mitsubishievo | (AU) So save your words, don't smile at all, in the end, we all feel the pull [for Adam]

He could hear that damned Evo half a mile away in his good ear. Adam wished there was a way to tighten his helmet and drive until he put a thousand miles between them but this was Darrow. This was their tiny microcosm and there was no real getting away from anyone or anything, even Joseph Kavinsky, damn him.

So he drove, ripping up the countryside on his Harley and feeling a little of what Ronan must have felt on those airless summer days, flooring it in his BMW. Only there was no one to race against and Adam couldn't outrun himself.

By the time he passed the Evo it was stationary and Adam felt his body jittering. He wished it would drive.

Kavinsky looked away from the steering wheel at the noise of an engine coming up from the right. A couple of cars had passed him, ignored him and his angry white boy car. He'd been glad for it. He was ready for another person to whip past and rattle the frame of the car.

In the rear view mirror, though, was a harley. It was one Kavinsky had seen. Not just around town, but outside Hywel. It was a bike he knew. It was a rider he knew.

There was gas in the tank, though, and with the words burned on his back, he wanted gasoline, not a dream of it. Not a figment of his imagination pumping through this figment of his imagination. He wondered if Ronan had dreamt Adam that bike.

But even that brief, catty thought was enough to make Kavinsky think of just Adam, which fed traitorously into thinking of so much, too much, more than just Adam.

That Mitsubishi. That fucking white Mitsubishi. Something knotted in Adam's stomach and he had to swerve out of the way of a ditch at the last second or else crash his bike sideways.

Maybe right into the Mitsubishi itself.

He shouldn't have stopped. Should have let the visor of his helmet give him the excuse not to look up.

But he did stop, placed both feet on the ground and let his engine idle, flipped his visor up. "How'd you fuck it up this time?"

Kavinsky was still, still, still, and watching out the windshield. He almost didn't look over at Adam's voice, the note of contempt and dismissal that leaked through every syllable. Slowly, he looked down at the gear box.

"Didn't fuck it up. Just drove it to fumes."

Finally, he looked up at him. All heavy lidded eyes and matching contempt to the tone in Adam's voice, the look on his face. There was a plume of kicked up dust around Adam's wheels, the noise of his idling engine. He wondered, offhandedly, if Adam would even be able to hear him speak.

He couldn't. He could see Kavinsky's lips move, mouth forming words. If he wanted to know what Kavinsky had said, Adam would have to take off his helmet, ask him to repeat. He'd have to acknowledge the weakness that Kavinsky had deduced. Adam Parrish, Aglionby's brightest, was too stupid to choke the engine and drive away.

He took off his helmet and looked at Kavinsky. "Surprised you didn't dream an unbreakable car."

Kavinsky swore under his breath and knocked his head back against the head rest of his seat. He looked at the dash lights of the Mitsubishi, the round dials of the tachometer and the speedometer, the oil and fuel gauges.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the motion of Adam removing his helmet. It had some visceral reaction in him, something settling in his chest, but it wasn't necessarily a good sort of settling. Just a knowing sort of settling, a leveling of things. Kavinsky dragged his heel against the wear in the mat under his feet, where he'd dragged his heel hundreds of times before. A detail that was not in every Mitsubishi he dreamed, but was in this one.

"Who says I didn't?" He scowled at the steering wheel, and then at Adam. "Didn't break it. Just drove myself out of gas. Nothing broken about that. Car functions just like it ought to. Car shouldn't go without fuckin' gas."

He didn't know, of course. Adam searched for some response, something other than idling there with nothing to say as he tried to bury the idea of the time he and Kavinsky had fucked. Not fucked. That implied something quick and hateful rather than the long night that they'd spent curled together, wanting, having.

But they had done that.

"I don't know the kind of cars you dream except that they're loud and showy," Adam said at last.

Adam was watching him the way that boys at Aglionby who weren't sure what to do about having had their dick in his mouth watched him, except that they both knew that Adam had liked it. When the stark light of morning had come, there had been little crescents of Adam's nails digging into his shoulder still, and Kavinsky had smiled to himself to touch him as he'd showered; and when he'd come out, Adam had been gone, and that was that.

But now, Adam was looking at him the way that people looked at him, and he hated that, for a moment. Adam was a practice in not looking at people. Adam certainly didn't look at him.

He hauled himself out of the car and, trailing, his fingers along the lines of it, dreamt while awake. He hated that Darrow let him do that. He knew what the thing he dreamt would be. He hoped it would be gasoline. It was gasoline in his head, and in the gas can he perceived to be in the trunk of his car.

Kavinsky was too aware that, in moving, his back was to Adam. But it didn't matter. What a monstrous thing he was, doing this.

He opened the trunk to the gas can.

In this moment, Adam could see a few options in front of him. First, he could start the engine, speed the hell away and leave Kavinsky to his own shit luck. Or he could unlock his storage and set out the spare helmet and leave Kavinsky to decide what he wanted to do. In his head, Adam counted down from thirty, giving Kavinsky an unknown deadline before he was going to make himself speed away.

...twenty-eight, twenty-seven...

This was stupid. This was going to destroy them.

...twenty-four, twenty-three...

The gas can came out empty. It hadn't worked. There was a small trail of black ichor at the cap. Kavinsky threw the can back into the trunk and slammed it shut, scowling, then looking at Adam distrustfully.

He could see words on his back. They appeared to him in Cyrillic, but he saw no reason that they ought to, except that it was the first text he'd learned to read, and that he was distressed, which encouraged his Bulgarian. He didn't read what he could see; it didn't fucking matter.

"You gonna gloat, or what? Haha, Kavinsky drove his douchemobile into the ground because he's trapped in this shithole like the rest of us. Sure there's a lot of nice shit you could add in their too." Whatever they'd done, it didn't matter. They didn't like each other. They weren't friends or friendly. Kavinsky stepped away from the Mitsubishi to start walking. Even if Adam had stopped, Kavinsky wasn't expecting anything out of it.

...twelve, eleven...

"I was heading towards the city anyway," Adam said, drumming his fingers against the spare helmet and looking directly at Kavinsky. If he wasn't going to jump for it, Adam should leave. Adam should, for once in his life, not linger in an unfixable mess, which is exactly what this was.

He turned shifted his bike, let the engine roar to life.

...three, two...

Kavinsky moved almost as soon as Adam spoke, almost as soon as he indicated the second helmet. This was stupid and reckless and dangerous--not the bike ride, but the ride with Adam Parrish--but that made it a very Kavinsky thing.

The helmet was on, and so was he, by the time Adam was revving the bike back to life. It rumbled and vibrated between his thighs. He tucked in behind Adam and closed his eyes, arms wrapped tight around his middle.

'Towards the city' was a vague sort of direction. There was a lot of space between where they were and the edge of the city; and a lot of city contained, even in their little pocket universe. But it was too late to negotiate where they were going. And, in the end, that was very Kavinsky of him too: here he was, stranded on the side of the road, at the whims of a young man who knew him in a biblical way. At least he knew how he'd be paying the ride back, before they even started moving.

He carefully didn't think about Kavinsky's arms around him now or Kavinsky sprawled out beneath him in that motel bed. Kavinsky, with his hungry eyes and sharp cheeks, who whispered and moaned Adam's name. He tried to shove them into a compartment that was too small and they overflowed, reminded Adam of what he'd done.

Adam thought about the nearest gas station. He thought about the cost of gas as he pulled into the bank of pumps and killed the engine. He did not take off his helmet as he opened his own gas cap to refuel his bike from three quarters of a tank.

He did not look at Kavinsky.

They were in town now. It would be easy enough for Kavinsky to slide off the bike, get a gas can and fill it up, haul himself back out to the Mitsubishi and deal with this problem so that this--him and Adam; what was he thinking there was no him and Adam here--didn't become a problem.

Instead he fished his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text Newt's way. If Adam kicked him off the bike, he'd rescind the text. But he didn't think Adam was going to kick him off the bike.

He pulled out his wallet and handed Adam an extra ten. It was more than enough to fill the bike up the rest of the way.

"You don't owe me anything," Adam said, carefully emphasizing the last word as he pushed the ten away. It was better not to entangle things further than they already had and a question of debts owed and debts paid would only make it worse. So he wouldn't.

"Got enough?"

Kavinsky rolled his eyes and shoved the bill back into his wallet and the wallet back into his pocket. Then he swung his leg off the bike, even though getting off the bike was probably a guarantee he was going to be abandoned. He didn't even bother to ask if Adam would be here when he stepped back out of the convenience store.

Going in with Adam's spare helmet at least maybe bought him a few minutes. Except that he knew where Adam lived, so it really didn't. He could easily deliver it back to Hywel if Adam decided he didn't want to put up with him.

He was vaguely aware of the image he might cut--the one he did often cut--though, which also might be a lure for Adam to linger: the low-slung, dark jeans and the chunky boots and the leather jacket he'd adopted in Darrow. Even in these blossoming late spring days. He was aware that the words on his back were visible even on the leather.

In the convenience store, he grabbed a pack of condoms.

Adam didn't look. Tried not to look. He kept his eyes down and focused on the gas pump. In his mind, he calculated how much money was in his checking account as compared to how much would be taken out from gas. Not much, relatively. It left Adam uncertain what to feel when he didn't need to sit there full of panic.

He didn't think about Kavinsky's jeans. Tried not to think.

He waited for Kavinsky to come back.

Kavinsky could say he was surprised that Adam was still there when he came back out of the convenience store--fifty-eight seconds; shoddy service--but in actuality, he was more surprised by the fact that he'd gone in at all in the first place.

He stuck the box of condoms into the interior pocket of his jacket. Crossed the lot back over to the bike. Straddled in behind Adam and wound his arms around the other boy like they were more close, more familiar, than a one night stand would suggest they were.

But Adam was solid and warm and hadn't expelled him yet. He might, any second. Kavinsky's hands sank just a little lower on Adam's stomach, until his thumbs were at his belly button and his pinkies were sitting at his jeans.

Adam didn't speak. Didn't think about the involuntary sigh and the goosebumps that rose under his jacket when Kavinsky wrapped around him. It was a disturbing notion, how well they fit against one another. Kavinsky was warm against his back and he couldn't think about that.

All he had to do was drive back to that trashy white Mitsubishi, let him off, and drive away. They could go back to pretending that they'd never happened.

It was easy.

They hadn't started moving yet, and Kavinsky didn't know how much the helmet dampened the noise in Adam's ear, but he leaned to his right, chin hooked against his shoulder while he still had this opportunity. They were so close and so warm, and he'd done this so many times with people who were not Adam Parrish, so it didn't really matter.

"Take me somewhere," he said. His thighs were hemmed around Adam's. One of his palms slid an inch lower, briefly over Adam's fly, and then it was back up on his lower belly. The words had no inflection of a question.

They both knew this was going to happen. Even if the prettiness of a girl's face and some stupid magic had eased it last time, it had still happened. And it was easy to read the coil in Adam's body, the edge of it. Kavinsky was good at playing that edge.

His stomach tensed as Kavinsky's hands teased lower. His resolve wavered but Adam's hands tightened on the handlebars. He–they–couldn't do this again and Kavinsky, with his lover's tattoos and shared house knew better. They both should have.

He drove, too hard and too fast, back towards the Evo. Every time a split came in the road, a chance to turn somewhere else, he hesitated and started to lean in the opposite direction.

Jax's old place was still there, not far from the Evo. Its windows were boarded up and the furniture was covered with dust cloths but it was there.

Temptation wavered. He turned towards the Evo.

He knew where they were going almost as soon as they took to the road again, and Kavinsky wanted to point out that he hadn't picked up any gas. Of course he hadn't. He'd, foolishly, thought they were playing this game. Of course they weren't. Adam had gotten a taste, and even if he liked it, that was all boys like him--good boys, wholesome boys, Henrietta boys--allowed themselves.

So he just held on. No point in losing his seat as they rocketed around corners and barreled down the road. They'd get back to the Mitsubishi and Kavinsky would climb off and Adam would speed off, and that would be that.

In that case, Kavinsky supposed it wouldn't matter either way if he shifted his hands down and held Adam by his hips, his thighs, rather than around the waist. Decisions had already been made. He might as well get a little touch in for Adam to think about later.

He realized as the Mitsubishi loomed into view that his storage compartment didn't actually have room for a canister of gas. That he'd never seen Kavinsky open or close it. Adam had driven him out and Kavinsky had willingly been empty handed except for whatever it was he'd gone into the store for. Adam had assumed it was a gas can but...

He took a sharp left turn and continued up the road to the empty Teller house and tried not to think about if Jax would have been disgusted or egged Adam on.

The turn pulled a rush out breath out of Kavinsky. He shifted his hands up, just a little, more tightly around Adam's ribs, to hold onto him as he balanced himself with the turn of the bike. He'd never been good with motorcycles--had only ridden a few, and never for this long--and they did something to his inner ears or his eyes or something that made him feel dizzy and overwhelmed.

He wondered if it was a him thing, or if it was a dreamer thing. If being exposed to all this sound and feeling was too overwhelming for someone already constantly overwhelmed. He wondered if it would be easier if he was high.

He wondered if all of this would be easier if he was high right now.

Shortly, they were pulling up in front of a boarded up house. Kavinsky said nothing. He'd gone stranger places, after all. He waited until Adam killed the engine on the bike and then, shakily, got off and moved around a little to get his feet back under him. The words were still there, on his back, he knew--I dreamed them back--but this was a truth that only made him more a monster to Adam Parrish, no doubt, rather than more a human like it had to Newt and Al, or to Peter.

"My boss used to live here," Adam said, taking off his helmet. He didn't actually dismount the bike, all of his body sharp with tension. There was still a chance to say no. To undo this.

"You can't actually want me that much," he guessed, uncertain of who needed the more convincing. Kavinsky had his boys, the ones who adored him, and sure, they'd had a good night. Adam had even learned some Bulgarian.

He'd still left. Still lain there in bed and known he'd done something terrible and unforgivable. And he'd run.

So now what?

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