Work Text:
Hayden might be, no, is definitely the happiest that he's ever been. It's kind of impressive, honestly, given everything. But how could he not be, right now, driving a half-empty road in the middle of nowhere, leaving a city behind to head back towards the ocean once again, Alan in the passenger seat.
Admittedly, there's an irony to them both being killers now, Hayden thinks. Circumstantial to some degree, hands shaking with the force of what made them do it, the edge of the world, of their own existence, sharp against the soles of their feet, crumbling beneath them, but now they're both sinners in a few too many ways.
That being said, he isn't one to let his guilt overwhelm him, to let himself sink beneath the weight of what he's done. He knows why he did it. He knows that it was never entirely his choice, but also that he was still the one who made the decisions that he did, and that it's a fucked up, messy combination of all of these things that have put him in this position today.
But he's with Alan. They're with each other.
It's amazing, how travelling miles and miles can make you feel like a different person. They keep stopping at every church they see, but there are no gunshots, no William, no basements. There's just Alan, hands pressed together, head bowed, talking about Hayden and hope. There is only Hayden, waiting patiently every time, because who is he to judge how Alan copes. Neither of them are perfect at it, but they have methods, and when those collapse they can fall back on each other, soothing the nightmares away or driving away from the reminders. They leave, with every town, yet another memory behind. Another year of the past falls away.
They're left raw, born anew, Jesus reborn on Easter except it's just them, living in the holiest sort of sin, content together. Hayden reckons it's a pretty decent deal.
Not everything is quite as easy as driving away. They stopped for a few weeks in Trincheras, wary of being so close to the border still, but knowing that they needed to get some money and regroup, and try to pick up some of the language too. Enough to not stand out entirely, at least.
And, hey, one benefit is that it turns out Mexico has some pretty cheap, legitimate medicine, upon finding the right places to look. And Alan knows his own condition and all of the complicated drug names well enough to know what he needs, and how much of it, and if something sounds right or wrong. It takes them a while to sort out, which is admittedly a little bit terrifying, to have come so far, to have a chance to live freely, unknown and together, then to watch Alan start to detoriating, nose bloods that start for no reason but last an hour, shaky hands and a lack of appetite. It was frustrating, too.
But they got there. They managed to buy enough to last them a few months, until they could settle in a different city for a while, and they left Trincheras, heading away from the border, from the past, from their home states and the police, and further into Mexico. Into anonymity, safety.
Hayden only ever wanted to be free. Free of childhood, then free of his father's drunken abuse, free of the sight of his mother falling apart with another man in her bed, free of how shit the world around him was. He burnt that place down to try and find freedom. He sat where his Dad should have sat, to try and find freedom. He travelled, month after month, never staying still long, never finding friends or a home, just a job for a while before moving on, in some half-functioning fascimile of freedom.
It was enough, before Alan. But then Hayden was caught by those blue eyes, was intrigued by this person who so casually bled from the nose for nigh-on half an hour, who told of an overbearing family and, as they talked more, as they spent hours wandering around the only town Alan has ever known (one of many for Hayden, just another city full of every sort of person, good and bad and in between, except Alan is here as well-), of even worse things, of hopelessness and the shame of someone else's awful actions-
Hayden stuck around. Then, more than that, he offered for Alan to come with him. And to be honest, he doesn't regret that. Not even after the last half a year. Not even after everything that's happened.
Because now he gets moments like this. He gets to watch Alan, stretched out in the passenger seat, arms pulled up above his head enough that a sliver of pale stomach, more tan than it used to be thanks to the constant Mexican sun, eyes half-closed against the wind whipping around them, head arched back into it all. It makes his throat a long, pale column, slightly curved and stunning.
Hayden wants to mark it with a ring of his adoration, to etch out his own sin and prayers in scrapes of teeth and gentle kisses. But, well, maybe tonight.
"Oi, Alan."
"Mm?" The hum is barely audible over the wind and the engine, but Hayden's used to listening to Alan now, used to picking up on every single breath he takes.
"What do you want to get for lunch? Or dinner." There's a long pause, Alan's eyes slipping closed once again, clearly thinking as he stretches ever further back in the car seat, cat-like and surely very aware of how Hayden is trying to concentrate on the road rather than him and failing slightly.
"Street food?"
"Vague," Hayden snorts, except he doesn't really mind that. They live by whim, now. Whim and circumstance and knowing what the other likes but won't ask for. Along those lines, Hayden hopes they can find tortas and elotes tonight. He knows that they're some of Alan's favourites.
"But cheap."
"True that. We've got enough to stay somewhere for a few days," he adds on, trying to remember how much is in each of their little stashes around their clothes and car and bags,
"And I thought we could sleep in the car tonight, there's a little church just far enough out of town that it should be fine."
Alan just flashes him a smile, sitting forwards a little bit to pull out their water bottle, taking a sip before leaving the cap off to pass to Hayden.
"Sounds perfect."
"I always do," he returns, looking away from the road just long enough to wink at Alan. The grin there is well worth it.
"Oh, shut up!" Alan laughs, bright and bold and snatched away by the wind. (Hayden would like to be the one to swallow his laughter, not the wind, but that's okay. He gets plenty of opportunities for that, now. He can afford to miss this one.)
"If that's what you want." Despite his own sarcasm, Hayden switches the radio on, Roxette's 'The Look' blaring out, all sharp guitar and just-rasping voices. Alan, raised on hymns, doesn't even hesitate to start singing along, drumming his fingers in the air to the guitar, one foot tapping against the dashboard, propped up so his knee is near his chest.
It's hard for Hayden to even be mad about that when he gets to listen to Alan singing, when a hand buries in his hair and pushes it back from his face, gentle yet insistent. (When he can tell that every word sung seems to be aimed, admiring, at him. What a sap Alan is.
Hayden really shouldn't find it as flattering, as reassuring, as he does, months in as they are.)
Like this, there's no future, no past, no Maria to appease or God to plead saviourship with, no memories to haunt them step by step. The road beneath them, the wind thundering around them, the radio-laughter-words only for them, it's all that matters. (Alan's hand in his hair, the way that he can reach across and thumb a back-and-forth affection across Alan's knee. The promise of curling up tonight with bare, warm skin and safety under a starlit sky.)
They're free, together, and in love. Hayden can't imagine being happier.