[Original fiction] Wanderlust
Note: I have no idea what this is. I was on another weheartit kick last night and then this happened. It doesn't really make sense, I don't think; it's just a few character sketches. The characters: two nameless boys, one a city runaway, the other a country boy. They meet and go on a roadtrip. Please let me know if it's any good. I kind of fell in love with them in less than 600 words.
Wanderlust
He’s a boy with dark hair falling over his eyes, too long. There’s something quite like a smile at the corners of his lips and a glint in the deep brown of his eyes.
He’s running from something. If it weren’t obvious from his demeanor, the backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder and the guitar over the other added with his unkempt, unwashed hair and equally rumpled clothes suggest a quick and unruly escape. His plaid shirt is unbuttoned so that a smooth chest can be seen beneath. His black skinny jeans are nearly brown with dust and mud, an exact reflection of the roads outside.
Really, nothing about him should be attractive as he is right now. But even though he’s a cliché, every bad metaphor rolled into one person, there’s something in the way he holds himself that is captivating, striking right down to the core.
This boy has secrets. But there’s nothing intriguing about a boy on an adventure if he has everything to go home to and nothing to hide.
There was a single truth in this town: Nothing ever came here without a story to tell.
---
It’s chilly outside behind the store, the sun just below the horizon. The lingering scent of tobacco from the last employee’s smoke break tickles my nose unpleasantly.
“Why?” I ask, curled against his side, selfishly taking his body heat. I’m gripping his hand within mine, running my fingers over the calluses and scars, wondering their stories. “Why’d you run away?”
“Wanderlust,” he breathes.
“Wanderlust,” I repeat, rolling it off my tongue, trying it out for size. There’s something in the way it feels in my mouth that ignites something within me.
“Come with me,” he whispers.
“Yes,” I say. It was never really a question.
---
Somewhere in Canada, British Columbia I think, he drives my beat-up old Mustang into a gas station. I’m still half-asleep in the passenger’s seat, a drool spot prominent on my arm where I’d been resting my head.
Outside, he’s gassing up the car, leaning against it in a sad attempt to block himself from the cold.
It’s barely morning and I’m barely functional, but I can think enough to know that I need to pee. Absently, I pull on the nearest hoodie and step out of the car. He looks up at me, his not-quite-smile on his face, using my wrist as leverage to pull me to him. He kisses me and I forget the cold, forget that we are far away from home.
He pulls back as the gas flow stops. I step away and trudge the few feet to the store. Inside, I can feel my limbs start to thaw as I make my way to the restroom. It’s a shitty little place, really, rust and mildew eating away at the fixtures and tiles. As I look at myself in the mirror, I became aware that I didn’t look much better than my surroundings. My hair was standing in every direction possible. Dark circles had made themselves at home under my eyes. I was in desperate need of a shave; it’d been days.
I make the best with what I could, tossing water on my face, on my hair, rinsing out my mouth. It isn’t much.
When I walk back out, he is paying. He takes one look at me and chuckles. Taking my hand, we trod out the door.
“I think we’re due for a proper bed,” he says.
Wanderlust
He’s a boy with dark hair falling over his eyes, too long. There’s something quite like a smile at the corners of his lips and a glint in the deep brown of his eyes.
He’s running from something. If it weren’t obvious from his demeanor, the backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder and the guitar over the other added with his unkempt, unwashed hair and equally rumpled clothes suggest a quick and unruly escape. His plaid shirt is unbuttoned so that a smooth chest can be seen beneath. His black skinny jeans are nearly brown with dust and mud, an exact reflection of the roads outside.
Really, nothing about him should be attractive as he is right now. But even though he’s a cliché, every bad metaphor rolled into one person, there’s something in the way he holds himself that is captivating, striking right down to the core.
This boy has secrets. But there’s nothing intriguing about a boy on an adventure if he has everything to go home to and nothing to hide.
There was a single truth in this town: Nothing ever came here without a story to tell.
---
It’s chilly outside behind the store, the sun just below the horizon. The lingering scent of tobacco from the last employee’s smoke break tickles my nose unpleasantly.
“Why?” I ask, curled against his side, selfishly taking his body heat. I’m gripping his hand within mine, running my fingers over the calluses and scars, wondering their stories. “Why’d you run away?”
“Wanderlust,” he breathes.
“Wanderlust,” I repeat, rolling it off my tongue, trying it out for size. There’s something in the way it feels in my mouth that ignites something within me.
“Come with me,” he whispers.
“Yes,” I say. It was never really a question.
---
Somewhere in Canada, British Columbia I think, he drives my beat-up old Mustang into a gas station. I’m still half-asleep in the passenger’s seat, a drool spot prominent on my arm where I’d been resting my head.
Outside, he’s gassing up the car, leaning against it in a sad attempt to block himself from the cold.
It’s barely morning and I’m barely functional, but I can think enough to know that I need to pee. Absently, I pull on the nearest hoodie and step out of the car. He looks up at me, his not-quite-smile on his face, using my wrist as leverage to pull me to him. He kisses me and I forget the cold, forget that we are far away from home.
He pulls back as the gas flow stops. I step away and trudge the few feet to the store. Inside, I can feel my limbs start to thaw as I make my way to the restroom. It’s a shitty little place, really, rust and mildew eating away at the fixtures and tiles. As I look at myself in the mirror, I became aware that I didn’t look much better than my surroundings. My hair was standing in every direction possible. Dark circles had made themselves at home under my eyes. I was in desperate need of a shave; it’d been days.
I make the best with what I could, tossing water on my face, on my hair, rinsing out my mouth. It isn’t much.
When I walk back out, he is paying. He takes one look at me and chuckles. Taking my hand, we trod out the door.
“I think we’re due for a proper bed,” he says.