#speedwrites

“What was I supposed to do? Turn down free drinks?” Mickey scoffs. “Yeah, sure.”

He leans forward, peers past Ian out the driver’s side window. He can’t see much except the rain, coming down sideways now, and the roll of clouds in the distance as lightning flashes through them. Beyond the spread of their weak headlights, he can’t even make out the road.

“You sure you can’t drive in this?” he asks anyway, squinting as if it will help him see through the darkness. “Think I probably could. Just need to—”

“Good for you,” Ian cuts in sharply. “Next time, don’t drink five rounds before we leave and I’ll let you try.”

Mickey subsides. Sits back in his seat, lets his head fall against the headrest. Straightens, undoes his seatbelt, and leans back again.

Ian isn’t moving. His hands are still on the wheel even though he’s already put the car in park, and he’s staring blindly through the windshield.

“Shitty start to our first vacation, huh?” Mickey comments, turning toward him and fidgeting until one leg is half up on the seat. He smiles wryly. “I mean, we’re supposed to be in a cabin right now, smoking it up and fucking in front of the fire—”

“I’m trying, okay Mickey?” Ian snaps, fingers white where they still clutch the wheel, and Mickey stops.

It’s cold in the car. Colder than it was a minute ago, a chill seeping through him as his eyes latch onto Ian’s set jaw. Ian is grinding his teeth, giving the weather outside the chin, and his eyes are—

Oh, fuck. That’s not the good kind of red.

“Hey.” He tries to say it softly, but it rings too loud in the suddenly quiet car. The last of his buzz slips away as he reaches out a hand grips Ian’s wrist. He tries to tug Ian’s arm toward him, but it stays stubbornly where it is.

“What,” Ian asks shortly, and Mickey winces.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I was just teasing you, man.”

Ian snorts. It sounds wet.

“You’re right though,” he says. There’s a bitter roughness to his tone, like he’s fighting to push the words out of his throat. “This was supposed to be a nice thing, a good thing for us. I worked so hard to set it up, and I—” He breaks off. His fingers flex on the wheel, Mickey’s hand moving with his arm as he finally pulls it back. “And I couldn’t even plan for the fucking weather.”

“Ian,” Mickey says. His hand slides from wrist to knuckles, around to palm. “We live in the fucking midwest. The weather can’t even plan itself.”

That earns him another snort, but it’s lighter this time.

“Was sunny this morning,” he agrees. “Not a cloud in sight.”

“Sneaky fuckers, clouds. Total airheads, too.”

This time he gets an actual laugh, and Ian’s fingers tightening on his.

“Sorry this got fucked up,” Ian says quietly, running a thumb across the back of Mickey’s hand. “But I think we’re gonna be stuck here for a while.”

Thunder booms closer, as if in answer. The rain gets louder, water covering the windshield until all they can see are streaks of light. Then even those are gone as Mickey reaches over Ian with his free hand and turns off the headlights.

“Been stuck in worse places.” He shifts until he’s leaning sideways over the center console, and lays his head on Ian’s tense shoulder. “And with worse company.”

Ian lets his hand be pulled over into Mickey’s lap. The position is awkward, but he twists to press his face into Mickey’s hair.

Ian catches them before they hit the floor, and sets them properly in the bowl they keep for that purpose.

"Thought it was supposed to be cooler today," he comments, glancing out the window behind the sink. It certainly looks cooler: the shimmery heat of the past few days has given over to grey skies and quickly-moving clouds.

"Tell that to the damn humidity," Mickey counters. "Like walking through soup out there, and it ain't gettin' better."

He's right about that--the light drizzle that begins to tap at the glass proves it for him.

"Even worse at the donut shop if you can believe it," Mickey continues. "It's been under 80 fucking degrees out for one day, one day, and they turned on the goddamned fireplace in the cafe!"

The rain starts to hit harder, tap to rap to a steady, hard drumming.

"Sounds ridiculous," Ian says. He watches the rain on the window, and listens to the sudden, distant boom of late-summer thunder. "What were they thinking?"

"I know!" Mickey pops the box of donuts open, grabs a chocolate long john. Waves it around in one hand as he speaks.

"And they must have cranked the air in there or somethin', because it was still better than outside!"

Ian cocks his head.

"Thought you said it was worse?"

"I mean." Mickey pauses to take a bite and chew. His cheeks are faintly flushed--from annoyance? from the heat?--as he swallows.

"Wasn't actually hot in there," he admits, "but who puts on a fire when it ain't even freezing?"

Ian doesn't answer; there's no need to. But the question hangs between them like it was something more than rhetorical.

"I mean, it was kinda nice and all, I guess," Mickey adds. "Cozy and shit. Probably good for business, too--sort of made me want a hot chocolate or somethin'."

He takes another bite of his donut, and nudges the box over to Ian. Ian picks out one of his own, a cream-filled monstrosity that might well put him into hibernation.

"But puttin' on a fire when you've got AC runnin' is crazy, right?" Mickey asks again, voice tipping high at the end.

It is crazy, Ian thinks, eating his giant donut and listening to the rain. Neither of them ever would have thought to do it. Wasting energy, wasting money, just to capture a vibe? Just to make the world around them match the way it made them feel?

Absolute insanity.

"Wanna do it?" Ian asks.