the colt from the loose grasp. They break the kiss and turn, heads dipped close together and eyes on the prize, pressed together with hardly a breath between them. Steven's hands grip against his shoulders and Brendan holds him close and tight with one arm and he aims and shoots, once, twice, into the bottle close to the doorway.
He sees the first spark ignite and his heart skips and hammers. He takes Steven's hand and they run, sound of hissing, flashing, fucking elemental chain-reaction at their backs. They vault the wall and collapse back against it and huddle together as the Earth shakes and rumbles beneath them and a sound erupts like the very end itself. It shatters through the quiet and sleepy town, they can probably hear it the next town over, and Brendan feels it rattle through his body, feels his skin shiver out into goosebumps despite the temperature. He hears the displaced air whoosh over the top of them and he immediately gets up to look.
The flames roll and glow and climb, thick and gathering black smoke that looks too heavy to rise clouds up the once-clear sky. The door's collapsed. If anyone's left alive they ain't getting out. His little red brick building is ripped apart and wounded, cracked and broken and crumbling. It's warped into a shadow of its once sturdy shape, corrupted and then cleansed by heat and flame.
Steven presses close, makes a noise, a small hum, and Brendan snaps his head to look at his profile, mouth parted, lashes fluttering, single, dark freckle against his cheekbone that Brendan sweeps forward and presses a kiss to. He drags a path down across Steven's jaw and nuzzles against the corner of his mouth and Steven turns into the kiss.
"It's beautiful," he says, breathy and awestruck, fierce orange glow reflecting back at Brendan from his eyes.
They need to get out of here, they need to get across the woods and to the car and over the stateline before the whining sirens start. Brendan needs a few more minutes, though. He needs the heat against his body and Steven's lips under his own and the thrill of destruction singing through his blood.
*/*/*
" - twenty-one casualties so far reported - made off with about three-hundred thousand dollars - "
"I hear a man has been taken in for questioning regarding the incident?"
Brendan's got the sleek, metal hood underneath his back, still warm from the engine. He's got Steven laid by his side and a cold beer in his hand. They've got miles and miles of nothing, trees and grassy plains, to either side of them. A road that fades off into the horizon.
"Yes, thirty-six year old Stuart Redman. We suspect that the chemicals used in the fire were purchased from his business."
"Any news?"
"Police are keeping pretty hush but an insider tells me that he's not talking. Won't tell them a damn thing."
"How about that," Brendan croons, laughs, turns his head across the windscreen to watch the sun soak like gold into Steven's lazy, sprawled body. "I knew I liked that guy."