workin' the queue

daydream.

or eric is like drinking antifreeze.


they run away right after it happens.

they run away with no fucking plan, only having the gas left in eric’s honda prelude and the money that remained in their wallets. their first night is spent in a shitty motel with fluorescent lighting that made eric’s white t-shirt look pink, and they fuck. it’s not soft and pretty, it’s not everything their first time should have been. it’s rough and angry and they can’t even see each other’s fucking faces. it’s what they needed.

they hop from place to place, living on the income earned from odd jobs they find on the side of the road every 30 miles or so. it’s not what they dreamed of when they were kids, but they’re happy. dylan’s hair grows out long, so does eric’s. dylan cooly tells him he looks like a surfer, and presses a kiss into his lengthened locks.

it’s not great. it’s gross sometimes, they end up sleeping in eric’s car more often then not, and they learn that showers and baths are a luxury. their clothes are washed in hotel sinks with hand soap every week or so, and they acquire a quite broadened wardrobe compared to what they started with. thrift stores kind of save their lives.

they listen to bad music but they kind of love it. the 2000s are a breeding ground for everything trashy, and they watch the news too much, scoffing at everything they see.

they aren’t satisfied, though. they run on empty stomachs and bottles of drug store liquor, and shitty german metal music blasting through the car speakers. fuck, they aren’t satisfied, but they’re in love with the road life.

“i love you,” eric mutters into dylan’s mouth one night, laying on a creaky bed in a dingy motel, faces outlined by the pale glow of the tv in the background. dylan’s hair is long enough to sit in short french braids on the back of his head. dylan doesn’t question as to why eric knows how to french braid, only leans into his touch and smiles.

“It’s not love if I’m all you know, is it?” dylan replies, eric’s nose sitting next to his, a few tendrils of hair coming untucked from behind his ears and tickling dylan’s face.

“do you love me?” eric asks, fingers splayed across dylan’s cheek, one laying on his back under his loose fitting black t-shirt.

“i adore you, you know that,” he answers, and dylan swears that every time eric kisses him he takes a little bit of his soul with that heartbreaking smile.

heartbreak. what a perfect word to describe them. deadly mix, like ammonia and bleach. eric was like drinking antifreeze, sweet and toxic. dylan was like day old tea, cold and too-sweet. they got caught up in themselves, caught up in smiles, and Dylan feels himself being consumed by eric’s black.

“i don’t know anything,” eric whispers, kissing him again. “nothing is certain, nobody knows anything, honey.” dylan sighs, his bare legs hooking around eric’s, becoming entwined in each other.

“i do love you,” dylan states. “you’re my boy.” eric rolls his eyes, the pet name warms his heart like those cheap hand warmers they bought in the winter last year.

“cool. i love you, though. seriously. you’re all i know but-” eric pauses and takes a deep breath, “you’re all i need to know.”

dylan is taken aback by the comment, he pulls away so he can look clearly at Eric’s face. eric’s eyes are turned down, and dylan tucks a stray strand of golden brown hair behind his ear.

“do you ever feel like you’re falling?” eric’s voice turned slow and dark like molasses, and dylan drowned in it. “do you ever think about everything that happened and just-you feel like you can’t breathe?” dylan hugs eric close to his chest, and he feels invincible. eric makes him feel invincible.

they kiss again, and eric slips off dylan’s shirt, and dylan reciprocates the action. they don’t fuck, they just lay in bed, admiring eachother. they trace blunt and broken fingernails against harsh unsoftened skin, they drag chapped lips across uneven bones.

they love eachother. eric can’t breathe and dylan is drowning but they fucking love eachother.

love conquers all, right?