Work Text:
Always pushing you away from me
But you come back with gravity
And when I call you come home
A bird in your teeth-phoebe bridgers
Peter begins to walk, his breathing is uneven and quick. His cheeks are wet. On his back is his backpack, in it are clothes and almost $200. He takes in a slow breath, exhales warm fog. “This is it,” Peter mumbles and puts in his earbuds, turns the volume all the way up. He walks.
Driving out into the sun/Let the ultraviolet cover me up/Went looking for a creation myth
He taps his finger to the beat, his thoughts are scattered and wild and what the hell am I doing? Everything about this screams bad idea but for once he refuses to listen. He maxes out the volume and pulls his jacket tighter around him, it’s late February but the chill still clings as the snow does to the leaves.
Ended up with a pair of cracked lips/Windows down, scream along/To some America first rap country song
He subconsciously licks at his lips. His thoughts begin to wonder to Harley. Everything they’ve ever done playing on repeat in his head. The late nights, the stargazing, the fights, the sex, the study sessions, the make-out sessions. The sudden disappearance. All of it. Peter thinks of all of it.
A slaughterhouse, an outlet mall/Slot machines, fear of God/Windows down, heater on
Peter thinks about how the cops refused to start a search party for someone who didn’t want to be found. Thinks about how he was told to just forget about him. There’s an empty seat next to his desk, an empty spot where he sits during lunch, a Harley sized hole in his heart. Before Peter realizes, he's running.
Big bolts of lightning hanging low/Over the coast, everyone's convinced/ It's a government drone or alien spaceship
His lungs already burn, his heart hammers and pounds and screams in his chest but he keeps running. Peter does not know where he is going but what he does know is that there is nothing behind him. He runs past shops and people, fire hydrants, and alleyways. He is not stopping, not this time.
Either way, we're not alone/I'll find a new place to be from/A haunted house with a picket fence
The first time Harley saw snow he was so happy. His smile was beautiful and bright and Peter was going to keep it there. Peter was going to see that smile again. Even if it killed him. He keeps running, the snow crunching underneath every step, warm puffs of air coming from every exhale.
To float around and ghost my friends/No, I'm not afraid to disappear/The billboard said the end is near
Peter runs along to the beat of the song, his cheeks are wet. He’s crying. He’s mad. He’s… hellbent. Peter wipes at his eyes, let’s the sting of it push him forward, swallows down all the memories of when Harley wiped away his tears. Peter. Keeps. Running. He does not know where he is going but what he does know is that there is nothing behind him, nothing but old faces, familiar places, and broken graces.
“I’ll find you, I promise. Just- just wait a little longer.”
I turned around, there was nothing there
Yeah, I guess the end is here-phoebe bridgers