[Daisy watches him through her cracked door, nothing but damp darkness behind it. Like a horror movie demon, she catches his wrist in one of his back and forths. She tugs at him, but isn't strong enough to actually drag her into her room. She is strong enough to make him stumble back.] Murtaza, [she whispers, dramatic.] I am dying. [She pauses.] Why aren't you.

“Daisifer,” Arash whispers back, stumbling over the door frame without the daeva’s grace to help him. He tucks a stringy length of hair behind her ear. “You look terrible.” 

[Daisy stands on a chair, cups both of her hands, and screams into the PA speakers. Somehow, her voice carries back to Moire, as if talking on a tinny telephone:] Who died and made you the new Dean!

aud brings back mcdonalds, and they eat it in bed; dressed to the not-quite-nines in their brown and beige. aud hardly remembers floating the idea, but daisy promises she pantone swatch-matched their skin tones anyway. she promises a lot of things that couldn’t possibly be true. daisy’s fingers are greasy, though aud hasn’t seen her eat a thing; daisy’s legs are freshly waxed, no matter how long they spend on the road. aud decides not to think about it.

the witching hour rolls around when she takes aud’s face in her greasy hands, digging out fake tear tracks with her thumbs. she almost-asks: “We can still see other people.”

aud is haloed by happy meal toys on the motel sheets, the wrong sort of salt soaking into her pores. she almost-laughs: “don’t even want to see you.”

daisy grins, the same sharp slant as when aud had everyone close their eyes. (even the minister, and even her.) she only kisses her nose, this time.

“Go to sleep. We’ll hit the coast by noon.”

It’s the hot asphalt stink of someone desperately backpedaling.

Technically no one can call her out on it, because Technically they are officially out of school for the Summer, and after that--

“You don’t even like dick.” Misha hops on the counter in a single movement, all irritatingly smooth aerodynamics, leans back on his arms, side-eyeing Daisy with nothing but fond amusement. She eats her popsicle (lemon and honey, sprinkled with salt when no one is looking) in what can be called, in layman terms, a very phallic manner.

Daisy stares at him and pushes the popsicle up against her cheek. Misha scrunches up his nose, grossed out in the fun way, like poking at dead insects. She makes a wet, slurping sound as she pops the popsicle out of her mouth. “Maybe not,” Daisy says, her lipstick smudged and her voice hoarse from the cold. “But I sure am fucked.”

misha doesn’t say anything for a while, watching the room, swinging his legs in the comfortable, mutually understood silence that often hangs in the air when he and daisy are together. he thinks of extending the nihilistic sympathy of mood, thinks of asking what’s wrong, touching her hand, telling her it will get better even if in his earnest eighteen year old heart he can’t even begin to imagine how something like a very first heartbreak feels like. 

“not with those skills,” is what says instead, and the tone of his voice softens the corners of daisy’s eyes before they go a little wide.

She makes a sound between a surprised laugh and a scoff. “Oh, and I imagine you would know what you’re talking about?” She says, halfway between licking the melted popsicle dripping down her arm in the cool treat game of catching up with the room temperature. “I thought you of all people would be against fulfilling the  proverbial stereotypes.”

Misha snorts. He reaches for a popsicle (lemon and honey, sprinkled with salt regardless of who’s looking. Daisy tries not to smile.),  “I’ll have you know I’m constructively working to destroy stereotypes by refusing to actually, literally eat men.”

“I was talking about twinks.”

Nick Walker and Mikhail Reznikov are soggy fuckwads

Nerd.