#constantdriift

      Hands stuffed into the pockets of her sweatshirt, hood pulled over insanely bright ginger hair, she slipped into the seat opposite to his without so much as tossing a look his way, uninvited and unannounced. She seemed the usual; exhausted and ever so slightly upset, borderline bored, borderline indifferent. Leaning back in her seat, her gaze finally went to meet his own as she reached for his fries.

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO

Specify Ship & Number for a Drabble // Merc-Distance-Will-Fix-This-enary & Isaac the 'Flash Gordon to your Prince Barin’ Redman // Things You Said While We Were Driving.

      For a long time, he said nothing at all. An hour, two. More. His gaze directed at the road before them, the usual frown casting shadows over tawny eyes, giving his companion only the occasional glance and immediately turning back at the sight of him.

      He did not know this man seated beside him. Certainly, he knew his face; knew the long, angular shape of his jaw, the sharp nose; the eyes, blue and bright, though always seeming somewhat dopey; the thin, jagged lips; the stupid bleached, greasy blond hair. He knew the tattoos, had been studying them for a while now; slowly memorizing, mapping them out. He would know them all eventually; would be able to draw every single one and pinpoint their location using nothing but his mind. He knew the voice; a little hoarse, a little nasal. But he did not know him. Not like this.

      There was panic, of course. At least initially. If the hopeful, joyful, happy-go-lucky man he knew had been so rattled as to sound the way he had on the phone, something must have been very seriously wrong; more than he could have ever imagined for himself. And he had imagined, all the bloody time: worst case scenarios for every possible second of his day, just to be prepared. He saw the worst in people, himself included. Every glance, every slightest of touches, every hum --- even lesser things could be enough to set him on edge. And even then, he would remain calm, at least to the naked eye. To hear his voice shake as he hissed and whispered into the phone, begging him for help, for him to please just come get him --- of course he panicked.

      But this wasn’t about him.

      It only took a few seconds to overcome that vacuum forming in the pit of his stomach. Took a few minutes more to assure him he was coming; to convince him to get off the line so that he could purchase a plane ticket. A few hours more --- a rental car already waiting for him at LAX.

      Which brought them back to now. A good few hours of driving in utter silence between them. He kept his gazes to himself, or so he’d learned to do. It was the only privacy he could offer his companion at the moment. The DJ would be coming on soon, and so he reached for the dial and shifted between stations, static interrupted on occasion with short flashes of foreign songs he did not care for.

      The highway was so dark this time of night he could see his own reflection in the windshield. Switching the high beams on, he glanced over at him; entirely still but the near unnoticeable movement of his eyes.

      Asleep.

      Leaning back in his seat, eyes back on the road, he let out a slow, quiet sigh as he sank into his seat. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do except comply with the man’s wishes and just drive. Hardly satisfactory. He may have been asleep now, though he doubted the drive had actually done anything to soothe his companion’s nerves.

                        A good night to you all, folks. If you’ve just tuned in, this is Alternate                         USA Radio, 188.8 FM and 190 FM in the north; and you’re listening                         to the Late Night Show. I’m DJ Phenomenon, and I’m going to be                         with you all night.

      Eyes still set on the road, his right hand snuck over the gearbox, feeling in the dark until it found his, fingers slowly creeping their way around and under it before wrapping around his palm. Squeezing, short and light, his thumb stroked over hardened knuckles.

      ”You’re going to be alright.”

      It should have been a question, really --- perhaps sounded like one as well. How could he possibly know with such determination that the drifter was, indeed, going to be alright? He didn’t even know what had upset him so much in the first place. He couldn’t help, evidently, other than sit there and press down on the gas paddle. Perhaps this was beyond repair. Perhaps something terrible had happened --- something to do with his daughter, possibly. Perhaps nothing even remotely close to that. Point was, he could not have known. He was right to wait for the man to be bloody unconscious to say such a futile, foolish thing.

      But there it was again, lingering on the tip ofhis tongue. He had to know, after all. It could not be a question, but a statement --- because he simply had to be alright. He had to. He was the sane, responsible adult holding everything together. Holding him together; them. Seemed like he were the only person even attempting to hold the world together. Certainly, he himself could assume the role for a little while --- but he couldn’t --- he couldn’t just be what he was. He couldn’t. Didn’t have it in him; the mental capacity, the strength the… stupid fucking optimism. The drifter had no say in the matter.

      ”You’re going to be alright.”

          GOD, where was Stephanie? 

                        ------ Alternate USA, and you’re listening to the Late Night Show.                         I’m DJ Phenomenon, and I’m going to be with you all night. Let’s                         kick things off with a song for all you lonely souls out there with                         someone to miss.

--- --- ---- // 11:11 PM

hey.

--- --- ---- // 11:23 PM

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse:≡: offering a place to stay overnight

The past several days are nothing but a blur. There’s too much energy, too many thoughts. Every manic episode plays out like this. And it always feels good at first, really good. All the weight from their shoulders is gone instantaneously - they’re full of ideas and feelings and confidence. More than confidence, Chef is invincible. They can do anything and everything at the same time, and there isn’t a damn thing anyone could do to stop them or stand in their way.

–Now Chef has been awake for almost 72 hours and they desperately want everything to slow down. They’re exhausted, and the grime from not showering only leaves Chef feeling heavier. If they had any nails left after gnawing at them, they might just try to tear their own skin off. At least then some of the burning, screaming energy might get out. They have no idea where they are, or where they’re going, but Chef’s feet keep moving, and they have no choice but to hope they don’t pass out until they manage to get back to their lab.

They walk until the sun goes down, and the seemingly sudden darkness only confuses them more. Only adds fuel to the fire inside them. Walking in a straight line is becoming an exceedingly difficult task, Chef’s steps frequently crossing over from the sidewalk into the street. When a man gets out of his car to scream at them, all Chef can do is stare, terrified and surprised. Earlier in their episode, maybe they would have screamed back, been louder, been aggressive, but keeping themself on their feet is already so, so hard.

Chef is taken aback when another stranger appears from their side to deal with the man, who reluctantly backs away and drives off, presumably counting his losses. They’re utterly bewildered and paralyzed, barely able to form coherent responses to the lingering man’s questions. If they’re okay, if they know where they are - normally, Chef would be lying immediately, trying to get away, but right now, they don’t have the will to be anything but truthful. Maybe their candid nature strikes a chord, because the stranger offers them shelter for the night. A complete stranger.

hey, go to hell

      You come up for air, gasping. You wake up in Ankara, GMT +3; it is five in the morning. It is sometime between two and four AM in the United States. Your phone is blinking. You frown at it, standing tall by the bed stand, casting your shadow upon it, the menacing monster that you are; you do not check it before going out on your morning routine.

      You return an hour later. It is six in the morning; sometime between three and five AM in the United States. You shower and have a change of clothes. You have a glass of Turkish coffee in the nearby eatery. Your phone still blinks. Three unanswered calls; seven unread messages. A brief flash of anger courses through you; why do you even bother. You won’t, of course. You don’t. It is better not to. You are away now, away from whatever inexplicable affect he has on you. You are sober. You think clearly. Two days ago, that was the last time you will ever see him --- the REAL last time, not like all those previous last times that proved to be bullshit because you let your infantile, foolish, misguided desires get the better of you. You know better than that. There is simply too much at risk. Too much you’ve worked for – and you’ve worked so hard. He’s just a man --- just a human being. You can do without. He can do without. You tell yourself it is better that way, for the both of you. Fuck, even if it isn’t --- since when have you started giving a shit? It is better for you, and that is enough.

      You leave your phone along with the rest of your belongings, in a locker at the central train station. You return two days afterwards. It is sometime after eleven at night. It is sometime between two and four in the afternoon in the United States. You switch your phone back on. It blinks. Five unanswered calls. Eleven unread messages. You are tired. Your entire body aches, collapsing under your impossible weight. Your knee is throbbing. All you want is to get the sand out of your hair, crawl under an itchy wool blanket and sleep for the rest of your short life. In a moment of weakness, one stupid fucking moment of letting your guard down, you press the green little textbox icon. You hate yourself before you can even sort through the messages. Short, pointless stories. A picture of a squirrel. You in the States? Hope you’re alright. Looking away, you shove the phone violently into your pocket. You know better than that. You are stronger than that. You are YOU, and you know damn bloody well who you really are. You will not give in.

      It has been little over two weeks since you dropped off the face of the planet.

      You wake up in Singapore, GMT +8; it is four in the afternoon. It is sometime between two and four AM in the United States. You are sore. The entirety of your right side numbly burns; your arm, ribs, hips, all the way down to your knee. Your skin has been scraped raw, bandaged up. No broken bones, you’ve been told, no internal bleeding; but you hurt. Twenty-something-year-old-you would have thought nothing of it. You are getting old. Hissing as you turn, you reach for your phone. Might as well, you are going to be here for a while. Two unanswered calls. Twenty unread messages. You call your associates back, your tone hoarse and quiet. You assure them their needs will be taken care of. You try to sleep, your phone tossed on the sheets beside you. You cannot --- its blinking waking a harsh pain behind your closed eyes. You sigh. You check your messages. More short stories. Been here, been there. Pictures of the desert. A stray fox. Are you okay. You have not thought of him in two weeks, you assure yourself. It has not even occurred to you that he still exists. You do not miss him. You are finally free. But you lie there a few hours more, awake and bitter --- and you know you are lying. You saw him in the stray dog sniffing by the trashcans. You saw him in some rusty sign on the highway. You see him now as you see your phone begin to blink again. You are weak. You are disgusting. You are everything you despise. You are an idiot, a fucking wanker. But there’s still hope; you flip your phone over. You ignore it.

      It has been a month since you dropped off the face of the planet.

      You wake up in California, GMT -7; it is nine in the evening. It is sometime between nine and seven PM wherever he is. You feel a little better. Your wounds have all scabbed up and have turned from a raw, burning red to the sickly yellow of slow healing. It is not half as hard as it had been to breathe or move around. You hole yourself up in a small motel by the airport. You finally have some spare time between jobs --- you’d really rather spend it in an English-speaking country. Or so you tell yourself. In truth, you know there was no real reason to leave Singapore. You know, and so you drink to forget that you do. You smoke a shitton of weed and try to sleep --- but you cannot. You twist and turn. You still know, and that nagging thought won’t leave you be because, what the fuck are you waiting for? You’re gonna fuck up major, you might as well just go and fucking do it, you bloody twat. What’s the point in stalling? Make yourself think you’re strong enough? You obviously aren’t. You’ve been a disappointment since the moment you were born and guess what, arsehole: you still are. Just fucking do it --- get it the fuck over with.

      You pick up your phone. It’s blinking. Forty two unread messages. You can barely read.

      You don’t even bother.

--- --- ---- // 11:46 PM