Archive of Our Own ^beta

The track was paved a few years ago, but every summer it smelled brand new. The sun and heat sublimated the rubber and gave the whole field it surrounded that tarry, plasticine-gasoline odor.

It's not just in the summer, Craig reasoned. It probably did the same thing in the fall, maybe even the winter. Especially early in the morning when the sun rose and hit at that acute angle, because that was when it smelled the strongest. If he kept breathing, he would smell the rubber, inhale the fumes. The microplastics would be inside him.

He needed to keep breathing, keep running. He had another four laps, sixteen hundred meters. He was trying for a recent personal best before the track and field season officially started. That was the whole reason he drove to school so early this morning, and once he didn’t make an under-eight minute mile his first try, he just kept running.

He passed by the bleachers again. Three laps left, twelve hundred meters. If he got sub-eight, he’d stop. He needed to wake up early because he needed to start work on classes (even though he was only two weeks into the semester). He needed to get training before school started if he wanted to make the track team this year, and he needed to make the track team for college credit, he didn't have another sport lined up for the fall season, and because he wanted to do track. It was the same sport he did every fall season, inhaling the same rubber fumes he had since eighth grade.

Rounding the corner, half-mile, eight hundred meters, two more laps to go. This meant he had sub-four minutes to go if he was on pace, which meant he had been running for eight-minutes-twenty plus sub-four minutes which meant he had been breathing in the plastic for twelve minutes and the last four autumns of his life, and melted plastic is carcinogenic, and sneaker friction rubbed the rubber off the track, and he was breathing too hard and he was going too slow, over eight minutes meant he would have to run again, and that would be over twenty four minutes breathing in and out the fumes, and he felt his breakfast sitting heavy in his abdomen, and why did he eat before school if he knew he was going to run three miles this morning, because there was no way he was going to make sub-eight with this pace and having run a mile and a half already—

I can’t do this.

He slowed down as he passed the bleachers again, hands planted on the back of his pounding head.

He was not going to make a personal best. He had accepted that. He now needed to not pass out on the track before school.

He grabbed his water bottle from the bottom step. He was dehydrated, that was why he felt so bad. He ran seven laps and didn’t stop for water, that was why he felt like he was going to throw up—

Oh, he realized after he opened the water, as his stomach dropped out, and right before he spewed his breakfast on the side of the bleachers, I’m going to throw up.

Even after drinking two bottles of water, the taste of acid didn’t leave the back of his throat, instead festering on his tongue and burning his esophagus. The smell clung onto his clothes even after he changed out of his running shorts and shirt.

Burnt rubber, stomach acid, four half-digested protein bars and coffee was quite the flavor combination. It paired well with never eating anything again.

Another thing that made Craig glad to have skipped lunch were the two people standing next to the bleachers. He saw them through the window during AP US History, looking down at something on the grass. 

He knew it was gross to leave without doing anything about it, but was he really supposed to go to the bathroom and get paper towels to clean up outside? It was biodegradable, it was food, at least technically. The birds could eat it, or something. It was acceptable, or at the very least wasn’t completely disgusting.

…Oh, who was he kidding, it was completely disgusting. He shouldn’t have just left it there, that was actually so gross, why did he do that—

“WAKE UP!”

Craig almost fell out of his seat as Jason slammed his books down and screamed in his ear.

“What is wrong with you?” He whisper-yelled back once he recovered. 

“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been staring out the window the entire period.”

Craig saw the rest of the class stare at him, some snickering at his startled state. They were supposed to be doing… something (Craig genuinely had no idea), but the teacher was out running errands and instead of doing… something (Craig should probably have an idea), most people were talking amongst themselves (until Craig got the daylights scared out of him, that is).

Jason took over his field of view, leaning over the table onto his elbows, hands on his chin. “I’m bored, come on. You’re supposed to keep me busy,” he said in a teasing tone.

Usually, it was Jason who didn’t want to talk in class. They had discussed it before school started, and Jason wanted to keep a low profile at school, which made sense. Jason hated any attention, including when it came from unnecessary (but sometimes wanted by Craig, like would it kill Jason to get out of his comfort zone, straight guys can hump each other in the middle of class and no one batted an eye, they could play off some flirting–) PDA. They also had a lot less classes together this year, this one and homeroom, so it was easy to keep him happy.

Unfortunately, Craig was not happy. “Jason, I’m not doing this right now.”

Jason’s face dropped, and he shifted in his seat, leaning back. “Oh-kay. What’s up your ass today?”

“…I don’t want to talk about it.” 

One again, the ‘usual’ had changed. Usually, Craig would be eager to hurl everything he was thinking about onto the floor, to get the sickness out of his system. He couldn’t, though, not this time. The question burned like acid reflux, one he had to answer himself first. 

Why did he do that?

Jason looked at him like he was possessed. “Fine, whatever,” he finally said.

Craig was left alone with that thought until a piece of paper was slid next to his notebook. He could have ignored it, but notes a foot away from his face were hard to ignore. 

He picked up the paper and rolled his eyes as he unfolded it.

He looked over to Jason, who was staring back expectantly.

He was still not in the mood for this, but he already made eye contact. His hand was forced.

He took out his pen.

He slid the note back over. Jason snatched it and started writing.

He could not respond “Sorry, I hate everything right now and want to wallow in my own misery. Try again tomorrow, babe,” no matter how much he wanted to.

Jason smiled when he got the note back, then scribbled a novel on the back of it and tossed it at his boyfriend.

Craig crumpled up the note and put it in his backpack.

“Do you have plans for Labor Day?”

“No.” Craig poured himself his bloo-razz-berri slushy. He wasn't sure how Jason landed on 7-Eleven slushies as an outing, but he wasn't complaining. Even though he was still nauseous from this morning, he found this edible (mainly because it was as far away from ‘real food’ as he could get). “School just started, I don't need a break yet.”

“Yes, you do," Jason said, but it sounded more like an order to Craig. "Make plans. You need something to look forward to.” Jason got his own slushy, mixing cherri-crash and Coke-cola. “You can’t be in the moment all the time, it’s not healthy.”

“...Yes, it is. That’s what everyone says is healthy.” Healthier than compulsively worrying about the future, at least. Or dwelling on the past, about how he puked at seven in the morning and hadn’t eaten since then and why did he do that, again—

“Well, sometimes the moment sucks, and you gotta take your mind off of it.” Jason took a sip from his straw, then re-topped off his drink. He turned and started walking away. “Don't stress about it so much.”

Craig eyed the snack aisle as he followed Jason to the checkout. “Stress eating is unhealthy.”

“It’s stress management, not stress eating,” Jason corrected. “I can think of a lot of things worse for you than slushies.”

“I’m sure you could,” Craig mumbled.

Jason stared back at him, awkwardly. "I mean like, heroin. Drugs. You know." He rubbed his sleeves up on his sides as he walked. He would futz with his sleeves when he was uncomfortable, but his hands were full right now, and oh, Craig pinched a nerve there. 

“That's not what-- I meant I've been to Duckmart like, fifteen times since school started. I started using cash because my mom got on my case about all the credit card charges.”

It wasn’t quite a confession, but it was still extremely embarrassing to say out loud. He had taken to stress eating (which was why he ate 'breakfast' that morning even though it was a terrible idea) ever since the school year started. This was a problem he had to fix, another question of ‘why’ that he would either solve or stop thinking about. Once he got into the swing of classes and being in his final year of high school and literally being on the brink of full independence that he was not ready for, at all, like who allowed him to have this much responsibility, then he would stop. Until then, he would struggle ‘In The Now’. Maybe Jason was right about not being in the moment all the time. 

”She can see your card charges?” Jason said, then turned to the cashier. "I got him."

“She gets notifications sent to her phone. Both of my parents do.“ He stopped. "Can your parents not see what you buy?”

“No." He glanced back as he swiped his card. "That’s kinda stalker-y.”

...Oh, right. Craig forgot that Jason was a rich kid with neglectful parents. “...You’re paying this time.”

“I just did, Craig," he deadpanned.

They sat at the tables outside the 7-Eleven, the ones you find outside any 24-hour convenience store. Dirty, weathered and with gum stuck underneath, reeking of trash and tobacco. Likely also vomit from drunkards and addicts, and while he couldn't smell it he knew it had been there, recorded by the stains on the ground.

Needless to say, Craig's nausea came back. He white-knuckle gripped his cup as he sat down, hoping the cold would distract him from the disgust.

Instead, he popped the lid off. Oops. 

“Craig, really." Jason grabbed his shoulder from behind. "Don’t feel bad about it this time. I’m making you do it. It’s not stress eating if someone else forces you to do it.”

That topic wasn't why he felt sick, but the reassurance was nice. “…Okay.” 

“Listen uh. Babe." Jason was really adamant about using pet names for Craig, even though he would trip over his words every time he did (which was funnier and sweeter than being called ‘babe’ by itself so Craig didn't tell him to stop). "You’re doing good. You are working hard and you deserve a break. I want you to feel better,” he said, voice softening. “Do you feel better?”

“…Yeah.” 

Jason’s shoulders dropped. He let go of his slushy, swiped Craig’s free hand off of the table and held it at hip level. “Good,” he said calmly, smiling. 

“…I ran two miles and vomited on the track.” Part of the weight was lifted out of Craig’s stomach. He had to look away. “I mean, not on the track but still.”

“Oh.” Jason let go of his hand, and Craig felt a pang of guilt. “Fuck.”

“It was so stupid. I was being stupid, and now I feel disgusting and like I can’t take care of myself. And I can take care of myself, I know how to do that, I just… didn't. That time.” He stared at his cup and waved it around. “And now I feel like shit and I’ve felt terrible all day and I've been an asshole to you all day.” He looked back at Jason. “I’m sorry.” 

“…Hey. It wasn’t on purpose?” Jason looked at him like maybe it was on purpose. 

Craig thus realized that Jason was really, really bad at being supportive about hard emotional stuff (which honestly was not surprising, all things considered). Even with the comment, though, he felt better after retching that information onto Jason.

Slightly. A little bit.

“Whatever. Let’s go home.” He got up. “Thanks for the food.”

“Can I play music?” Jason asked once they were in the car. 

Craig nodded and Jason paired his phone with the radio.

Jason had… perfectly okay taste in music. It was not what Craig would listen to, but he wasn’t about to insult him about enjoying basic indie-pop-rock. This song was fine.

Jason sang the words of the song under his breath. He did that sometimes, adding his little background vocals in a mumbled chest voice. Comments also withheld, but these comments would have been nicer. 

He suddenly got a lot louder. "You might think I'm hysterical," he dramatically sang, miming a microphone with his left hand. "But I know when you're weak."

Craig smiled, but kept his eyes on the road. He was pretty close to the right turn that would put him in his neighborhood.

"You think you're in the movies, and everything's so deep." 

Or...

"But I think, that you're wild.” Jason was still into his performance, but he started to trail off. "When you flash that fra... You missed the turn."

“I’m not going home yet.”

There was a notorious parking lot, beside the abandoned skate park, that one could find many teenagers parked when it got dark. It was the afternoon now, really only an hour after school, and while that meant there was no privacy of darkness, it did mean it was empty. 

Jason straightened in his seat. “…Okay. I thought you wanted to go home.”

Craig shrugged. 

When he got to the empty parking lot, Craig pulled himself out of the front seat, climbing over the center glovebox and into the back.

Jason stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Get back here.”

“Okay!”

The backseat of his Mom’s sedan wasn’t nearly as big as Craig had thought, and Jason's legs tangled into Craig's as he tried to get comfortable, pointy knees kneading into his thighs.

"Ow- Stop, stop-" Craig grabbed Jason's waist and pulled him down, sideways onto his lap. 

Jason yipped with the contact. “Don’t have to fucking yank me…” 

Craig did not yank him anymore. He looked at him, arms still around his waist, sides touching. He lifted a hand to run it across Jason’s neck. 

It was shockingly quiet, both between the two of them and in Craig’s mind. It registered that the questions from before, the rushing thoughts buzzing around like flies had ceased. Thoughts ceased and slowed as his head tried to pull them up. It took double the effort to think much of anything. Maybe he was just too tired to worry. 

It was a nice feeling. 

“Did you actually pull over so we could cuddle, or…?”

“It’s my apology for being a jerk to you all day.”

Craig knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Jason would eat this up. He had mentioned before that he liked physical touch, but Crag didn’t account for how touchy-feely Jason would get once he had permission to be. One time Jason buried his face in his chest for a good ten minutes and then continued to rant about his stepmom. 

This was, all things considered, extremely cute. Jason thought it was cringe, but it wasn't like anyone was watching them. They were completely alone.

Cue Jason wrapping his arms around Craig’s neck, leaning into him.  “It’s one day. You’ll be fine.”

Craig felt bad, he knew that, but this was… nice. A distraction, at the very least. It has been a while since they had been alone together. Craig had been so busy since school started, not just with actually having to do school work, but with the anxiety that school brought about. 

“Have you been doing okay recently?” he asked Jason. He knew they didn’t share the same set of issues, but he had been so distracted by said issues that he had forgotten to check in. 

Craig could feel Jason shift in his lap. “Yeah?"

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” he said defensively. “You’re the one that feels bad, why are we talking about me now?”

Craig didn't respond, but gave a look that translated into a non-verbal "You know why."

“Then yes. Really.” He shifted again, this time slouching, shoulders lowering. “I’m out of the house more. It’s good for me.” His head dropped onto Craig’s shoulder. “I’ve been happy.”

“Really?" he asked, softer than before.

He felt Jason nod against him. “You make me happy.”

It was such a small thing, those whispered simple words. Craig felt like they had given each other larger proclamations of love, with more emotion and feeling and all that mushy stuff, but this was just so... Simple. Simple enough where it had to be true. 

“…I love you.”

Jason lifted his head, and stared at his boyfriend straight in the eyes, straight faced. “Cool.”

No response.

Eventually Jason caved, nuzzling into Craig’s neck. “I’m kidding. I love you, too,” he squeaked, voice going high at the end.

Craig should not have been so relieved to hear that. “You’re terrible.”

“Terrible, yeah…” The song had changed from guitar whines to thumping bass and synth, subwoofer woofing, and heat.

Heat.

Heat, through his heart, head, hot coals, turning the backseat into an oven. Jason on top of him, legs moved to straddle Craig's, and if he moved again, Craig was ninety-nine percent certain he would pass out. 

Like, seriously. He should have eaten more today. 

Craig grabbed his face, rubbing his cheek with his thumb. He flashed back to all that time ago, at that house party, and god, how did he not understand himself sooner? He was obsessed, even back then. Any man, let alone Jason, on top of him was pretty good, pretty hot, pretty boy and heat. Heat. Heat. 

Who wouldn’t fall in love with this?

“You wanna…” That was from Jason.

“We’re already back here,” he mumbled, the music overtaking them.

“Hey, wait," Jason said at a red light,  tapping Craig's arm. "What color is my tongue?”

“Purple.” He thought about it for a moment. “…That’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” he snickered back.