Status: ♂♂
The Way the Road Feels
sleep
Tom wears a tie while he drives and a smile while he sleeps.
Today it’s both, and Jon gets to watch him out of the rearview mirror with a quiet nostalgia of weeks (or was it months?) ago when they first left Chicago and never looked back.
Jon turns back to the road eventually.
“Break,” Tom says, hours later, and Jon startles. Jon doesn’t feel the roads like Tom does. Jon doesn’t feel a lot like Tom does.
He pulls over at the next rest stop.
Tom’s hair is sticking up at his nape where its brushed against the head rest, and he helps Jon into the back seat with a hand on his hip. The door handle broke off back in Des Moines. They haven't bothered to fix it; they probably never will, really.
“You gonna drive?” Jon asks, and his voice reveals the fatigue his body hasn’t caught up to yet.
Tom shakes his head, the blonde strands reflecting the street light like they're set alight. Jon's chest cramps and he turns away.
“Sleep,” Tom orders, and Jon can’t argue. He lets Jon lay on his chest, legs cramped up, folded underneath him. Jon’s gotten used to the spasms in his neck and the bruises from the centre console. Tom likes to point them out anyway, lets his fingers press into the taut muscle when Jon is almost asleep.
Jon knows he won’t drift off with his head against Tom’s chest, but he tries, focusing until they are breathing in sync and Tom’s fingers have absent-mindedly gripped his elbow. Cigarette smoke fills the cab and neither of them move to open a window. Tom doesn’t offer the cigarette. Jon doesn't mind, breathes into Tom's shirt.
“You ever miss home?” Tom whispers. Jon hums up to the roof of the car, his eyes closed against the cloudiness in the air and the smell of Tom’s deodorant. He can’t breathe. It feels sort of nice.
“I don’t,” Tom says, too quietly, and Jon stops, hears their breathing fall out of time.
They've spoken about this.
“You know,” Tom insists, and maybe Jon should, but maybe, like the road, it just hasn’t caught to him yet.
“You know,” Tom says again, and Jon thinks they’re talking about two different things, thinking about two different worlds. Thinks it’s not just him, because Tom’s finger trails down his arm, burning.
There’s a long, silent pause and then Tom pulls Jon’s face to his and just. He just kisses him.
Jon doesn’t pull away, but mumbles “Tom—” against his parted lips.
“Don’t.”
He hisses ‘Okay’ and lets Tom grab him behind the neck tightly, his fingers brushing the lobe of his ear.
Tom’s cigarette ashes into his hair, but he doesn’t move away, not until he’s stealing breath from Tom’s mouth and his hand has crept under his shirt.
Tom pulls back before Jon is nearly done with him.
“Sleep,” Tom says, and it doesn’t sound real to Jon, but he curls up closer to Tom anyway. He looks up and Tom’s eyes are still closed and his cigarette has burned down to the filter, white ash crushed into the fabric of the back seat, into the fabric of his tie.
He smiles into the darkness and Jon smiles back.
Today it’s both, and Jon gets to watch him out of the rearview mirror with a quiet nostalgia of weeks (or was it months?) ago when they first left Chicago and never looked back.
Jon turns back to the road eventually.
“Break,” Tom says, hours later, and Jon startles. Jon doesn’t feel the roads like Tom does. Jon doesn’t feel a lot like Tom does.
He pulls over at the next rest stop.
Tom’s hair is sticking up at his nape where its brushed against the head rest, and he helps Jon into the back seat with a hand on his hip. The door handle broke off back in Des Moines. They haven't bothered to fix it; they probably never will, really.
“You gonna drive?” Jon asks, and his voice reveals the fatigue his body hasn’t caught up to yet.
Tom shakes his head, the blonde strands reflecting the street light like they're set alight. Jon's chest cramps and he turns away.
“Sleep,” Tom orders, and Jon can’t argue. He lets Jon lay on his chest, legs cramped up, folded underneath him. Jon’s gotten used to the spasms in his neck and the bruises from the centre console. Tom likes to point them out anyway, lets his fingers press into the taut muscle when Jon is almost asleep.
Jon knows he won’t drift off with his head against Tom’s chest, but he tries, focusing until they are breathing in sync and Tom’s fingers have absent-mindedly gripped his elbow. Cigarette smoke fills the cab and neither of them move to open a window. Tom doesn’t offer the cigarette. Jon doesn't mind, breathes into Tom's shirt.
“You ever miss home?” Tom whispers. Jon hums up to the roof of the car, his eyes closed against the cloudiness in the air and the smell of Tom’s deodorant. He can’t breathe. It feels sort of nice.
“I don’t,” Tom says, too quietly, and Jon stops, hears their breathing fall out of time.
They've spoken about this.
“You know,” Tom insists, and maybe Jon should, but maybe, like the road, it just hasn’t caught to him yet.
“You know,” Tom says again, and Jon thinks they’re talking about two different things, thinking about two different worlds. Thinks it’s not just him, because Tom’s finger trails down his arm, burning.
There’s a long, silent pause and then Tom pulls Jon’s face to his and just. He just kisses him.
Jon doesn’t pull away, but mumbles “Tom—” against his parted lips.
“Don’t.”
He hisses ‘Okay’ and lets Tom grab him behind the neck tightly, his fingers brushing the lobe of his ear.
Tom’s cigarette ashes into his hair, but he doesn’t move away, not until he’s stealing breath from Tom’s mouth and his hand has crept under his shirt.
Tom pulls back before Jon is nearly done with him.
“Sleep,” Tom says, and it doesn’t sound real to Jon, but he curls up closer to Tom anyway. He looks up and Tom’s eyes are still closed and his cigarette has burned down to the filter, white ash crushed into the fabric of the back seat, into the fabric of his tie.
He smiles into the darkness and Jon smiles back.
♠ ♠ ♠
On AO3.