Work Text:
The scrawls of his pen can be heard from across the room.
"Aren't you going to bed yet?" Pitts asked. He draws a pout, tentatively looking at Meeks. They never accounted their shared apartment as something small, but it wasn't all big in size either. Though it was and had been enough space for the two of them to spend their weekends and free periods, seeing as the building was only a street away from Yale.
Pitts watched as Meeks made a drained attempt to scrawl something on a piece of paper, then to the typewriter--He was barely awake, stiffling a yawn every few seconds, eyes being only a millimeter close to being sewn shut. He was actually half-surprised he still had not bumped head-first on his desk. It was probably some essay. History. Ick.
"Later." Later normally meant something like no, never. When Meeks shook his head, grimacing as he stared lifelessly at the paper, he says; "You know how Mr. Burton gets."
So History, it was. "You need your sleep, Steven."
His eyes remained glued to the paper. "No."
Pitts sighed. He wanted--needed--to sleep, but so does Meeks. And Steven not getting his minimum eight hours a day was definitely not something Pitts was going to let slip. "It's"--He turns his head to the direction of the clock, squinting his eyes--"three in the morning. And Friday."
"But it--ugh," Meeks stops at the same as pushing his glasses, (He bought new ones earlier this week. Pitts thought they were really pretty), bringing his face closer to the paper then farther as he scribbled some phrases out. Meeks bites his lip, a mannerism he had picked up since the sixth grade.
The room went quiet, if not for the little clicks his typewriter made. That was how it was for some time.
"Do you want to go to Mary's?" Pitts asked, quickly, but it comes out more as a command than question. He is sitting on the bed, knees pressed against his chest, and arms wrapped around them, eyes still focused on Meeks.
Mary's was this little diner half-way across town. Mary Ann's actually, but they liked to cut it three letters short. A fourty, probably fifty, minute drive. But the milkshakes and chips never failed to dissappoint, or at least not for Pitts, that was.
But he was not hungry. He just needed to get Meeks into some sort of fully-functioning moving vechile.
Actually, Mary's does not sound too bad.
Meeks blinks repeatedly, head turning to face Pitts at last. He studies his face for a while. "Right now?"
When Pitts nods, Meeks' eyebrows furrow, confused. Curious, too, probably. "Right now." He echoes.
"It's night, Ger."
"I know," he says, because he does. And night, as it goes, meant getting your--again--daily eight hours of sleep. Pitts sneezes, for absoloutely no reason at all ("Bless you." "Thanks,"). "C'mon, Stevie."
Meeks looks down at the sheet of paper, a sigh escaping his lips as he sets the piece on top of his notebooks, topping it with a pencil pouch so it could not fly away. His glasses fall to the edge of his nose's bridge when he turns around. The answer comes out quick: "Fine." Meeks pauses, sighs. "We are coming back to finish my assignment."
That was all it took, surprisingly.
Next thing they know, both were standing outside the narrow 3-storey building, car parked beside. The cold brushes through their hair, body, clothes, and Meeks shivers when an awfully freezing breeze seemed to have passed them. But it was October, anyway. What more did he expect?
It takes a minute to go through his jangle of keys, but eventually Pitts was able to unlock the doors, letting the two of them inside (Meeks chose to settle down on the backseat. He always does). He had managed to turn on the heater, first thing. Meeks and his terribbly thin skin had never been more grateful.
"I'm one degree close to turning into an ice cube."
"It's not that cold, Stevie."
"Says you."
There is a blanket scattered around the back seat that Meeks uses to engulf himself around in, dating back to a few weeks from when they had watched a sappy rom-com from a drive-in movie place. They always do, that was their thing. Pitts and Meeks had lots of things, actually.
One would be surprised.
Meeks leans his head on the window as they begin to move.
"...And you cannot believe what Knox made me do...!" He receives a few quiet laughs (courtesy of Steven Meeks, as always) every now and then as he resumes to gush about his day. The time is now three-sometime-in-the-morning. Keep a Knockin' plays on the radio channel, and the car is moving at approximately 43 miles per hour.
Until it stops. "I need to go to the bathroom." Pitts says, unbuckling his seatbelt. Mary's was not until another several streets.
His arms are too lanky, but he stretches, nevertheless. Tries to, at least.
When the car is too quiet, Pitts turns to the back. "Steven?" It's barely a whisper, but audible, still.
Pitts doesn't notice it when he smiles.
It was like a sense of achievement. Somehow.
He ended up driving the way home, instead. (Pitts did stop at some fast food for fries, but that matters to no one)
The lights had this sort of flickering effect as they pass a street lamp once every few seconds. Meeks stays asleep on the back, red curls peaking out of the juniper blanket. He always considered himself a heavy sleeper.
It stays like this for a while.
When Meeks wakes up, he's back at their apartment.
He grunts, pulling the comforter away from him. Looking around the room, he spots the window: The light that seeps through the glass panes is faint. The sky a shade of orange blue compared to the black a few--probably several--hours back. It's probably six or seven in the morning. he finds himself thinking, Damn you, Pittsie.
It's too early for some regular Saturday morning, but he gets up anyway.
Breakfast is ready the moment he enters the sala.