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Bambam would've hesitated before getting in the car, if it would have made any difference. But he knew it wouldn't; he would've been fighting against the inevitable, purely acting as if he didn't want this, so instead he clamped his plump mouth shut and slid into the worn out leather seat of his lover's (were they lovers? Boyfriends? He didn't know. He didn't want to know) old and beaten truck, while rubbing his puffy eyes. (Mark said he found it in a junkyard, just...sitting there. Abandoned and unused, but still present with a spark of hope in it's hood. With a change of battery and a bit of rewiring, the American-Taiwanese had got the vehicle grumbling to life again with a mischievous glint in his dark orbs and a greasy smile quirking his lips. It wasn't long before he and Bambam were roaring down the roads of LA at 3am, pretending that at some point in the night they wouldn't have to turn back. They both knew they did.)
The Thai boy looked around at the interior that he, at an unknown point, had gotten to know like it was his own.The glove compartment that hung off it's hinges a fraction on the right side, which he knew contained a pack of cigarettes (nearly gone), a burned out lighter, a packet of tissues, occasionally some mint gum, 4 fake IDs and a rather generous sized bottle of lube. (Bambam always blushed impossibly darker when Mark's delicate hand reached for the compartment, stretching over his head as he bracketed the younger with his arms and ground down on his crotch, as if to satisfy him and make sure he doesn't get impatient and leave while he frantically searches for the essential liquid. Bambam would always wait for him. He would wait a lifetime for Mark.)
The raven haired boy smirked down at the welcome mat his slipper-clad feet were resting upon that hid the sharp edges of a hole in the metal floor. They still hadn't worked out what the cause for that could've possibly been, or how the truck still functioned, but the "Definitely Not a Crack House" slogan strewn across the fabric never failed to make the passenger smile.
Bambam's slim fingers fiddled nervously with the fabric of the ratty blanket that covered his seat, trying his hardest to unpick the knot that had formed in it's tassels as preoccupation. He didn't know why he was nervous, however. There just seemed to be a hidden meaning for this journey -- a shift in dynamics, perhaps, a new beginning for them as a couple. It was too good to be true, he knew this, but one could dream, right? (Bambam always felt as if he was dreaming when he was with Mark. It still hadn't settled in, even after a year, that they were together. Even as friends or acquaintances.)
It wasn't long after all these thoughts had floated through the Thai natives head that he stole a glance at Mark. The boy had one gentle hand gripping at the wheel, the other introducing a cigarette between his red bitten lips. Taking one last deep drag of the stick, Bambam's gaze trained on the dying flicker and how Mark's lips pursed into a tight 'o' to exhale the whispering smoke, he flicked the butt out onto the passing road and twisted the window up and shut, locking out any reverberations of the outside world and instead leaving the two with the low sound of the crackling radio and their laboured breathing. The ghost of a smile tugged at one corner of the older's mouth.
"Bambam," he spoke clearly, despite his husky voice, as if he was testing out the way it sounded on his tongue (as if he hadn't moaned it over and over again multiple times before in this very truck).
"Hm?"
Mark leaned down to change the radio station, the irritating crackle now becoming a comfortable hum, and then reached for the other's hand, lacing their digits together. Bambam's body was pulled back slightly as the older stepped on the gas. "Are you cold? You've only got that hoodie and pair of joggers on, after all."
The younger didn't answer, instead allowing the shake of his head to respond for him. He didn't consider the possibility that Mark wasn't watching.
"Good." That confirmed his previous impression. "Are you tired? I woke you up from a pretty deep sleep. Get some rest, love. Have a nap. I'll be okay, I can continue driving."
Bambam fell asleep to the lulling of Mark's thumb gliding across his.
Cuddling was something that Mark Tuan didn't do -- that was, however, unless you were Bambam... apparently. Sure, they had lied in each other's arms after a night of pleasure, basking in the bliss and sharing occasional wet kisses against layers of sweat on tanned skin; but never like this. Never with the younger's head resting on the American's chest, a familiar, albeit hesitant, hand carding through his dark tresses and no words having to be shared, instead layers of clothing covering their shivering bodies rather than the heat of sex. The older's heavy leather jacket came in handy for a strong weight of trapped warmth. Bambam didn't dare interrupt the serene silence, never wanting it to end, to die right there in this perfect scene that was snatched right out of a movie.
But he had to.
He had to know.
"Why are we here, Mark?"
He felt the older flinch in his hold, but a clearing of a croaky and unused throat assured Bambam that he was getting an answer.
"Just because I drive an old truck, wear leather jackets and smoke doesn't mean I don't want to cuddle with my boyfriend, Bammie."
Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend?! "Boyfriend?" The Thai native glanced up at his boyfriend (?) just as he glanced down, and their gaze locked in place like a predator locking in on it's prey.
"Oh, come on, quit the act. We both know we're more than just a good fuck. There's feelings between us and all that crap. I'm tired of avoiding it, Bam. And I know you are too."
"F-feelings?"
Mark sighed, but a laugh intertwined with it as he looked back up at the sky. "Y'know, if you weren't so adorable I probably would be yelling my confession at you right now."
"C-confession? Feelings?"
"Uh huh."
Bambam pushed on the other's chest to sit up abruptly, startling the older and causing him to tighten his grip on his arms as if he was about to bolt. "W...w-why didn't you say anything?!"
"Well, I-," it was Mark's turn to stutter, his shoulders hunching defensively into a shrug and his eyes flicking desperately across Bambam's face, "I didn't know how to."
"'I like you' would suffice!"
"Fine -- ! I like you. How was that?"
Bambam scoffed back a giggle. An actual fucking giggle. "You're unbelievable."
"You're insufferable." Before the younger could bite back, Mark curled a hand around his nape and dragged him down, crashing their lips together with force. They kissed -- a little wild at first, then softer -- but they kissed and kissed and kissed and then Mark was groaning and gripping at his lover's waist, almost lifting the other onto his lap as he sat up with the boy in his arms and his mouth dancing across his jaw, tongue darting out to taste the flesh every so often. Bambam's fingers sank firmly into Mark's hair, a whimper slipping past his cavern's rotund edges and they kissed until they were dizzy with heat and tongues and numbness. It was all too much, too surreal and perfect, the touch of Mark's warm hands slipping under his hoodie and caressing the lean muscles in his back as they shifted under his skin scorching.
They were panting when they parted, resting their foreheads against each other and grinning like children at Christmas. A beat passed, and then,
"Let's leave."
Bambam scoffed. "We can't, Mark."
"Yes, we can. Why else do you think I brought us all the way up here, instead of to my apartment or a secluded car park? I want this, Bambam. And if you want it too, we can truly do it. We can drive to San Fransisco by sunrise and never look back."
When Bambam wakes for the third time and the fresh sunlight glimmers across his eyes and across the waters of San Fransisco, all he can do is grin and lean his head against Mark's shoulder as they drive.
