WICKED BOY (27) (Patreon)

(I wrote this chapter while listening to “his hands” by “blegh” on repeat. It’s so inspiring and fitting for Milan’s feelings/feelings towards Ez. You should check it out and let me know what you think! The lyrics are amazing. Plus, the beat suits this chapter thanks to my obsessive repeat 🥲)

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The wind batters us with softness and strength all at once.

I feel wholly vulnerable.

The city lights are shimmering under a cold, wet, humid sky.  They blur together with tears as I watch through the glass of my tinted helmet, my hands moving from Ez's sides into a tight hold around his waist with a sharp turn.  There's the bass of a passing car, echoing and thrumming through my skin.  My heart is a wild flutter at each twist and curve of road.

I think I'm happy.

I can feel Ez's heartbeat through the spread of one of my hands.  That, coupled with his body heat, makes him feel like more of a man — and less of a mystery.

I'm not sure why I'm crying, but I am.

There's a liberty that comes with the noise of the road and the cover of my helmet to shield me, secrecy and openness all at one, a layer of anxiety, of adrenaline that's palatable under freedom, exhilaration, lightness, and the sanctuary that comes from being latched onto a back embellished an arching bat.

Ez's engine exists with a loudness, a rev here and there, a vibration that carries.  I feel it.  I feel more than ever — and I cry until my throat is sore.

The weight that has been ripening and thriving and weighing down my chest, this suffocating ache, drowns in it.

—

We drive for a long time.

HUXLEY REST STOP glows and flickers in the near distance, the city-smog and industrial smell of Pennbrook traded for grass that's desperately attempting to thrive after winter snow.  I watch as houses pass, buried behind long cobblestone paths, accompanying trailers, or trees, with acres of land between each.

Everything color compliments the earth, whether it's meant to or not, rusting or painted or somewhere in-between.  There are tin roofs.  There are haybales, large and scattered behind worn down and sinking picket fences and chicken-wire.  Sometimes there's the dark outline of horses or cows, a stray cat, a dog reentering his home through a make-shift doggy door.

I don't know why we're here.

If I speak loudly now, Ez would undoubtedly hear me, with just the sound of his engine and the road beneath us.   But I don't.  I don't question anything.  We pull into Huxley's diner, and as he stops, his legs spread and boots pressed against the pavement to balance us, I dread the idea of letting go of him.

But I do.  I release my hold like it's something that burns — something unwanted.  I tell myself not to do it again.  Ez turns to me after he lifts his helmet, and I can tell that he's waiting for me to do the same.

I'm not sure if my eyes are dry, so I don't.  I sit, and I stare at him through the tint.  The lights of W 67th are dimmer this way, but still pool light behind him, and his eyes are just as bright.  He's just as bright.

Ez reaches up, slowly, like he's more curious than anything.  I let him remove my helmet for me, and my hair ruffles and sticks to the places where it's long enough to reach my smeared tears.  His jaw sets, and I watch him.

I can't stop watching him.

There's a strange feeling that hums inside of me after I cry.  And more often than not — it's why I don't.  There's a hole that tends to linger.  It feels empty and careless.  A monster of an ache that tried to escape and then hunkers down in my stomach and numbs everything it lies beside.

Ez's brows gather, and he frowns.  He reaches, like he may just want to wipe another tear that's threatening to spill — one that's trapped within my eyelashes.

I can feel it too.

"Don't touch me,"  I whisper.  It's hoarse.  He's done too much. I feel too much.  I want him to touch me, and that's precisely why I ask him not to.  Ez's eyes narrow.  He stares a lot longer than I can handle his gaze.  I check my watch.

I inhale, and my breath shakes when it escapes.

"We should go.  Your shift is almost up."

"...The ride doesn't count,"  Ez says and pulls back his own back on.  His voice is rougher; his movements are less careless.  "Put your helmet back on."

There was a look that I couldn't dissect, just as I can never seem to.

I listen, but it doesn't stop me from asking why.

"My place is a few miles down."

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