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When Motormaster hears that his old Catholic boarding school is getting torn down for good, his first reaction is that he needs to see it. He needs to be there, not to witness it’s destruction, but to see it one last time. He doesn’t know if it will be the same building he sees in his dreams.
His brothers refuse to go near that place, with Dead End completely ignoring him when he asked.
He knows he needs to see it. He knows he needs to show it that he won, that it doesn’t affect him, that it—the gospel, the cross covered in lamb’s blood, the smooth cover of the Bible and the hard metal of a leather belt—isn’t tattooed into his bones anymore. He won.
He isn’t a scared little boy anymore, able to be molded into God’s favourite, he is almost an adult, with a five o’clock shadow and a voice deeper than the Priest’s was.
He is thirty three miles from the school, the sun is beating against his back, shining off the hood of his convertible.
Kurt is in the passenger seat beside him, fur waving in the wind. He has one of Motormaster’s wife beater’s on, red and baggy on his lanky frame. It’s tucked into his shorts to make it seem less like a sleeveless dress.
He requested to come with him, ready to be there at a moment’s notice if Motormaster needs him to be. He is the perfect boyfriend, Motormaster doesn’t deserve him, and will never deserve him no matter what he does.
Call Me Maybe is playing from the radio, but it can barely be heard over the rushing breeze that blows through his hair and ruffles his brown t-shirt. Kitty must have left her CDs in the last time she and Drag Strip stole his car and went off joyriding around town.
The silver cross necklace he had stolen from his Father’s dresser as a kid burns in between his collarbone, hard and warm under the heat, he wonders if Kurt will kiss it away once again, pressing his lips to the wound as if he sees nothing wrong with the ugly scar it leaves in its wake.
They are almost there when the moon is starting to rise, taking it’s place among the stars. Motormaster knows he can’t face it in the dark, even with Kurt beside him, angelic and glowing brightly, halo over his head sharpening his jawline and cheekbones in yellow light.
He had stopped at a McDonald’s a few hours before for a bite to eat. The unenthusiastic teenager who answered the drive-thru didn’t notice the way Kurt’s hologram flickered for a brief moment as Motormaster passed him the bag. Motormaster wonders if he would have in her position, and he knows he would have. Kurt is always the most beautiful person in a room, his smile is the brightest thing on Earth, hot and blinding to those who he deems unworthy.
For some reason, Kurt has decided that he is more than enough to witness his smile. Most of the time, Kurt’s smile is directed at him, and Motormaster can’t help but smile back. He is in the presence of an angel, of God himself, he needs to show him how much he means to him.
They stop at a motel, it’s not great but it’s the best two teenagers could afford. Motormaster has certainly slept in worse.
They ignore the raised eyebrow look they get when they ask for one bed. Kurt doesn’t look the clerk in the eye; Motormaster glares daggers at him until he looks away.
The bed isn’t very comfortable, and Motormaster can’t stop thinking about how much piss and cum has been soaked into the mattress, but Kurt doesn’t seem to notice, clinging onto him like his life depends on it.
When the sun rises, peeking out from behind the trees before bathing their bodies in warm light, rays slipping through the cracks in the sagging, broken blinds.
Kurt wants a breakfast sandwich and heavily implies Motormaster should eat before they arrive. However, he isn’t sure he will be able to hold in his breakfast when he sees the decaying building.
He buys two sandwiches anyways, keeping one in its wrapping and keeping it beside his thigh while Kurt eats the other one.
The Tim Hortons bag ends up below Kurt’s feet. Motormaster will pick that up later.
“Will you be okay?” Kurt asks, his voice is barely higher than the Tool song quietly playing out of the radio. His breakfast sandwich was eaten a while ago, edges of his lips wiped clean from crumbs and egg.
Motormaster bites the inside of his cheek, breaking the skin until there is a bubble of blood just beneath the surface of his skin, filling with crimson and threatening to pop and stain his teeth red. “Yeah. Yeah, I will. Play some Rob Zombie.”
Kurt gives him a look, concerned, eyebrows furrowed together, but puts the CD in anyways. He takes Motormaster’s hand, squeezing it in his own.
Motormaster doesn’t look him in the eye for the rest of the ride, anxiety and love all swirling heavily in his gut.
He has to pull the roof of his car up as they drive down the gravel road, tiny pebbles flying up and banging against the windshield. The dense forest surrounding them makes him feel like the road is getting smaller—shrinking, trees crowding his car, getting closer and closer before swallowing him whole.
He doesn’t even notice he is gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles have gone a ghostly white.
He sees Kurt shift in his seat, tail lashing by his legs. He doesn’t understand Motormaster in this moment, doesn’t understand why this forest—and to him, this forest is just like any other forest— is so important to him, it’s obvious from the lack of panic on his face and the lax state of his fur. He is worried for Motormaster, has been for the entire ride.
“Don’t break the steering wheel,” he says, trying to joke, voice cutting through the tense feeling this forest being.
Motormaster drops his shoulders, taking a deep breath. “I’m not.”
Kurt gives him a knowing look, but doesn’t say anything else, turning his attention to fidgeting with Motormaster’s hand, tracing the lines in his palm and the scars on the back of his hand.
Motormaster is thankful—so fucking thankful, more than he will ever know—that Kurt went with him.
Once they get to the end of the gravel road, entering a clearing in the forest, is when they see it. It looks worse than Motormaster remembers, blackened tiles and cracked windows and crooked shingles. There is moss and vines climbing up the sides of the walls, slowly creeping into the school.
Don’t go in there, he thinks, despite himself. He knows that creatures who go in there never return, not really. A piece of himself—not a piece, bigger than a piece, a chunk, a giant chunk, more than he was able to give at the time—is still in there, wandering the halls. The school gives them its own piece back, shined to perfection and not fit for human bodies, not fit for their souls either.
He parks his car and then gets out, his keys digging into the palm of his hand as he makes a fist subconsciously.
The grass is long, swiping against his knees. There isn’t any sign of it’s awaiting demolition except for a sign by the door, the name of a construction company in big, blocky yellow letters.
He hears Kurt’s door close, then his footsteps as he walks up to him. He stands beside him, glancing between the rundown school and Motormaster’s body, stiff and straight.
“Do you need some time?” Kurt questions softly.
He thinks about how much he hates it here, rage boiling in his belly. How much he begged and pleaded for his siblings to not be harmed. How he kneeled for hours and hours and hours, and days and days and days. The metal of the belt that got lodged into his skin never really left, the scar is still on his lower back, it’s white now, but it’s noticeable.
“No,” he answers finally, “Let’s go back now.”
Motormaster does end up vomiting, dry heaving on the grass beside his car. Kurt rubs his back and holds his hair.
They get back to the Institute two days later. They don’t mention the school again. Kurt sleeps in Motormaster’s bed for a week afterwards.