but here, here you can feel infinite
but here, here you can feel infinite
brendon/spencer, g
504 words
by girlintheband
for sticky_sneakers' post #004 (prompt 2)
The car windows are splattered with rain drops, and the glass mists up a little every time Brendon turns towards it and looks out.
He leans closer, exhales purposefully, a long gust of warm air he can practically see in the air-conditioned cool of the car.
Outside, a storm is brewing.
The clouds are rolling in from the north, north-west maybe, surging and piling up and closing in on the highway, closer and closer, mushroom formation. The ones at the bottom, nearer to the ground, the fields, are some of the darkest clouds Brendon's ever seen - black and grey shot through with fierce aubergine purple, the kind that might indicate a tornado if you lived in the middle of a storm belt.
The clouds at the top are pale and fluffy, icing sugar frosting.
Brendon presses his fingertips to the glass, watches as the sun dips behind the clouds and everything goes dark, darker, illuminated in smouldering orange light. He tries his best to keep his eyes open, to blink as infrequently as possible; absorbed, he doesn't want to miss a single drop of rain or movement of clouds. He wants to roll the window down, wants it more than anything else in the world right now. His fingers twitch with the urge to do so.
Brendon wants to roll the window down, stick his hand out, feel the rain on his palm and watch it pool until it forms rivulets and runs down his fingers before falling to its watery death on the road-dirt-grass some inches beneath his hand.
The smell, too; he wants to smell it, the overwhelming freshness of cold rain on a hot, end-of-summer's day. He watches in rapt silence for minutes, so many minutes, until Spencer speaks up from the driver's seat.
"Hey," Spencer murmurs, softly, as if trying to wake someone. Brendon sits back in his seat and glances across at him, dropping his fingers from cool glass to warm thigh. The denim of his jeans feels gravelly and rough compared to the smooth plane of the window.
Spencer looks over at him quickly, and smiles, then looks forward again. Brendon watches the way the fading light casts shadows across his face, the way it changes when Spencer moves, and doesn't reply.
"You want to stop for a bit?" Spencer asks, eyes fixed on the road. "There's a rest stop about a mile from here."
Brendon looks out the windscreen, thinks about the asphalt under the tyres, thinks about the thousands of miles they've already covered.
"Sure," he says easily. He doesn't even have to think about it. He brings one foot up and tucks it underneath his thigh, tapping the side of his shoe against the fabric of the car seat. "What's another mile, right?" He grins, looking sideways at Spencer.
Spencer laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, but keeps his gaze fixed forward. They stay like that until they see the stop and pull over, just Brendon watching Spencer and Spencer watching the road.
brendon/spencer, g
504 words
by girlintheband
for sticky_sneakers' post #004 (prompt 2)
The car windows are splattered with rain drops, and the glass mists up a little every time Brendon turns towards it and looks out.
He leans closer, exhales purposefully, a long gust of warm air he can practically see in the air-conditioned cool of the car.
Outside, a storm is brewing.
The clouds are rolling in from the north, north-west maybe, surging and piling up and closing in on the highway, closer and closer, mushroom formation. The ones at the bottom, nearer to the ground, the fields, are some of the darkest clouds Brendon's ever seen - black and grey shot through with fierce aubergine purple, the kind that might indicate a tornado if you lived in the middle of a storm belt.
The clouds at the top are pale and fluffy, icing sugar frosting.
Brendon presses his fingertips to the glass, watches as the sun dips behind the clouds and everything goes dark, darker, illuminated in smouldering orange light. He tries his best to keep his eyes open, to blink as infrequently as possible; absorbed, he doesn't want to miss a single drop of rain or movement of clouds. He wants to roll the window down, wants it more than anything else in the world right now. His fingers twitch with the urge to do so.
Brendon wants to roll the window down, stick his hand out, feel the rain on his palm and watch it pool until it forms rivulets and runs down his fingers before falling to its watery death on the road-dirt-grass some inches beneath his hand.
The smell, too; he wants to smell it, the overwhelming freshness of cold rain on a hot, end-of-summer's day. He watches in rapt silence for minutes, so many minutes, until Spencer speaks up from the driver's seat.
"Hey," Spencer murmurs, softly, as if trying to wake someone. Brendon sits back in his seat and glances across at him, dropping his fingers from cool glass to warm thigh. The denim of his jeans feels gravelly and rough compared to the smooth plane of the window.
Spencer looks over at him quickly, and smiles, then looks forward again. Brendon watches the way the fading light casts shadows across his face, the way it changes when Spencer moves, and doesn't reply.
"You want to stop for a bit?" Spencer asks, eyes fixed on the road. "There's a rest stop about a mile from here."
Brendon looks out the windscreen, thinks about the asphalt under the tyres, thinks about the thousands of miles they've already covered.
"Sure," he says easily. He doesn't even have to think about it. He brings one foot up and tucks it underneath his thigh, tapping the side of his shoe against the fabric of the car seat. "What's another mile, right?" He grins, looking sideways at Spencer.
Spencer laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, but keeps his gaze fixed forward. They stay like that until they see the stop and pull over, just Brendon watching Spencer and Spencer watching the road.