#mannnnnn there’s so much I love here like OOFFF Harrison staunching Lonan’s nose bleed ???

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

lonan & harrison almost get into a car accident & then things get bloody & intimate somehow (from 2020? 2021?):

read the full scene under the cut!

Harrison nods. He presses a palm to the cold window until his print transfers, then stares out the window through his fingerprints. As Lonan makes a right, closer to the water, Harrison stares at its surface, the way it shifts and bends with sunlight. He nearly dissolves inside the car. Doesn’t feel its steady pulse against the road or even notice the re-fogging of the window pane. He sees himself and his mother standing on that water, finding a new place to dive into this new life and nothing more. Just newness.

And then Lonan nearly crashes into an oncoming pickup truck. It happens so quickly, Harrison isn’t certain it’s even occurred or if he’s even stopped looking at the water. But when he turns, only slightly, barely moving his head, a tie of blood stripes Lonan’s upper lip, and the car stalls so long in the middle of the road that at least three cars nearly rear-end it.

“Pull over,” Harrison says, so slowly, it is as if he tastes the words individually before letting them out. “Lonan, pull over.”

But he doesn’t see him. Lonan is so still, Harrison almost believes he’s imagined his presence, and would call himself delusional if it weren’t for the subtle movement of the blood. It pearls into his mouth, yet Lonan never looks at the direction it flows. Instead his gaze stays pointed to the waterfront, glimmering.

Harrison doesn’t know how he takes the wheel, or how he manages to ungracefully tuck them onto a side street. Doesn’t know when the tree-shaped air-freshener skitters from the rear-view, or when it stops. How long it takes for the car’s frizz to still, how long Lonan sits in the driver’s seat, nearly drinking his own blood.

Harrison reaches for him. One hand on the back of his neck, and the other reared toward the red stream. His touch is tactful, so faint his fingerprints wouldn’t even be left behind, but still, the dabbing with his jacket’s hem is enough to redirect the blood’s flow from Lonan’s upper lip to the cuff of leather.

The radio is still on, garbled like an unmassing of crepe paper lanterns. Harrison’s instinct is to hum, and so he does, wrings Lonan’s blood free, and puffs quarter notes. In this time, Lonan doesn’t stir. His eyes remain open, but he stares, hulled, out the front windshield. His blood daggers down Harrison’s wrists, pools in his palms like holy water, and yet it takes the nosebleed’s eventual taper for him to even suggest he is still alive.

It’s just the subtle tick of his jaw at first. And then his bloody nose twitches. A rush of air as he inhales, and then its vibrato as he exhales. Lonan stares ahead as he conjoins back to his body, his eyes flitting to the now still air-freshener and then the glove compartment and then the hand still ledged across his top lip.

Slowly, he peels Harrison’s fingers away, and then tucks his own between them, not an act of intimacy, but documentation. He feels for the blood to be certain it is there.

“It was the water,” Harrison says, studies the ooze of red between their palms. It’s almost impossible to detect where one plane of skin ends and another starts. He thinks of what Lonan mentioned in passing, that Eliza drove them into a lake. He believed him then—it seems like something she would do—but also did not believe him, or at least, didn’t want to.

Lonan squeezes his nose-bridge with his freehand and paves a stray tendril of blood across his cheek.

“You’re stressed,” Harrison says.

“I thought you said I was disturbed.”

“What’s the difference?”

Lonan releases Harrison’s hand, but not before he pinches the leather cuff of the jacket, sponged with blood. He cleans his hands on his jacketfront and buries them under his arms.

“I’ll pay to get that dry cleaned,” he says.

Harrison scoffs. He doesn’t know why he finds Lonan’s indifference entertaining or if Lonan is indifferent at all, if he’s merely embarrassed or flustered or still unpresent. “I stole all your money.”

“Then I’ll get a job. I don’t want to make a mess.” Lonan’s tone is surprising. He sounds almost angry, or maybe desperate.

Harrison holds his bloody fingers to eyelevel, memorizes the flood of his fingerprints, what pattern they make when he leans forward and scores his thumb against Lonan’s throat. “What are you making a mess of?”

Lonan releases one of his hands and then his seatbelt. It scrolls back into its holster with a satisfying click. Though he never does say anything, instead pulling the car back into drive and resuming their route to nowhere, Harrison sees the answer in his face.

You.

who up and interested in reading a deleted scene from feeding habits