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As Rolan sleeps in the passenger seat (Kian'd claimed the whole backseat for himself, the prick), he snores.
Rand knew that already, he'd always snored at sleepovers back when they were kids; a nasally rumble through his nose and a quiet puff of air out of his mouth. It's the same snore from back then, that same comforting sound Rand had found himself drifting off to after Rolan had crawled through his bedroom window, unannounced. "Needed some time away," he'd always mutter before flopping onto Rand's bed, but Rand usually knew. A bad mark on the math test Rolan'd spent the week struggling to study for, a one-sided shouting match from his dad, and a dozen switches on the arm. They'd take turns smoking cigs out the window so it wouldn't cling to Rolan's clothes and listen to Zeppelin and make each other laugh before they'd fall asleep next to each other on the floor. It's a comfort, that snore. Nostalgic.
It's different now though.
Rand had nearly pissed himself when he'd first heard it, almost falling asleep at the wheel himself before a staccato click, click, click had him slamming his foot on the gas to speed faster along the interstate. His first thought was that they'd been followed, somehow, someway, they all hadn't been melted into a puddle of goo back into the bayou, and one of the damn things had been gripping onto his bumper for the past thirty miles. But it's quieter, and too rhythmic, for the bugs; three clicks on the downbeat of the windshield wipers, and a few beats of rest in between. Maybe he's crazy, maybe his turn signal's on, maybe–
Rolan groans in his sleep and shifts, settling further down into the seat with a few content click, clicks before he's snoring along to the beat of the rain outside again. An exhale puff, and a rumble back in. Out, in, out, in, out, click.
Oh. Huh.
Rand takes an exit, a random one that promotes gas and a McDonalds, and pulls into the Texaco parking lot, resting his foot on the brake before he finally shifts into park and slips out the driver's side door. He needs a smoke.
It's weird. That's undeniable. His best friend sounds like a cicada when he snores and his right arm, while human again, still bends in odd ways sometimes, and his eyes sometimes catch the light in a certain way that Rand can see all the different little facets of a compound eye. It's weird! Freaky, even. And it feels even weirder that he's not totally freaked about it.
Rand is paranoid; he's known that since Rachel went missing, and if bugpocalypse yesterday was anything to go by, he's just gotten worse since then. So, why not now? Why not when he's driven miles away from home with a bug in his passenger seat? How does he know Rolan's not turning Kian into another pile of sludge right now?
He grips the cigarette tighter between his fingers and forces his eyes to snap behind him to check. Rolan's right where he left him, sleeping with his arms crossed and his head tilted back, while Kian's sprawled out in the backseat, mouth agape and Barc on top of him like a blanket. Right. Okay. It's fine. He takes a drag and leans back against the coolness of the window. It's fine. Even if it shouldn't be.
It's because it's Rolan, man, his mind provides, and he guesses that that's probably right. It is Rolan. Things have always been different with him.
They'd always been closer than they both were with Kian, just from circumstances; Kian and Becky were practically connected after sophomore year, and Becky was cool, Rand liked Becky, but the group dynamic had just changed after that. Rolan and Rand were alone together more often than not after that, except for Saturday night DnD, and Rand can't even say he particularly minded. Rolan would keep all the mixtapes Rand made him (Led Zeppelin and The Doors and other music Rolan wasn't allowed to have the records for) and smuggle them home, Rolan would help him come up with weird NPCs for the campaign, Rolan would swipe smokes and comic books and Lemonheads from the Quick Stop for him.
They were fifteen. Guess that wasn't really Rolan anymore.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Shit!" Rand jumps and bangs his elbow against the roof of the car, knocking his cigarette to the ground.
"Sorry! Sorry," Rolan says, digging through his pocket and pulling out a box of Camels. He offers it to Rand, who gratefully snatches it. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"I thought you were asleep." Rand says, before lighting up and taking a long drag. He taps the ash off and hands it out to Rolan, who considers the cigarette before shaking his head. Rand shrugs. "Your loss."
"I guess I was. I woke up and saw you outside. Decided to join you. Plus," he grins, "Kian still talks in his sleep."
"It's so fuckin' creepy. Swear to God, I pissed the sheets the first time he stayed over. Had to blame it on Barc."
"My mom always said he 'had the Devil within him' and it was his parents' fault for rejecting God."
Rand puffs out another plume of smoke. "Ah, Nance. What a woman. She loved me."
Rolan snorts, and Rand sees him eyeing the smoke in his hand. He flicks the top of the box open and twists his hand around to offer one to Rolan. "They are yours, after all." Rolan smiles and takes one, balancing it between his teeth.
"You, uh," he says, rocking back onto his heels, "You got a light?"
Rand starts to pat his jeans pocket before he catches the look on Rolan's face, in its nervous intensity. It's one he remembers very well, from that one night when they were sixteen and every night after that, replaying in Rand's head when he couldn't sleep, when all he could think of was the slow lean in and the quiet gasp out.
He nods, and leans forward onto his toes, connecting the lit end of his cigarette with Rolan's, and they hold the position, staring at each other because where else is there to look, really? Rand's eyes quickly flick down to see the butt of Rolan's cig glow a faint orange and he starts to pull back, settling back down onto his heels, before Rolan grabs at him– with his right arm, the one that twitches and spasms at weird angles and still has sharp prickles of feelers at the elbow, hand gripping tight on the sleeve of Rand's jacket. He doesn't flinch, lets his cigarette fall from his teeth and to the ground, stamping it out with the heel of his boot.
A blue stare looks back at him, iridescent in the fluorescence of the parking lot, with dark eye bags and red rings around the iris.
Tired, Rand thinks. He thinks a lot, about everything, about the Pink Floyd shirt he gave Rolan back in high school, about whether or not he kept it, whether the tapes he made him are still hidden under his bed back at the Deeps' or if there's one slotted into a cassette player in a dingy apartment in Chicago, rewound and ready to play. Whether he was as angry at himself as Rand was at him, for leaving like that, for not calling, not stopping to just say "goodbye," or "I love you," or even "I hate you." But despite it all, Rand's tired too. Tired of thinking.
So he stops thinking, and instead, he leans in.
He feels Rolan's lips part against his and the dull thud of his smoke falling to the ground, and he further invades Rolan's personal space to stomp out the light and grab on tighter to the lapels of Rolan's coat. It's the same as it was in high school, but also different; same shaky palms against his sides as Rolan holds him like he'll run away if he doesn't, same sigh through his nose, but if Rand strains his ears, he hears a faint click, a soft buzz, and the whole thing tastes very sweet, like candy, like–
"Lemonheads." he says when they pull apart.
"What." Rolan says, very intelligently, and Rand finds himself smiling.
"You taste like Lemonheads, now. Sweet. Kinda sour. Lemon-y"
"Oh." Rolan says, and then he's leaning in again.
"And," Rand says, bumping their foreheads together, "You click when you snore."
"Oh," Rolan repeats. "Do you mind?"
"No," Rand says. "Weirdly enough, I don't mind at all."