Work Text:
The mild smell of cigarettes inside his car had significantly weakened — almost as if it had never been there in the first place. It couldn't have disappeared without a trace, and you knew that. It hadn't occurred to you that perhaps you were getting used to the smoke — and to every dreary detail Dylann carried with him.
You were making out in the park earlier. Breathless, you pulled away, even if you still wanted more of him. Dylann seemed hesitant to let go of you as well. He only did when he realized how late it had become. You wouldn't have minded watching the sunrise with him, though.
It wasn't long before you were in that black car of his again, his hands on the steering wheel as he drove you home.
Before entering the vehicle, you were reminded of that Confederate States plaque he owned — the one you had seen before leaving the mall. You thought about casually asking him about it, since you hadn't had the chance earlier.
When you stepped into his car, you noticed he kept a few items in the back seat: a white pillow and a backpack. Far from Diogenes syndrome, but the pillow still caught your attention. You couldn't help but wonder why he kept it there. Perhaps he was waiting for the tooth fairy. You couldn't think of any better explanation. Still, had to ask him about something else first.
"What's up with that one plaque you have?"
"What about it?" he replied, with that monotone voice of his.
His gaze was on the empty driveway — he didn't bother to look back at you. The edge of town looked particularly desolate at that time of the night.
"I don't know, I don't think it looks... bad."
You, on the other hand, couldn't look away from him. The not-so-noticeable dark circles under his eyes were obvious to you. His hair looked slightly messier too, probably because you ran your fingers through it when you kissed.
"I was just wondering why you had it," you continued.
"It's my heritage; that's it," he said.
One of his hands moved from the steering wheel to rub the back of his neck. He subtly bit his lower lip, but he never once looked back at you — and he never tried to make his answers less vague either.
Since you could tell he wanted to avoid the subject, you decided not to push it further — even if you were still curious about the plaque.
Suddenly, you noticed a fawn standing in the middle of the unlit highway. It was right in front of the car, as if daring Dylann to hit it. There were plenty of deer in Columbia, but you could've sworn that one was staring right at you.
He abruptly stopped the vehicle before hitting the animal — but his biggest concern was your safety, not the deer. It ran away among the dark trees, not long after Dylann hit the brakes.
"You okay?" he asked.
It was a simple question, but the tone in which he delivered it gave away his undeniable worry. This time, he did turn to look at you, but your perplexed eyes were fixed on the road.
"Yeah," you nodded.
After Dylann sharply braked the car, the items in the back moved around; some even fell off. You heard a quiet thud — the kind of sound a flashlight would make if it fell, not the pillow or the backpack you had seen earlier. You still turned around to help him rearrange his things.
"Let me help—"
"No need," he cut you off.
His tone was notably serious. It sounded like a command rather than a request. You ignored it, opting to help him anyway. You reached out to put the pillow back in its right place, but you were taken aback by something hidden beneath it.
It was solid, and felt faintly cold. You could have sworn it was made of some kind of metal. The darkness inside the car prevented you from seeing exactly what it was.
Dylann might have reached towards the pillow — but what he was actually looking for was that strange object, the one you had found a few seconds ago.
Helping your crush rearrange stuff, feeling your hands brush together — very Disney Channel movie.
Well, if it weren't for the fact he snatched the object from you, like a kid that didn't want to share his toys. That was far from romantic. The force he used to take it was nothing like the gentleness you had seen before at the park. He yanked it before you had the chance to lift it up and figure out what it was.
Dylann spontaneously threw it to a corner of the car. He didn't aim anywhere in particular, it was merely a desperate measure to keep you from seeing it.
Almost as if that thing was Medusa and you'd be petrified if you looked at it. But throwing it wasn't actually an attempt to save you from turning into stone — it was more to save himself from your possible judgment. You had never seen him so tense before.
Your head moved instinctively, trying to catch a glimpse of the puzzling item that had quickly become your own little Pandora's box. Would the world really stop if you learnt what it was?
"What? Is that a surprise gift or something? It's not my birthday yet,"
That question was your way of trying to break that tension, built up over seconds.
Dylann's posture leaned over you, even if his gaze was at the corner of the car where he had thrown the object. His rigid fingers were pulling the collar of his black shirt.
"Forget about it," he bluntly replied.
Then, he looked at you as if he could see from beneath your skin. He was serious. His comment came across as a command rather than a suggestion.
Once again, you decided not to push him for answers. You weren't sure if it was really a decision, though. Could it be considered one if you knew that even if you asked him about it — he simply wouldn't tell you?
"Alright," you said while readjusting your hair.
It was a habit you shared with Dylann — unconsciously playing with your hair whenever you felt nervous.
"But just so you know, you can tell me anything. I don't bite," you gently added.
Was it even possible to see Dylann with his guard down? Probably not on the first date, but you still wanted him to know you wouldn't judge him.
"I know," he softly replied before putting his hand on your thigh.
He'd done that before driving you to the park as well. But this time, he didn't pull away. His touch was like the strange object's — slightly cold against you.
"Thanks," he murmured.
It didn't take much for him to start the car again. You looked out the window to find a foggy road, surrounded by tall oaks covered in Spanish moss. No song played on the radio, but that comfortable silence you shared brought you peace — more than any tune could have.
You rested your head on his shoulder as he drove you home. You were certain that Dylann was keeping many things from you. Still, you didn't want to keep yourself away from him. He leaned subtly toward you as well. Your closeness allowed you to notice a woody scent. You could've guessed it was Axe Body Spray.
"I had fun tonight," you confessed.
"Me too,"
He tilted his head lightly against yours. A strand of his dirty blond hair grazed your cheek — it felt softer than you could've guessed.
"I want to do this again," he added.
Before you even noticed, you were in front of your house. You turned to him before leaving and kissed him on the cheek. His pale skin felt tender — a wisp of warmth brushed against you. You could've kissed it again, but you said goodbye instead. You didn't catch Dylann saying "goodbye" back to you, though.
Instead, he cupped where you had kissed him, but only after you had closed the car door and he left your sight — as if he didn't want you to see him doing that. His skin, now flushed, looked sunburn-pink.
You didn't hear his car pull away until you were inside your house.
It's not that the engine was particularly loud — everything around you was just eerily quiet. Except for his newfound absence, that echoed louder than anything else.
In the morning, soon after you woke up, Dylann was on your mind again. You stared at your phone screen, but your fingers couldn't move, despite the many things you wanted to say to him.
Suddenly, you remembered the photo booth pictures — the ones you had taken at the mall. You figured that they could be your excuse to text him. You felt as if you needed a reason to write to him, because you didn't want to seem overly interested. Even if you were, the point was not to scare him away.
You waited for a few hours, but he didn't reply to your message. That night was particularly cold, and you fell asleep with him on your mind. You woke up in the middle of the night after having a strange nightmare, with an inexplicable need to check your phone. Your intuition must have commanded you to do so.
When you turned it on, the screen showed that it was almost exactly 3 in the morning. 3:03 am, to be precise — an angel number.
The light radiating from your phone made you feel as if you were a vampire — its rays hurt your delicate eyes. While gently rubbing them, you noticed a notification in the corner of the bright screen.
It was from Dylann.
"Hey."
He'd also sent you a picture of the photo booth strip you asked for. It contained 3 pictures, all of them in black and white. Their achromatic color scheme made them look unusually vintage, considering they were taken yesterday.
Nonetheless, they evoked a certain feeling of nostalgia. Your relationship with Dylann just seemed to be moving fast. That might be the reason why they felt somewhat distant from you. Yet, at the same time, oddly close — because they served as a reminder of the time you had spent together.
Of the three photos in the strip, the second one stood out the most — it was the one where you made a small heart with your hands. It was also the one where Dylann seemed the happiest. His usual stoic expression was nowhere to be seen. He was blatantly staring at your lips on the third one, though.
However, what caught your attention wasn't the photos. It was the time Dylann had sent them to you, precisely 3:01 am.
"You're awake?" you texted him.
"You're awake too." He immediately wrote back.
This time, he didn't keep you waiting, not even for a single second. Almost as if he'd been waiting for your reply forever.
"I just woke up from a nightmare,"
"Yeah? What happened in it?" He asked.
It was so easy to overlook dreams — you had already forgotten what happened in yours. Perhaps it was for the better; there's no actual need to remember unpleasant things, much less nightmares — unless you're Sigmund Freud.
"I forgot," you admitted.
"Yeah, sure."
He didn't believe you. Nevertheless, you could see why — the timing between your messages was simply too perfect. Dylann was a realist, a strict one. He didn't believe in fate or anything of that sort.
"I'm not doing anything right now. Are you?"
"I'm not doing anything either," you texted back.
"Well, do you want to?"
You found yourself unconsciously reading his messages in that low voice of his — the one you cherished hearing. It was as if he was actually there with you in a way. He could be, if you said yes.
"Like right now?"
"If you want to. I mran, I'm not doing anything right now." His message read.
He must have meant to type "mean" instead of whatever "mran" was. You could practically see his nervous fingers — trembling on the other side of the screen while typing that message, searching in a small keyboard the finest words to use in order to appear nonchalant.
"You don't seem able to sleep either." He noted.
"I told you I woke up from a nightmare,"
"Right, right."
It was his subtle way of showing that he didn't believe you. Dylann wasn't very confrontational when it came to you — he wouldn't directly call you a liar.
"Do you want me to come over or not? I could take you for a drive, like I did yesterday." He offered.
"Please do."
You hesitated before sending that final message, although you meant what you had written. Perhaps it was the fact that it was so true to you — you had a small tendency to be reluctant when it came to feelings, much like Dylann.
"Alright, I'm on my way."
Your bedsheets could have been made of the softest linen — you still would have gotten out of bed as if they were made of fire. You couldn't stay a second more in there, not when Dylann was about to pick you up.
You rushed to get ready. This time, you barely had time to figure out what to wear. Trying to find a balance where you didn't look careless, but also not overdressed, was certainly complicated. Even if you wanted to, there wasn't enough time to overdress.
The glow of your phone screen lit up your way to the bathroom — you rushed there while making sure your steps were quiet. It was 3 in the morning, after all. No car ride was going to change that.
Your reflection stared at you with dark circles under her eyes — and yet a nervous smile you couldn't avoid. Your hand faintly shook as you brushed your hair. Dylann had no right to make you feel this excited.
Your phone buzzed. You knew who that notification was from without needing to look at it — a useless sixth sense that brought you closer to him, as if you were reading each other's mind.
Looking through the window, you found his black Hyundai Elantra parked in front of your house. You tiptoed your way to the entrance and timidly put your hand on the knob. You opened the door without making a sound.
You were struck by the night breeze. It was quiet, yet notably cold in contrast to the warmth of your house. Even so, seeing Dylann brought you a particular kind of comfort — one no wind could take. You pressed your nails against the pads of your fingers before facing him.
He had gotten out of the car — only to open the door for you before you got in. How chivalrous.
He wore a crew neck sweatshirt. Needless to say, that sweatshirt was black. And his pants were too. Except for a brown belt that tied his outfit together, you could've sworn his entire wardrobe was of the same color — like a cartoon character's. He still looked handsome, though.
He greeted you with a quiet "hey". This time, his car didn't smell like cigarettes, not in the slightest — you couldn't tell if it was because he hadn't smoked there today — or because you had already grown used to the smoke and its bitter scent. It reminded you of Dylann, in a way. The pillow you had seen last night was still there. You wondered if the strange object was too.
Dylann started the car without saying a word. You rested your head against the grey passenger seat before turning to him.
"What were you up to?" you asked, a simple way to break the ice.
"The usual."
"I don't know what the usual is," you reminded him.
"Well... I got up kind of late. I was on my laptop for a while, had instant noodles for dinner."
You caught him glancing at the rearview a couple times, more than anyone could need. You understood he was driving, but his eyes were on anything but you, as if you weren't there in the first place.
"Nothin' special," he remarked.
"Sounds nice," you replied.
"It really isn't."
His voice was deep and unexpressive. The most revealing thing in his behavior was how tightly he gripped the steering wheel — he could have left marks of his fingertips on it. The way he grasped it suggested his frustration and uneasiness, about something you couldn't quite place.
"Dylann," you called.
"What?"
"You look worried. What are you thinking about?"
"Nothin'. I just..."
He sat there in silence, his blue eyes fixed on the lonely road — unable to find the words he wanted to say.
"Do you want to go back to the park we went to yesterday?" he proposed.
Changing the topic was nothing new to him. This time, he shifted his gaze to you. He had a tender smirk on his face — one you couldn't say no to.
"Yeah, why not?" you replied.
You adjusted your head against his shoulder, just like you had the night before. The fabric of his sweater was oddly comfortable. There was plenty of space in his car, but that didn't matter to you — you wanted to be as close to him as possible. He leaned closer to you, too.
"You comfy?"
"Yeah," you said.
"Good. 'Cause you're gonna make me run into another deer," he commented.
He sounded serious. You studied his features and found that his mouth didn't move in the slightest — no hint of a smirk or smile. He kept a straight face, the kind you only find at a funeral.
"Do you want me to move?" you asked him.
"What? No."
Dylann glanced at you for a second. He seemed astonished by your comment. Then again, his apathetic expression sometimes made it hard to tell when he was joking, and you didn't want to risk bothering him.
"Stay where you are." He muttered.
It didn't take long for you to arrive at your destination. When he stopped the vehicle, you heard the brakes make a slight squeak. After leaving the car, you were met with the chilly night breeze, whispering against your skin.
You and Dylann walked around the park together. After a while, you reached out to hold his hand. He immediately looked down, as if he had to see it with his own eyes. Although it wasn't the first time you had held hands, he seemed particularly nervous — but in a good way. He held your hand too — firmly.
You asked him if he still played the guitar, since you recalled hearing him play a few times back when you were in high school. He told you he didn't anymore. You inquired more about his hobbies to get to know him better, but his answers were always a bit vague. He did mention something about enjoying taking pictures, though. And also a camera he bought a few weeks ago, a "Kodak EasyShare C-1530."
The park was dark, except for a glow coming from a flickering light which made a soft buzzing sound — it was the only thing you could hear besides Dylann's soft voice and the footsteps made by his black combat boots.
That was until a raindrop fell on your forehead. Before you could even wipe it, Dylann made a comment about how it was starting to rain — soon raindrops were the only thing you could hear. Weather in Columbia was certainly something.
If this was a movie, you and Dylann would have slow danced in the rain. But since it wasn't, you both just ran away back to his car. Yes, ran.
It started with simply sprinting, and then you were running before you could even realize it. You didn't know if it was you or Dylann who started it. All that you could tell was that your bodies were practically synchronized.
You still held hands while running through the park together, giggling along the way as if you didn't have a care in the world. Perhaps it did look like a movie scene — it felt as if you two were running down the Louvre together.
The pavement was somewhat slippery because of the rain. You almost fell once, but Dylann kept you grounded.
"Whoa, ___ be careful."
He smiled at you, showing teeth. His grip on you tightened, but it didn't hurt — even if it did, it was hard to focus on anything other than Dylann whenever he stood in front of you — except maybe your rapid heartbeat.
You stopped for a second to give him a peck on the lips. He blushed and briefly looked to the ground before he kissed you back — he tenderly held your chin while doing so. He pulled away and left you with no time to taste of his lips.
"We can't stay here for long or we'll get sick," he told you.
You understood and walked together back to the car. This time, neither of you were running or giggling, but you could tell he was content anyway. Something in the way he held your hand gave it away — his fingers traced your palm as if trying to memorize every line on it. He didn't feel as cold as you remembered. Perhaps you'd unknowingly lent him your warmth.
He only let go of it in order to open the car door for you. Then, you were back inside his vehicle.
"Fuck," he muttered.
He took his soaked sweater off. You looked at him from the corner of your eye. Dylann wasn't too muscular. His shoulders and torso were paler than his arms — that's when you noticed the sunburn on him. It was notably prominent on his hands and face. He still held his black sweater, which subtly covered his abdomen.
"You see my backpack?" he asked.
He readjusted his wet bangs, making sure they covered every inch of his forehead. His hair looked darker when it was damp.
"I have a backup shirt there. You could put it on if you don't want to catch a cold," he continued.
You turned around to find the white pillow from last night, as well as the backpack he was telling you about. You reached out to grab it. It was medium-sized and looked like the kind used for military or survival purposes. Your fingers traced its back pockets before you went to open it and get the shirt. Dylann unexpectedly stopped you before you did.
"You know what, let me get it for you instead." He said, as if suddenly reminded of something important.
He grabbed it away from you, leaving you without a chance to react or even say anything. It was exactly like he did yesterday with that puzzling object — just with less force. Perhaps he just didn't like when people touched his stuff.
On the other hand, he did seem alright with the idea — until your fingertips unconsciously found its back pockets. What was it that he didn't want you to see?
Once he had the backpack, he pulled it closer to his chest. His back shifted from the driver's seat to press against the window. Although he was directly facing you, the inside of the item was far from your sight, preventing you from seeing its contents.
You weren't curious about what was inside it until he yanked it from you — like a forbidden fruit. The appeal wasn't in the object itself; it was in what he could've been hiding.
He handed the shirt to you. It was black — confirming your cartoon character wardrobe suspicions. "Belikin Beer" was written on it.
"Thanks," you said.
You didn't have to ask him to do anything because he had already turned around — looking away before you changed. He stared at the window.
"Wait, I can see your reflection here. Let me roll this down," he observed.
Very polite of him. A few raindrops managed to get inside the car — most of them on the edge of his seat and on his lap. Either he didn't mind, or he didn't say anything about it. His indifferent tone and expression made it hard to tell.
You watched him while you changed, and he never once tried to discreetly look at you. He didn't say a word, either. The patter of the pouring rain was the only thing you could hear. With your forearms and wrists, you brushed away some of the water that remained on your skin. Afterward, you put on his shirt, which had a light smell of laundry detergent and looked effortlessly good on you.
"You can turn around now," you calmly told him.
He turned around and smirked teasingly while looking you up and down. The neck of his shirt was slightly loose on you, exposing the dip between your collarbones — he admired it like a moth to flame. His gaze drifted toward your chest before quickly averting his eyes, faintly ashamed.
"I know this isn't what you had in mind when you asked me to come over," he noted.
"You're right, it isn't."
"But I'm having fun anyway." He finished.