#but not enough that i havent lost weight even though i lie in bed all day : (

[pansyyprep]

there are parallels in my life i am not very fond of 😐

[reesewestonarchive]

chapter seven / rem belongs to @forlornraven / masterpost / mature content

Twenty five cents seems so much heavier than it should. A weight in his pocket, in his palm, and Nakoa knows getting the heaviness from him will only make him feel better, but…

He still can’t pick up the receiver.

Rain pelts against the side of the phone booth, and Nakoa shivers. Across the street, Rem sits in the van, his feet kicked up on the dashboard, smoking. Nakoa can just barely make him out through the foggy window panes.

They haven’t talked all morning. Not even so much as a hello.

With shaking fingers, Nakoa drops the coins into the payphone and lifts the receiver. Dials home, and waits.

If his father picks up, Nakoa will hang up. He’ll return to the car, he’ll ride off into the sunset with Rem. If his father picks up, Nakoa won’t listen, won’t even speak. He’ll let the fucker wonder.

“Hello?”

It’s his mother. Nakoa’s heart clenches, nausea twists his stomach into knots. He voice cracks a, “Mom?” and he feels twelve years old again, the first time Michael hit him. Donna says nothing, though, so Nakoa says, “Did I lose you…?”

“No, one moment, let me get a pad…” Then, distantly, “Just someone from work, Michael, I’ll take this in the other room.”

Relief spreads through his veins, and his eyes burn with unshed tears. She’s keeping him from Michael, and—he chokes out a laugh. Thinks if she’s stood up for him years ago, this wouldn’t have happened.

“Nakoa,” she says, her voice watery and weak. “Are you okay? I won’t ask where you are, but are you okay? Do you need money? I can—” She pauses. “I don’t know how I would get it to you, but I /could/, sweetheart, I could.”

Nakoa grips the receiver, closes his eyes tight against the onslaught of tears. Fuck. “I didn’t—No, Mom, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

A sigh of relief. “Now I know you’re safe, yes.” Another pause. “Why did you leave?”

“Don’t—this isn’t. I’m not—” He leans his head against the phone box. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I miss you so much,” Donna says. It feels like Michael’s hands around his throat, hearing her words. “I wish you would come home.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.” He swallows. “I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. Okay?”

“You’ll visit, though, won’t you?”

Fear grips him tight around the throat. “No—I can’t—” Once upon a time, Nakoa thought maybe he’d never get out of his father’s sight. Now that he has, the idea of ever seeing him again…

He looks back at the van, at Rem playing air guitar in the driver’s seat. “I’ll—I’ll call again, okay?”

“Nakoa, wait!” Donna hesitates, then says, “He has people looking for you. You know your father is an influential man, I just… please be careful.”

People—why the fuck would Michael care about it. Why would he waste resources on finding his own fuck up of a son?

Nakoa shakes, anxiety rocking him apart. “I gotta go. Love you, bye.”

He slams the phone down in its cradle harder than he needs to, steps out of the phone box, and stumbles to the van. The rain’s at a downpour now, and when Nakoa climbs in the passenger seat, next to Rem, he’s soaked.

“How’d it go?” Rem asks, turning down the music. Then, seeing Nakoa’s expression, asks, “Hey, what the fuck—what’s wrong?”

Nakoa’s throat feels tight, tears burning at the corner of his eyes again. He blinks, says, “Nothing,” but then Rem’s hand is on his shoulder and Nakoa breaks.

His sobs are silent, quiet things sung to the backdrop of The Cure, and Rem pulls Nakoa into a hug, awkward from the angle but no less appreciated. He speaks against Nakoa’s ears, but the blood roars too loudly in his ears to be heard.

Searching for him. Nakoa thinks about the stories Rem’s told him, about the guy with a bat, the windshield, and, when he can speak, Nakoa asks, “Did you know?”

“Know what?” But Rem sounds sufficiently confused, and Nakoa doesn’t want to believe he’d lie to him, so he decides he doesn’t believe it. “Hey.”

Nakoa doesn’t look at him. Thinks back to all the stupid shit he’s said and done, the mixtape, leaving in the first place without a plan. “Rem.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” His voice is soft, and in the storm, Nakoa thinks this is the safest he’s ever felt. Locked away from the world in Rem’s arms.

Maybe it’s how lost he feels, maybe it’s Rem’s breath warm against his neck, but Nakoa still feels safe enough to say, “I think I’m in love with you.”

It doesn’t hurt to say them. Nakoa’s not sure if it’s because he already hurts so much, another piece of it won’t make it worse, or if it’s…

Rem’a lips brush against his neck, soft, softer than Nakoa’s used to from him, but he says nothing. After their morning, Nakoa’s surprised by his closeness, surprised by how easily he came to Nakoa, but.

“I’m an idiot,” Rem says.

Nakoa blinks. “That’s not exactly the response a guy wants to hear.” Rem laughs. “Neither is that.”

“It’s not… badly received, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Rem clears his throat, pulls away. “…you’re…that’s…”

“I wasn’t going to say it,” Nakoa says. “That’s what the tape was for. Kind of let you figure it out on your own.” Without Rem’s body heat, the van’s cold. Nakoa reaches for the knob for the heater, fingers shaking again. “I didn’t wanna fuck this up.”

Rem’s voice is soft when he says, “You wouldn’t have fucked it up. Hell, if I haven’t fucked it up…”

But commitment’s a different storm than… whatever it is they’ve been doing. Intertwined, but Nakoa knows the feelings he gets from Rem, but he’s wanted to fuck plenty of people. Rem goes farther than that.

He always has.

“Hey,” Rem says, knocking his elbow against Nakoa’s. “We’ll figure this out. That’s what we do, right?”

Figure it out. A weight settles in Nakoa’s chest. “Right.” He turns away. The van no longer feels like home, but like a prison. Maybe he was better off at home, under Michael’s thumb, or…

With a frustrated sigh, Rem says, “I’m not. I don’t mean—”

“Can we just not talk about it? Forget I said anything.”

“I can’t say it back.” Rem gives a frustrated groan. “I’ll get there, okay, I will. Just, this is important. You’re important.”

Nakoa certainly doesn’t feel that way. He clears his throat, wipes a hand down his face, and says, “Can we just go?”

-

He splurges for a hotel on the coast. It takes half of what Nakoa has left, but it’s worth it for two nights of the view of the ocean, for two nights with the salty breeze.

For two nights of Rem getting decent rest in his own bed.

They arrive at 9am to the hotel. Nakoa’s kept his distance for a while, after his accidental confession, and he hasn’t touched Rem without being touched since. He’s passed out in the passenger seat, instead of sleeping with Rem on the mattress, because the closeness feels wrong in the aftermath of Nakoa’s words.

But he steps out of the van and closes his eyes at the wind coming off the ocean, and feels peace. Water droplets spray his face, and Nakoa imagines what it might be like to drift away on waves like these, away from Michael, from money and the concern of where they’re going to sleep next.

Rem takes two towels from their room for the beach, and Nakoa disappears with a fake ID to the nearest liquor st to surprise him with a bottle of whiskey.

“Aw,” Rem says, twisting the top off. Behind him a sign reads, NO ALCOHOL ON BEACH. Rem downs half the small bottle and hands the rest to Nakoa. “You spoil me.”

Nakoa shrugs, downs the rest of it.

With the people around, Nakoa keeps to himself a little more, thankful for the excuse. Still, Rem has other ideas. “No one knows us here,” Rem says, against Nakoa’s neck. “We could fuck on the beach if you wanted.”

“And get thrown into jail?” Nakoa snorts. “Actually, fucking you might be worth the public indecency charge.”

Rem’s mouth is warm at his neck, sends shivers down Nakoa’s spine. “You think you can take me?” His voice is low, rough against Nakoa’s ear.

“Bold words,” Nakoa says, but instead of turning around and pulling him into a kiss, Nakoa elbows him in the ribs and ducks away, laughing as he takes off down the beach.

They settle, finally, a good distance away from the others. Nakoa slathers sunscreen across Rem’s back after he writes ‘fuck me’ with the lotion, feels the reverberation of Rem’s voice against his own hands as Rem speaks.

“I thought we could head back through the mountains, right? Montana, then through North Dakota.”

Nakoa wants to tell him they should go back to Colorado, but the place still has Nakoa checking over his shoulder, so maybe not. Maybe this is best, this haphazard map searching.

“Maybe settle in for a week somewhere,” Rem says. “Get a job or something.”

“You mean I get a job. When was the last time you held down anything?”

Rem shoots him a look over his shoulder, reaching for the lotion. “Depends. When was the last time I fucked you?” He pushes Nakoa back against the towel, bites at his neck. “I miss handcuffs.”

Through the fog building in his head and the heat building in his stomach, Nakoa says, “You lost the keys last time!”

“They were plastic!”

“You had to cut me out of them with wire cutters,” Nakoa says, but he’s grinning. Rem’s pressing kisses along his torso as he goes down, his hands holding him up, sinking into the sand. Nakoa really doesn’t want sand in his business anymore than strictly necessary. “I’d rather not be locked up and at your mercy for the rest of my life.”

“No?”

“Gotta have my fun too, don’t I?” For a few seconds, he just stares into Rem’s eyes, hoping, searching… until Rem pulls back with a goofy grin, and the world rights itself.

“What?” Rem’s eyes are shining.

Nakoa shrugs. “Nothing, just…” His gaze drifts, over Rem’s eyes, his hair, his tattoos—down the horizon, down the beach, across the water. From their spot in the sand, it’s hard to see anyone at all. They’re almost completely hidden by a small spot on the beach which is hidden by rocks. Rem has a mischievous glint in his eye, and he unbuttons Nakoa’s jeans, fingers moving so slow Nakoa can barely handle it, before Nakoa shoves him away with a laugh.

“Come on!”

“I’m not fucking you here,” Nakoa says, grinning like a fucking fool at Rem. He thinks about the mixtape, about Rem’s response. He thinks about what Rem had said about not being able to say it back.

He thinks about Rem, about how much Nakoa does love him, in spite of his bullshit, in spite of the shitty things that he drags them through.

Nakoa’s hands ache for a joint, and all he wants to do is get high and fuck, slow and leisurely, until Nakoa’s not sure where he ends and Rem begins, but Rem, here, sober and smiling and pleased…

He’ll take it.

Rem covers him in sunscreen and presses open mouthed kisses along Nakoa’s shoulders, then pulls him up against a rock and leans against one of the shadowed sides. Sunglasses sit atop Rem’s nose, blocking out the sun. He’s already turning red, though, Rem.

With a longing glance towards the water, Nakoa crawls up to lie beside Rem. He sinks into the warm sand, like a backrub against his muscles, cramped from the van. If he lifts his head, just a little, he sees Rem.

The warmth, the breeze, the distant sound of kids playing. Rem sitting at his feet, his breathing quiet and steady.

It’s more like this than it isn’t, but it’s still not often enough that Nakoa won’t take the brief respite from the bullshit.

Nakoa dozes. Dreams of small ocean-side cottages and sex in motel rooms, in resorts. Working at a job he doesn’t hate, of Rem’s smile and his laugh and the cadence to his voice when he’s trying to turn Nakoa on (so, always).

When he wakes, Rem’s fucking with a Walkman, fumbling tapes between his fingers. “Hey,” he says, nudging Nakoa with his foot. “Come here.”

So Nakoa goes, because he always goes, settles in between Rem’s legs, his back to Rem’s chest, and waits for Rem to plop the Walkman in his lap. Rem shoves the headphones on over Nakoa’s ears and says, “Listen. Yeah?”

His hand brushes down along Nakoa’s arm, and, after hesitating for just a second, Rem presses play.