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honestly. honestly and truly -
one of his hands is on the cool, smooth handle of the car door and the other is in the hand of someone else. he can see himself mirrored in the chrome reflection of the handle but for a moment, it’s like looking at a stranger.
he can’t remember how he got here.
whoa, he thinks.
“fuck,” he says. breathes out a huff that sounds like a laugh. it isn’t a laugh - it’s the effect of how suddenly he feels like someone has just knocked all the air out of him. i’m way more fucked up than i realized.
the hand in his hand flexes; fingers threaded with his own. the voice from behind him is soft. hey. unexpected, and unfamiliar. a small rush of remembering. that voice, the music, the little tab of acid he had dropped under his tongue dissolving and the world beginning to melt - he remembers all of that.
the girl, the one with the voice and his hand, had offered him a drink.
back inside, back when things were just kicking off, ghoul had stood there and thought proudly -
we’re doing better. he would say this to no one, but he’d think it. it comes and goes in waves, and at the crest there’s this: days like this, nights like this, when the fact that they’re here makes them feel like the luckiest people alive.
there is no excess of anything between he and party on nights like this. no animosity, no nagging want, no bad blood, no hurt. a normal amount of feelings. neutral, at least on the surface.
(beneath, in ghoul’s mind, there is a cloying and compulsive adoration. his own special kind of lovesickness, all rot and desire.
out here, there are a lot of false gods. idols for the idle. he finally found his.)
but for now, for tonight -
evenness. status quo. and still he thinks, because they’re not getting worse: we’re getting better.
when everything started to drip and swirl around him, there came the girl with the drink, her eyes wide and round. what she offers him from a scratched up plastic bottle with a wide mouth, covered in the sparse remains of vinyl stickers may very well be gasoline or acetone. it tastes a bit like both. but ghoul drinks anyway, and so does she, and the next few hours pass with them attached at the hip and then at the mouth.
and everything is okay, everything is good until she says, “do you wanna go somewhere?” her eyes are green and her skin is pliant and hot under his hands and he can’t help but say yes. he isn’t stupid (not that stupid, not even when he’s this high) and he knows he needs to tell someone where he’s off to and it’s unfortunate that party is the first person he finds.
(party, sitting at the bar, turns his head and looks beyond amused when his eyes fall on ghoul and follow the length of his arm, the line of his shoulder, the girl’s eyes barely visible there, her index finger tracing lazy circles around the tattoos on the side of ghoul’s neck. he doesn’t have to say anything.
there is a stalemate, a seconds long silent standoff.
“take the car,” party says. it sounds almost like a dare. party would never, ever in a million years offer him the car so freely unless there was something in it for him. ghoul thinks it’s a joke until he watches party snake his hand down inside his jacket pocket and produce the keys. he tosses them, and ghoul is so taken aback that he fumbles and nearly drops them. he catches them all wrong, the teeth and ridges biting into his palm.
ghoul stares. the girl’s fingers dance lazily along the line of his jaw. party raises his eyebrows.
“go, before i stop being nice.”
so he goes.)
and he finds himself at the door of the car pausing, more sober than he’s been in hours, feeling like he’s done something wrong; like he’s walked into a trap.
the girl squeezes his hand again, her fingers dainty and too smooth, warm despite the temperature tonight, bitterly cold and it makes ghoul remember the warmth he had felt in his throat and stomach when she kissed his neck so he opens the car door and watches her climb inside. he follows.
her hair is red, but really red. real red. (not like party.) it looks so strange and wild in the light that halos her head through the window at her back, so unreal that he reaches out to touch it. he tucks her hair behind her ear, slides his hand to the nape of her neck and tangles his fingers in the hair there. he pulls in a way that makes her head fall back, her mouth fall open. when he draws his fingers away, they aren’t stained with the color of her hair. no crimson dye circling his fingerprints. not like party at all.
and her eyes are green - the greener side of hazel, paler and softer. (not like party’s.) she looks at him like she doesn’t know all of his secrets, and like she wants him. like he has something she needs. not like party at all.
it’s where the comparisons end, and ghoul feels a little bit sick to his stomach when he realizes he’s compared them at all.
he can’t remember her name and doesn’t care that it doesn’t matter. she’s not party - and for better or worse, that’s something.
there’s a sour taste in his mouth over it; the pretty girl under him in the backseat gone all soft and languid, the fact that he can only think about party when he kisses her and she hums beneath him. (she asks him, “touch me?” and he thinks about the fact that party would never, has never asked him. he has only ever said it as if it were a foregone conclusion, as if it were fate: touch me. party has a way of speaking things into existence, rewriting history. ghoul has a way of letting him get away with it, conveniently forgetful of what was or what should be.
it’s nice to be asked, is all. different. he reaches between them and pushes the hem of her skirt up her thighs.)
she is all smooth corners and rounded flesh. he mouths at her neck and thinks that she smells a little like rain. he tugs at her skirt, slides his hand over the soft curve of the inside of her thigh, pushes her panties to the side. she’s wet and warm in a way he has forgotten is so good and he makes a quick, embarrassing noise in the back of his throat at the feeling. she licks up into his mouth when he does, curls her hands into the front of his shirt.
he’s sure it won’t take her long to come like this, won’t take more than his fingertips pressing against her, steady movements to match her breathing. her hips stutter and his fingers slip and he’s sure this is it, can feel the tension-wire pull of her muscles.
the front door opens, mysteriously unlocked, and someone climbs into the driver’s seat in one swift motion. practiced and precise. the girl gasps, jesus fuck, and ghoul sits up straight, his hand on his gun. he is going to say: who the fuck do you think you are? but only gets as far as the softness at the start of who before the person speaks -
“don’t mind me.”
it’s party, adjusting the rear view mirror until the back window is gone from sight and in the reflection is the pair in the backseat.
what he should do is keep his hand on his gun, what he should do is meet party’s eyes in the mirror and tell him to leave. what he should do is open the door, pull the girl out of the backseat, apologize. he should be ashamed enough for the both of them, for himself and party, for putting a stranger in this position. he should want to say sorry to her -
he should want to stop.
but when he does manage to look up into the rear view mirror, his heart sinks into his stomach and pools. liquid heat. party is watching, calculating. cool. he should want to stop, but now he just wants more.
“un-fucking-believable,” he half-whispers, his forehead falling onto the girl’s collarbone. her heart is beating quickly, deeply in a way that reminds him of a bunny’s heartbeat. fluttery and gentle but so persistent in his ear - fight or flight, maybe. excitement? he wouldn’t hate to think so.
“did we get shy?” party asks, and ghoul can hear the little smile in his voice - it’s not a kind smile; he’s seen it a million times. the girl shifts slightly but makes no move to pull her skirt back over her hips and this is so goddamned stupid -
“will you get out?” ghoul says without looking up, his mouth still pressed against the girl’s skin. (she has a scar beneath the ridge of her collarbone and it runs, jagged and pale, over the swell of her left breast and disappears further down, inside of her shirt. he hadn’t noticed it before. in spite of party watching or because he is, ghoul ghosts his mouth against it. the air in the car seems to hum with electricity.)
party doesn’t get out. he clicks his tongue. says, “we have a guest. don’t be rude.” ghoul wants to know since when this was about what we have but he doesn’t have time to ask. party turns halfway, looks at both of them. he throws his arm atop the seat, casual, like he didn’t interrupt anything.
“i’m sorry about him,” party placates, tilting his head down to meet the girl’s eyes. “his manners aren’t his strong suit. ghoul, you shouldn’t speak for her. she’s a big girl. she doesn’t mind if i stay.”
ghoul once again wishes he could be angry. wishes that he could find it in himself to grow a spine and pick a fight but he can’t - not now. the girl looks at him and he doesn’t remember her looking this young back when she first offering him a drink from her canteen. there’s a flush in her cheeks that wasn’t there before, a haziness in her pupils all blown out and dark and this is so, so fucked up. party glances at ghoul and then back at the girl like it’s a test.
“you don’t mind, right, honey?” party says, soft but firm. he says honey like he could make that her name and it would be, even if it wasn’t before, says it like it’s a badge or a brand. ghoul shouldn’t be surprised when she shakes her head gently, her hair falling forward, brushing her shoulder. i don’t mind.
“see?” party reaches out and taps his knuckles against ghoul’s arm. it looks unintentional and absentminded but it isn’t; he may as well have just stuck out his hand and cupped ghoul’s jaw in his hand and squeezed tightly enough to make his teeth ache - it feels just the same. “i told you she didn’t mind.”
(and god said, let there be light and it was so.
ghoul wants so badly to understand that kind of power. but he can’t so he finds himself doing what any believer does, finds himself ready to kneel down again. supplicant.)
the same hand that he had used to nudge ghoul with, party extends again and ghoul almost flinches. almost. but the fingers stretch to touch the plane of the girl’s cheekbone, the supple roundness of her face. party strokes her skin like she’s porcelain, like she’s precious. if ghoul didn’t know him, he would say it was tender. he feels such a rush of jealousy that his vision swims for a moment, and he isn’t sure who he’s more jealous of; party, for finding something else to take from him or her for being so easily taken.
“ghoul,” party chides, without taking his eyes off of her. “are you going to keep her waiting or are you going to finish what you started?” his voice is almost a whisper.
ghoul doesn’t say another word. he doesn’t lift his head from her collarbone. seamlessly, like he never stopped, he slides his hand between her legs and she gasps. he works his fingers against her clit, let’s her push her hips down onto his hand. he teases lower, presses into her enough that her breath catches in her throat. he bites a bruise over the scar on top of her breast, doesn’t make her say please - sinks one finger into her and then another.
when he shifts back to look at her, he realizes that party has gone from stroking the girl’s cheek to twisting a lock of her fine hair around his finger, forming a delicate little curl next to her ear. ghoul wishes he had a pair of scissors - wishes he could cut the locks away and keep the two of them apart. covetous, again, but still unsure of whom. he curves the two fingers he has inside of her and she arches under him.
he works until she’s taken another finger, thumbs her clit until she starts to tremble. party is still playing with her hair, but he’s looking at ghoul when he promises, incessant and sure - he’ll take care of you. won’t you? you’re going to make her feel good, he’s going to make you feel so good, honey.
she kicks the car door when she comes. her body goes taut, then yielding.
he’s no more than pulled his hand away from beneath her skirt when he feels fingers circle his wrist. party leans over the backseat to grab ghoul’s arm and he yanks, unnecessarily hard in the small space between them, and pulls the fingers slick with her cum into his mouth.
“oh my god,” she rasps from between them, below them, and ghoul hopes that he doesn’t look as brainless and desperate as he feels.
“you’re being a bad host.” party says after a moment, disengaging his mouth from ghoul’s fingers with a wet pop. he reaches out to pull the girl up until she’s sitting. she looks at party like she’s waiting for instructions, seeking an order, and all he does is nod his head. she seems to understand what this means, and ghoul hates that they’re speaking to one another without saying a single thing. he can’t fixate on it for long: she nudges him backwards, one of knees sinking into the seat and the other near the floorboard. she leans in, looks up at him, and her fingers start to pull at his belt.
she doesn’t seem fazed when the door behind her opens and party slides in behind her, closes it back with a soft click. she has worked her hand inside of his jeans now, has slipped her fist around him, and he’s so hard it hurts. you didn’t even take her jacket, party observes, and he peels it down her shoulders and off of her arms.
ghoul has a moment where he thinks that if party touches her, he’ll be sick. in the end, what he does is worse; party pulls the mess of red hair off her neck and leans closer. he whispers.
ghoul doesn’t know what it is he says, but she nods. she nudges ghoul again until he’s sat down and she climbs into his lap, catlike and smooth.
“go ahead,” party says, his hand curving around the shape of her hip. “i’ll tell you how he likes it.”
party’s mouth never touches her neck, her ear, but he stays right there, a devil on her shoulder and ghoul thinks he should’ve never, ever let any of this happen. he thinks this was a mistake until her hand curls around him again, and then he doesn’t think anything at all: his mind goes blank for a moment when she moves her hips and slides him into her. party watches.
oh fuck, he hears himself murmur, sounding far away before his head lilts back against the window and his eyes flutter closed.
“tell him to look at you.” he hears party say and in the next moment, the girl’s hand is around his neck.
“look at me.” she repeats, her voice all uneven and sweet. he listens, looks - watches how she moves against him, around him. he watches party lean in and whisper again and the fingers on the column of his throat tighten. it’s almost too much, sensory overload, and ghoul grabs her hips so hard that he’s worried it’ll bruise. (so different, they’re nothing alike, and it’s more apparent here with both of them in the backseat with him
she is delicate and silky and she gives in places he isn’t used to, in ways he doesn’t expect. she has curves in all the places party is sharp-cornered and unforgiving.)
if his hands hurt, she doesn’t show it. she studies his face the way he’s only ever imagined people study art or religion, nods her head when party says something else against the shell of her ear.
“that’s it,” party is saying, “that’s it, that’s it.” and ghoul isn’t sure anymore if party is talking to him or to her, but it seems like the right thing to say. there is a familiar heat building in his stomach. he lets go of her hip, reaches past the girl to fist his hand in the soft leather of party’s jacket and he is close, so close —
and then she’s gone. she raises herself off of his hips, replaces the heat of her cunt with the softness of her hand. (party is saying good, good girl, no longer a whisper and ghoul wants to punch him in the mouth. he thinks: i could be good, too.)
“spit,” party instructs and she does - and ghoul doesn’t understand how his brain hasn’t short-circuited by now.
more. wetter. party knows this. he says as much, leans over the girl’s shoulder and spits onto her fist, onto ghoul’s cock and the slickness turns torturous, perverse. that’s it, that’s it, that’s it party is urging, pushing, watching the twisting of her wrist while she jerks him off and ghoul is sure he’s going to black out when he sees party’s fingers slip around hers.
the world goes still and bright and quiet behind his eyes. he cums across both of their hands, spit-slick and messy.
“look at that, honey,” he hears, and he isn’t sure anymore who party is talking to but he imagines that it’s him, likes to think that the syruppy richness in party’s voice is just for him even though he knows that it isn’t because nothing about party belongs to anyone else.
there is quick shuffling, the door opening. ghoul watches the girl tug her skirt back down over her hips, watches her shimmy back into her jacket. before she goes, she kisses him - it’s more chaste than he thought possible, unbearably light. a strange kindness; and then she’s gone.
there’s only quiet, and the small rasp of a lighter outside the car. (he pictures this: that she stood up straight from the backseat and toe-to-toe with party, he coiled her red hair behind her ear one last time and said i never wanna see you again.
maybe that’s the way it happened. maybe not.)
cigarette smoke drifts in and the backseat smells like tobacco and sex. ghoul runs his hands through his hair, buttons his jeans, fastens his belt and tries to steady his hands before he opens the door and stands. party is leaning with his arms on top of the car, cigarette burning away between his fingers. he looks at ghoul like he’s transparent, like he’s looking through him.
there it is again - the silence. the gridlock.
“have fun?” party finally asks, exhaling a cloud of smoke and ashing the cigarette into the air.
ghoul isn’t sure if there’s a right answer, so he says, “sure, fun,” and the quiet settles back in, the kind of quiet that only exists when there aren’t words for what anyone really wants to say. so: it will remain unsaid. so: it will be what it always is, and they aren’t getting better after all, but maybe it just can’t get worse. so: maybe they’re finally even. for now.
around them, the desert is unmoving. the world spins on. ghoul still loves him. it’s just the way things are, and maybe the way they always will be. after a few more moments of quiet, ghoul stretches his arm across the top of the car. he gestures for the cigarette and party takes one more drag - leans over into the middle of the tangle of everything between them.
their hands meet there. their fingers brush.