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SaturdayMorning [userpic]
by SaturdayMorning (saturdaymorn)
at August 20th, 2006 (09:17 pm)

Title: I-805
Author: Saturday Morning
Rating: Mild/Teen (some language)
Pairing: Mark/Tom
Disclaimer: I own nothing, it didn't happen
Summary: Mark and Tom get lost on the interstate in '93.


“We’re lost,” Mark states, shaking his head.

“We’re not fucking lost, Mark, how do you get lost ten miles outside of where you live?

“Well, gee, Tom, I dunno- I was hoping you could shed some light on that, seeing as you are the one who’s gotten us into this.”

I cross my arms and sigh from the passenger seat of the rusty old Civic, frustrated at the lack of blame Mark was taking for missing that exit five minutes ago.

“You’re the driver, here,” I point out.

He raises an eyebrow, “And you, my friend, are the one who needed to go see a show at a venue over forty five minutes away and also be back by eleven- which, sorry, dude, doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen...” he takes one hand off the wheel and both eyes off the road to pick up the digital alarm clock from Radio Shack he’s got on his dashboard, “It’s ten thirty eight and I have noooo idea where we are.”

“We’re in San Diego!”

“No, we’re not, and that’s the problem...” Mark scans a tall green sign to our right as it whizzes past, “Chula Vista? Tom, I think we’re somewhere past National City...”

“We need to get onto I-25 North, I’m positive of that... That’s got the exit to the Parkway near Poway.”

“But I think we missed that exit...onto I-25? Yeah, I think that was Cali-15 back there...”

“Fuck!” I hit my head on the headrest behind me; I’m so frustrated. I knew exactly how to get home from the show but we missed one exit, had to pull off into some queer town, and now all the directions have completely changed and the situation is entirely too different for me remain in comfortably.

“Wasn’t even worth it,” Mark muttered, “The bands sucked anyways. Not one of your best calls.... I mean, the openers weren’t so bad, but Iron Boots?”

“They sounded rad on the flyer, Mark,” I argued, “How was I supposed to know it’d be some stupid chick band?”

“They dotted the ‘I’ with a heart,” Mark shot me a quizzical grin from behind the wheel.

Well, at least he’s amused and not angry.

I huff again and put my feet up on the dash, knocking his alarm clock to the floor in the process. Although fully aware that yes- this is my fault we’re out on the interstate at night, and yes- it was my idea, and I conceived it with full knowledge of my enforced-as-of-being-grounded-curfew, and yes- Mark had other plans for tonight.... I frankly don’t give a damn. I may have been a bit of an asshole, making him miss his TV show, but FUCK I needed out of the house.

And while every minute I was late meant another minute not spent in that edifice, I’d only be grounded further for it and we’d being going round in circles again. I know every seventeen year old must think it, but trust me, there is nothing worse than being around my family right now.

I can imagine Shon hasn’t moved from his seat in the living room since last Monday; he’s definitely still in his underwear and I’m positive he’s drunk because it’s been hours since 8AM and that’s when he started slurring for me to come wrestle with him like old times.

But it’s not old times because Kari’s hiding under her covers so she doesn’t have to hear my parents discussing my dad’s mistress at unreasonable volumes and she’s crying because I’m not with her and because I called her a baby for caring about what those two assholes do with themselves and that they don’t love us anyway. “Well I don’t love them either,” I had told her, “And I hope they die in a horrible car crash with Sandy in the backseat and there’s lots of blood and guts and everyone’s so badly burned they can’t even make out the bodies, ‘cos I hate them, I fucking hate them,” and that’s when she burst into tears and that’s when I stopped letting her come in my room at night to do so- mostly because I need that time alone to dwell on when it was exactly that I became such a total fucking asshole.

Turning this all over in my mind as Mark steers his old tin can of a car towards the shoulder, I hardly protest the move. I don’t want to go home anyways. As much as I hate, hate, hate not knowing exactly where I am down to my latitude and longitude (we are NOT lost!), I hate my house just a little bit more.

So the only thing I can think to do when Mark turns off the car is pull my seat back a little further and stare up at the ceiling, feeling like I could honestly cry.

I’ve had a shitty day.

Mark flicks off the headlights and leans back into his seat and I hear him just barely restrain a sigh. He doesn’t want to be out here, he didn’t want to go to the show- he wanted to stay home and watch that Discovery Special on how they make zippers, but now I’ve dragged him out to the middle of some god-forsaken highway in the middle of the night and we’re at least thirty minutes from where we should be.

If there’s one word in the English language I’m not capable of saying it’s ‘sorry,’ but Mark got it anyway and from the corner of my eye I see him turn to look at me and he says, “It’s okay, Tom,” and it makes me swear to god that kid is tele-fucking-pathic or something ‘cos that’s the third time tonight he’s answered me before I said a word.

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing,” he says. And you know what? He’s not being sarcastic or anything. He really means it and I feel a bit better.

Sitting in his car in the dark of night on the berm of maybe I-5, or I-805 it’s almost like we’re on a date; only one of us is about to cry and both of us are just a little bit stoned- and maybe that last part is why I feel so relaxed and comfortable despite the fact that most guys in my position would tend to feel a bit awkward or guilty. Or maybe it’s because it’s Mark, and the fact that we’re not fucking lost, we’re just a bit off track.

I must have zoned off in all this because now I hear Mark flicking his lighter and I realize he killed the radio with the engine. No more of his Kerplunk, and I’ve got to understand it was for me- he knows I hate that snotty band.

I steal another look and realize he’s lighting a cigarette.

“Lung cancer,” I warn him, fishing into my own pockets for something I hadn’t smoked yet.

Finding the remains of an abandoned blunt, I roll it with my fingers until it’s useable again. Mark’s already put the lighter away so I’ve got to dig into his pockets as well. I miss on the right one and it’s when I’m leaning across his lap to get my hand in the right one that I catch sight of something familiar.

“Hey look,” I tell him, pushing aside his pack of cigarettes to get to the lighter and nodding out the windshield. I succeed in stealing his Bic and go back to an upright position, fixing the joint between my teeth and lighting it carefully.

“I don’t see anything,” Mark answers, peering through the darkness surrounding the car.

I take my first inhale too hard and end up coughing and sputtering; trying to point out the windshield at the same time, I barely manage to choke out, “The billboard... I know that billboard.”

Mark flicks on his headlights and then his high beams and their glow illuminates a giant yellow billboard just a few yards away that advertises “FUN-ITURE.”

I’d seen that billboard a zillion times traveling outside San Diego with my family- it never changes. It’s ancient- it depicts a bunch of kids in purple leg-warmers and headbands climbing on ugly couches. Seeing it reminds me of two things: first, I fucking hate that ugly billboard. And second,

“We’re not lost. See? I know where we are.”

“Hmm,” Mark frowns, “Where are we?”

“We’re in front of this billboard.”

“Uh huh?”

“An’ I know this billboard.”

“Tom, I think you should stop smoking pot.”

“And you should quit smoking cigarettes.”

Content that we’ve each done our part in trying to save the other’s life, we lapse into a less-than comfortable silence as Mark revels in my frustration. He likes it when I’m angry- he thinks it’s cute. ‘Aww, the precious little teenager is having a tantrum, how adorable!’

So he’s sitting there next to me, smiling, in no hurry to start trying to find our way back home, pleased to be sitting out on the berm with the windows rolled down and the sound of the crickets in the forestry surrounding the road. Cars along the interstate are few and far between at this hour so there’s little to disturb us.

“Cold?” he asks with a small smile and it’s just then I realize I’m shivering. The chill from the night air has been seeping through the open windows and my thin tee shirt doesn’t do much to protect me from it, so I nod and he turns the key in the ignition just enough to roll up all the windows.

The racket of the crickets is diminished, the chill leaves and immediately I feel better. I felt way to vulnerable with the windows down parked along side this fucking forest thing. Too spooky.

“Your car’s gonna stink,” I mumble, grateful.

“Eh,” he shrugs, not concerned with something so trivial and now I feel stupid for caring. Mark is probably too busy concerning himself about bigger things, like world peace and Plato to be wasting his brain power on how to de-weed-ify his vehicle.

He steals another glance at me and I watch his smile vanish into some sort of concerned expression. He starts a sentence, discards it, chews his lip for a minute, then decides to just go with it and try again.

“Are you okay?”

I swallow uncomfortable and take another inhale, trying to calm down a bit.

“You look like a mess,” he goes on, gently, “You’re shaking, you look like you haven’t slept or eaten in days, you’ve been jumpy all night... You’ve smoked more weed in four hours than I have in my life.... What’s wrong, Tom?”

I’d hardly noticed my own condition, so I don’t even know what to say that.

“Is it your family?”

I shrug hopelessly but the fact that he’s noticed only makes it worse and I can feel my lower lip quivering.

“Oh, Tom...”

Before I know it he’s got his arms around me.

Leaning over the stick, both his arms are around my neck- and it’s not some awkward girl-hug it’s a full on embrace.

Again he says my name, “Oh Tom....it’s okay...” and I can feel his warm sigh on my neck but then the sting of hot ashes down the back of my shirt and I jump a little, making him pull back.

“Shit, I’m sorry...” He grinds his glowing cigarette onto the dash and leaves it there to die; one of his arms is still around my neck and he uses the now free hand to take my own cigarette from my numb fingers and does the same with it before returning his arm to where he’d had it- before returning to our hug, although it’s not so much a hug as it is Mark just holding onto me.

I’ve got both my hands resting on my knees and can’t figure out how to move them. I’m feeling way too emotional- I blink and the tears just flow out. I can only be grateful this is Mark I’m with and not just some friend of mine and that thought reminds me that Mark isn’t like any of my other companions- that something is entirely different about him, because I’m upset and he’s not being an asshole, he’s holding me.

Ashamed, I try and choke out an explanation but only get to a scratchy “I-” before he cuts me off with a “Shhh...”

One of his hands in on the back of my neck, the other is rubbing up and down my back and I’ve never been comforted like this because I don’t cry and boys don’t hug. It’s an entirely new feeling but it’s entirely too good and I’m wondering why it feels so much better to have his sturdy body pressed against me than a girl’s skinny, bony frame.

I think minutes pass before his grip slackens as he pulls away a bit to look me in the face and it throws me off guard because I’m noticing the shape of his nose and the colour of his eyes and what I’m looking at is nothing short of beautiful.

With just that admission to myself all directions have completely changed and this situation is entirely too romantic for me to remain in comfortably as his gaze flickers from my lips to my eyes and back again.

The moment is familiar but this time I’m not with a girl, I’m with Mark, I’m crying a little, and I don’t think I’m quite stoned enough.

I realize our faces are very close and I’m a bit self conscious because I do look like a train wreck and he keeps looking at me in that strange way.

He bites his lip and again looks like he’s about to speak. In the end he decides that actions are better than words and he puts a hand on my cheek. His hand’s warm and strong and I don’t ever want him to take it away- maybe it’s the weed, or maybe it’s because it’s Mark.

He looks down at my lips again and now I know where this is going.

I swallow nervously, I’m not sure if I want this, but suddenly his mouth is on mine and I’m not even thinking about what I want anymore, only about what I need, and I need him to keep doing that.

I need him to keep doing that.

Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the shitty day I’ve had, maybe it’s because we’re vulnerable and lost on the shoulder of some highway in the middle of the night... or maybe it’s because it’s Mark...

But I need him to keep doing that.


Posted by: Althea (zerothelost)
Posted at: August 21st, 2006 12:23 am (UTC)

loves xcore

Posted by: tomhoppus182 (tomhoppus182)
Posted at: September 19th, 2006 03:33 am (UTC)
That was