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“What is all of this?” Z asks, wiping the residual sleep crust out of his eyes as he takes in the sizable amount of half-packed suitcases and bags occupying the floor of their living room. Piles of clothes—some of which he recognizes from his own closet—and perishable goods are scattered haphazardly. Frankly, it looks like a hurricane struck. Regect is smack-dab in the eye of the storm, attempting to fold a shirt and failing spectacularly at it.
“We’re gonna search for Bigfoot!”
“Bigfoot? The—the cryptid one?”
“Do you know of any other Bigfoots? Bigfeet? No, wait, uh, Bigfoots. Yeah, Bigfoots,” says Regect as if his proposal makes a lick of sense.
“Bigfoot doesn’t exist, dumbass.”
“Not with that attitude.”
“I-I don’t—“
“Don’t wanna hear it, hurry up and help me pack, go, go, go!”
Z opens his mouth to argue further, then promptly shuts it, too exhausted to prepare any more snarky retorts. He picks up a medium-sized cooler bag and starts shoving water bottles, cans of soda, loaves of bread, essentially anything edible in there. In the end, he does the majority of the packing since Regect’s version of packing involved creating more of a mess out of their clothes. He wonders why he’s packing clothes in the first place since he never seems to wear any, and the Z of a few months ago would’ve voiced that thought aloud simply to get under his skin and delve into another petty argument, but he can’t find the energy to now.
“Where’s Moe?” Z questions as he loads the last suitcase into their cramped trunk. He has to use both arms to slam the top down, the car settling with a creaky groan as he hops atop it for good measure.
“She—she wasn’t interested.”
“In Bigfoot?”
“In another road trip,” clarifies Regect. He clambers into the passenger seat and yanks the door shut before Z can reply, cranking the knob to lower the manual window and letting his arm dangle out the side. Z’s glad he made that decision for him; he’s always hated being a passenger, hates the lack of control and the urge to police whoever is driving, hates how his hands have nothing to grip onto but his hair in distress. Maybe Regect knows that about him, knows about his need to have control in a world he will never have control over. Or maybe he’s just a passenger princess.
The sun is kissing the treetops as Z backs out, extra careful to keep watch of any potential stragglers in his path. He doesn’t necessarily care about killing people now—he doesn’t know if he ever did—but it’d be a huge inconvenience to wash blood off the side-view mirrors and deal with Regect’s obnoxiously clamorous blubbering a second time. Another accident like that and they’ll have to switch to another insurance provider as well.
Regect fiddles with the radio, flipping repeatedly between the same ten stations before Z huffs, slapping his hand away from the dial and switching it to the shitty 90s station Regect adores.
“Oh, hey, I love this song! Turn it up, turn it up, Z. Buy me a star on the boulevard, it’s Californication—“
“All these guys do is—all they do is sing about California.”
“Space may be the final frontier, but it’s made in a Hollywood basement,” sings Regect louder, mimicking playing an air guitar.
“You’re so ass at singing, man, I-I-I’m getting a headache—“
“You’re just mad you can’t sing as well as me, fucking hater. I—dude, I rule the karaoke bars.”
“Karaoke bars—since when have you ever gone to a karaoke bar?” asks Z in disbelief.
“Many times, Z, many times.”
“And I was there for like—for exactly zero of those times. Right, right.”
“Maybe I never invited you because I knew you would ruin my night.”
The statement is exceptionally somber, strikes the vicinity close to his heart if the way it pangs is any indicator. He white-knuckles the steering wheel, squints at the miles-long stretch of dark void beckoning to them, trying to resist the manic urge to veer off the road and crash them both into a tree.
“I didn’t, uh, I didn’t mean that,” says Regect. I’m sorry goes unspoken. He turns the radio a few notches down, slinging an arm over Z’s backrest. “And, uh, for the record, California isn’t all they sing about.”
They’re about five or six hours in when Z’s eyelids can’t take the constant drooping anymore. He thought he was growing used to functioning on sub-four hours of sleep, but then again, he hasn’t driven for hours on end in ages. There’s a fact he skimmed when he was enrolled in driver’s ed a while back, something about how sleepless drivers are as dangerous as drunk drivers—he wrote it off as hearsay at the time, but it’s starting to make sense to his sleep-addled brain. Regect yelling at him for swerving for the third time is the final nail in the coffin as he pulls off the road toward a grouping of birch trees.
“Hey, um, where—where are you taking us, man?”
“I don’t know, but I need a nap.”
“What the hell, dude, you didn’t—“
“Okay, I-I don’t care what you’re, uh, what you’re gonna say. I’m tired. End of story.”
“We’re losing time, idiot.”
“On what? Finding Bigfoot? Give me a—give me a fucking break.” With that, Z climbs over the center console to rest on the backseat, making sure to elbow Regect on his way over. He slips his hat over his eyes before deciding that the added darkness is overwhelming and tugs the brim back up—it’s far too easy to trace the faint outline of eyes haunting his every action.
A sudden weight on his chest has him cracking a hesitant eyelid, morphing into a glare of annoyance as Regect fusses over their positioning.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Z asks though he doesn’t exert any effort to shove him off. It’ll only culminate in another inane argument and Z wasn’t lying when he said he needed to take a nap. He’s warm too, a human-sized blanket he could potentially curl up in.
“Sleeping,” replies Regect like he should have already been privy to the answer.
“On top of me?”
“Yeah.”
Z readjusts his arms so they’re wrapped loosely around Regect’s torso instead. He braces himself for the array of teasing comments coming his way, but none emerge. Regect curls up on his chest, something like a content sigh escaping him, and Z smiles despite himself. It’s the first time he’s smiled in weeks. He doesn’t dream of the eyes once.
“Let’s detour,” suggests Regect before he pops the tab off of his soda, tilting it down whatever constitutes for his throat. Z glances at the clock; it’s just past 3 PM. So far, they’ve had the company of unkempt roads and a multitude of trees—Z has kept track of the types they’ve passed. Oak, mangrove, birch, cherry: none of which are suitable for cloaking Bigfoot. He has a sneaking suspicion that they’re not on this trip to aimlessly search for an anomaly Z is still convinced doesn’t exist, but if not, then what is the purpose?
“Yeah, all right, all right. Where to?”
“I wanna find a diner. Gonna order a big, uh, a-a big, greasy burger. And fries, oh man, I hope they’re curly fries. A chocolate milkshake too.” He sounds as though he’s describing a long-lost lover with how wistfully he recites his order; Z laughs a little, coughs a millisecond afterward to conceal the unfortunate fact that Regect can make him laugh at all. If Regect notices, he doesn’t comment.
“We have—there’s, like, a shitload of snacks in the trunk.”
“Okay, well, did you put a burger and fries in there? Yeah, didn’t think so, asshole.”
“I-I think finding a diner is about as likely as finding Bigfoot.”
“You need—you need to have faith, man,” says Regect, flicking his ear. “Faith makes the world go ‘round.”
“What are you, a televangelist?”
“I wish. I’d totally kill it every session, just standing up on stage, you know, preaching bullshit and raking in the millions.”
“You—you literally do that for free.”
“Exactly. I should be, uh, I should be monetizing my skills. I’m pulling—I’ll pull a Joel Osteen and stash all my money in the church walls.”
“Or—or—consider this: you could use the church money to pay off the gambling debts you, um, you hit our bank account with. Thanks, by the way, for the crapton of overdraft fees you always leave for me to deal with.”
Regect ignores his obvious sarcasm, cackling openly. The waning sunlight filtering through the window imparts a faint glimmer to the invisible portions of his body. Pretty Z thinks for a mortifying moment before his cheeks flush and he turns his attention back to the road.
“Go, uh, go—go get us some napkins.”
“I’m not your slave, dude, get them yourself,” says Regect, little pieces of burger spraying from his invisible mouth. He follows that horrendous bite up with another handful of fries; judging by his loud chewing, Z can tell he’s eating with his mouth open.
“Ew, close your mouth, man. Gross.”
“How—how am I supposed to eat, jackass?”
“You shouldn’t even—shouldn’t, like, even need to eat; you’re an entity…” Reluctantly, Z stands to retrieve the napkins himself. They’re the only two patrons in the modest diner; the interior vaguely resembles a Denny’s or a Waffle House. God, Z would kill to go to Waffle House. Since this world is far from being a proper Minecraft world, he’s sure that one exists somewhere out there. He has a theory that Regect could generate one if he asks nicely, but that would require asking him, and Z would rather shoot himself in the foot than give him more ammunition against him. He returns with a good amount of napkins, lobbing half the pile in Regect’s general direction.
“Here, clean your nasty ass face.”
“My face is—wait, you can’t see my face, fuck you.”
Z steals a fry from his plate, flipping him off with his free hand. “Fuck you too.”
“Fuck me yourself, coward.”
“What?” Z asks automatically. He frowns as Regect giggles, clearly pleased with his immature joke of a retort. “You’re fuckin’—you’re disgusting.”
“Just saying,” says Regect. “Actually, no I’m not; you couldn’t—you definitely couldn’t handle me.”
“I could so handle you,” replies Z, indignation winning out against the mortification sinking its claws into his chest. “I-I—“
“Y-you—” mocks Regect. “Shut up and finish your muffin already.”
“I dunno, dude, kinda—I kinda lost my appetite.”
“Awesome, give me the muffin.”
“Nah.”
“What—nah? You aren’t going to eat it, hand that—hand that shit over.” Regect crosses his arms, pouting like an overgrown toddler.
“Then I’d be—I’d be enabling your fat ass.”
“You’d like that, though.”
Z wonders if he’s in hell for all of two seconds, then recalls that he’s been in hell for a long, long time. As long as he’s known Regect, at the very least. “You trying to flirt with me? Because you suck at it. Literally suck.”
“Jesus Christ, you and your huge ass ego need to, uh, need to be studied.”
“Hm,” is all Z says. He throws some cash down on the table, stuffing the remainder of his muffin into his mouth when he spots Regect’s hand covertly inching toward it.
Z will be lowered into an early grave before he admits it, but he’s been fond of Regect’s company, almost too fond. Obviously, he misses Moe, but the guy hasn’t been a complete dickhead to him, openly causing him to laugh with the dumb jokes he likes to sprinkle in between their frequent arguments and infrequent conversations. He expects teasing every time, but Regect only laughs along with him which eases the permanent tension in his taut heartstrings a tad.
They had passed a deceptively large cave earlier in the afternoon; the sight of that cave sent Regect on a tirade apropros of nothing about some eldritch entity that resides there and owes him twenty bucks. Z was willing to park the car and track it down, but Regect instead whipped his phone out and sent twenty Venmo requests in a row, each memo consisting of a bunch of gun and angry-face emojis—one for each dollar, he’d stated. He nearly collapsed a lung in their shared cachinnation.
They aren’t any closer to accomplishing their goal, not that Z thinks they ever will, but he does wonder how long Regect intends this road trip to last. He doesn’t want to leave Moe alone for too long, after all, and the guns nestled in his chest at home have nobody there to polish them.
Z clears his throat, voice scratchy from disuse. Liam Gallagher croons through the speaker; he isn’t particularly fond of Oasis, but it’s easier to let Regect listen to the music he wants. He doesn’t want to reflect too hard on that. “Hey, so, when are we, like, heading back home?”
“After—after we find Bigfoot. Duh.”
“Okay, yeah, yeah, you keep saying that, but we aren’t gonna find him, so—“
“Remember what I said about having faith?”
“All right, man, let me think of a way to, uh, to rephrase it.” He pauses, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel. “What’s the real purpose of you dragging me on a wild goose chase?”
“Do you need one?”
“One what?”
“A reason? A purpose?”
“Yeah.”
“The real purpose of me dragging you on a wild goose chase—“ Regect cuts himself off and Z can feel the subtle heat of his invisible face near his, the Doritos he’d snacked on earlier on his breath. His cheeks warm, fingertips stuttering to a staccato rhythm. “—Is to search for Bigfoot. Fucking LISTEN to me, sometime.”
The nerve of this guy. Any mushy thoughts are immediately disposed of with embers as he lets his face go slack, shrugging disappointment on like a familiar coat. He flips the radio channel to a pop station just to spite him. “God, I hate you. I-I really do, I really do hate you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Regect, already searching the stations for his 90s rock. “You always say that like I—like I care.”
They stumble upon a museum a little off the beaten path. Regect doesn’t want to stop, claiming that there’s nothing of interest in there for them, but Z puts the blinker on anyway, parking a few feet away from the building. Truthfully, he needs an excuse to stretch his legs and maybe purchase a souvenir for Moe inside if there’s a functioning gift shop.
“Ugh, my museum is so much cooler,” announces Regect as they step on the pressure plates to activate the iron doors. The white paint of the structure is peeling; Z picks at a little strip while Regect walks further inside, talking to himself. He pinches the paint strip between his fingers until it smears white on his fingertips, flicking the remainder to the quartz tiling below. Everything in here is so bright from the overhead lighting to the pristine paintings lining the gallery; it’s giving him a slight headache and a lingering sense of regret for stopping here. The sound of footsteps slowing to a halt causes him to look up.
“Z? Come on, dude, let’s go. Let’s go look at the paintings.” Regect grabs Z’s arm, hauling him toward a painting depicting a hulking goat looking over a crowd of scared women, all varying in ages. “Heh, Satan doesn’t, uh, he doesn’t look half as good as me.”
“Oh yeah, no, you’re—you’re several steps below the ugly goat thing.”
“You’re a liar—“
“I ain’t calling you a truther.”
“Shut up, you troglodyte—“
“Ooh, that’s a big word for Elmo.”
“You—“ Regect cuts himself off abruptly, his belting laugh the premonition of a tornado in Z’s bones. They’re too close. Z focuses on the little plaque underneath the painting to distract himself, squinting in recognition at the name of the artist.
“Hey, didn’t you—didn’t you have, like, another painting by this guy in your museum?”
“Huh?”
Z points at the plaque. “He painted Saturn Devouring His Son too. The one that, um, the one that came to life and ran away or whatever. Remember? You were—you were showing me that statue you built of me too. Do you still have that thing?”
“Uh, why the fuck would I keep a statue of you?”
“I-I don’t know, man, you tell me!”
“Feel like you’re gaslighting me, buddy.”
“Oh my god.” Z pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You made a whole fuckass statue of me, how do you not—“
“Oh, Goya, yeah, yeah, I did, uh, I did have that other painting. Wonder what happened to it.”
“And the statue?”
“What statue?”
“Regect, I swear to god—I-I will leave you on the side of the fucking road—“
“Okay, okay, god, I threw it out! You’re making a huge deal out of—“
“You threw me out?!” Z repeats. Their voices have been steadily increasing in volume, but this museum is as abandoned as practically every other place they wind up at, so he doubts they’ll be removed for noise complaints.
“Wh-what? Isn’t that, uh, wasn’t that what you wanted?”
“What the hell, dude?”
“Yeah, not cool.” A deep voice in front of them that neither of the two recognize cuts in, effectively ceasing their short argument.
“I—did that painting just talk?” Z questions, tilting his head at Regect who merely shrugs his shoulders.
“Wait, why are you taking Z’s side?” Regect glares at the painting. It doesn’t respond. “Okay, wow, wow, fuck you, Goya.”
“Uh, you know what, let’s, like, let’s just get out of here. Let’s uh—oh shit, I wanted to buy something for Moe—“
“I’m not buying shit, let’s steal—“
“No, dude, fuck no—“
“Oh, come on, man, what happened to, like, living life on the edge and—“
“Yeah, no—and I-I won’t visit you in prison.”
“You would. I’d make you bring me a cake with a knife in it, old-school style.”
“You really—you honestly think I’d bring anything to you? I just said I wouldn’t even visit you.”
Regect snorts. “Sure, yeah. I’ll-I’ll take a knife in a steak dinner. With a side of lobster.”
Shaking Regect’s loose grip on his arm off, he stalks toward the entrance, humiliated at how unnecessarily upset he is that Regect got rid of the statue. It’s weird, undeniably weird that he built one of him in the first place, but Regect’s entire brand is weirdness. Still, it is… nice—the thought that he could be a muse, that is. A tangible reminder that he exists, that other people (or entities, he supposes) think about him too, that for all of the bickering and petty bullshit they engage in, he had taken the time out of his day to include Z in his museum. Whatever. He grits his teeth, starting the car with a harsh jam of his keys into the ignition.
He feels guilty for not finding anything for Moe thus far, but they have all the time in the world, apparently.
Z haphazardly spreads a blanket on the ground, sitting in the middle so he can force Regect to find somewhere else to sit, perhaps on the grass for all he cares. He unwraps his slightly squished ham sandwich, chewing with a grimace at how many gobs of mayonnaise seep out of the sides. This is why he never allows Regect in the kitchen unsupervised—only that guy could screw up the simple task of making a sandwich.
“Move over,” Regect says with a kick lacking any real force behind it.
“Leave me alone, dude, just—just sit on the ground.”
“Sharing is caring, asshole.”
“Did you ever graduate kindergarten?”
Regect crosses his arms, huffing before he throws himself on Z quicker than a lightning bolt, toppling them over. “What the fuck—“
“You wouldn’t move—“
“Get off! What is wrong with you—“ He sits up, batting at Regect rather weakly.
“I think I’ll—“
“GET OFF.”
Regect shuffles his one ass cheek onto Z’s lap, slinging an arm over his shoulders. Z hates the casual contact, hates, hates, hates him.
Yet, he doesn’t move, pulse thundering a traitorous rhythm in his ears. He never noticed this about the other before, mostly because they’re typically invading each other’s space only when fists are flying and kicks are shared like a needle between addicts, but Regect smells like petrichor. Grass too, maybe sunshine if it had a smell.
“Dude, you’re like, so red right now, I—you better not get me sick, fuckface.”
Z opens his mouth. Shuts it. He feels like a fish out of water.
“Can I have a bite of your sandwich?”
“I—wouldn’t that—I’m-I’m not sick, you dumb fuck. And wouldn’t sharing a sandwich guarantee you to get sick if I was?”
“I know,” says Regect curtly. Z inhales a greedy lungful of oxygen, averts his gaze to the cotton clouds mindlessly drifting by; he doesn’t realize his leg is jiggling until Regect flattens a large hand atop his thigh. “So, can I?”
“No.”
“You’re not even eating it anymore, what the hell, just—“
“And get the fuck off of me already, I shouldn’t have to tell you this many times.”
“You uh—you know you totally could have pushed me off if you wanted to, dude.”
“Uh, yeah, no, uh… uh…” Z can’t figure out how to complete his sentence so he leaves the words suspended in mid-air, the atmosphere heavier than his Mossberg 500. Regect plucks his loose fingers off of the sandwich, gulping down the remaining half in two noisy bites. “I hate you.”
“I know,” Regect replies, lowering his head to rest on Z’s shoulder, faint strands of hair he can’t see brushing his collarbone. The warmth of his breath should be an annoyance, should warrant him following through and pushing Regect away, but all it does is increase his already escalated heart rate and unearth thoughts he struggles to keep padlocked in his absolutely useless brain, thoughts that should not have persisted as long as they have.
The impromptu picnic lasts longer than it should have.
“Lowkirkenuinely, I’m ti—“
“Do not start a sentence with lowkirkenuinely ever again, Jesus Christ—“
The moon follows them down the dimly lit street, a sliver of pale light amidst the stars dotting the sky. Z has the window rolled down so the breeze can sweep across his face unburdened, and also so the howl of the wind can help drown Regect’s grating voice.
“Okay, well, lowkenuinely—“
“Try again.”
“Shut up! I’m tired.”
“Too damn bad.”
“I wanna sleep in a bed, I’m tired of—“
“Of—of sleeping on me?”
“Um…” Regect curls his hand under his chin, at least that’s what Z assumes. “Yeah, sure.”
The silence that follows unsettles him. He clears his throat and ups their speed a couple of notches. “We could—we could always go the fuck home already—“
“Or we can find a motel.”
Z turns the notion over in his head; it wouldn’t be a bad suggestion if it wasn’t originating from Regect. “Or we can go home.”
“Never found Bigfoot yet,” says Regect in a sing-song tone. Z sort of wants to punch him and knock his teeth in, sort of wants to throttle him and kiss him all over. Clearly, he left his grip on reality on the side of one of the many roads they’ve driven down. “Anyway, go right in, like, five miles.”
“We’re—we’re not staying in a motel, man, be serious.”
“We’re not staying in a motel—shut up and fucking listen to me.”
“I will crash this goddamn car—“
“No, you won’t—“
“Yeah, I will—“
Regect leans his head on his shoulder. It’s disturbing how comfortable he feels displaying physical affection out of nowhere, almost like—Z elbows him off, muttering a string of curses under his breath as he reaches a four-way stop and turns right.
“Ow, you fucking dick—“ whines Regect.
“Shut up. Just shut up. I-I-I don’t want to hear your voice until I’m asleep at whichever shitty motel you’re making us go to.”
“Okay, that doesn’t—“
“SHUT UP. SHUT. UP.”
Regect, predictably, complains after a minute that Z’s on his man period, to which he earns a punch to the gut.
“One room—“
“Two rooms—“ Z relays to the bored NPC manning the front desk. It has no facial features, smooth like the head of a mannequin, but the vibe emanating from it reminds Z of how he felt when he was working that shitty cashier job for all of two weeks before getting fired for poor customer service. He lasted two whole weeks, at least.
“Psh, we’re not made of money. One—one room, dude.”
“No, I’m not—I’m not sharing a room with you—“
The front desk agent sticks a waiting hand out for payment, a warbled sigh escaping its indiscernible mouth. Regect generates an emerald—Z seriously can’t wrap his head around the fact that he has all of these broken abilities and chooses not to utilize them at any given time—and repeats his demand for one room.
The paint is peeling off the walls worse than the museum, and the beds are more of a warning sign than a warm beckoning, but Z is used to winding up at awful places like this at Regect’s insistence. He kicks off his sneakers before flopping on the bed farthest from the door, looking absently at the popcorn ceiling. He should have brought a book or something—he doubts the television that appears like it’s from the 60s can operate.
Regect leaves a few minutes after they arrive without a word. He wonders what he could be up to—haggling with the front desk agent about having to pay, most likely. Maybe he went out for a bite to eat since the entity’s appetite is stupidly high, though he always forces Z to accompany him.
He wouldn’t leave him, would he? Regect is a menace of a driver who definitely should’ve had his license revoked by now, but he can drive. Not to mention the fact that he can teleport though he rarely invokes it. He fiddles with his fingers, sitting up so he can press his back against the headboard. Was he too harsh with him on the drive over here?
Ten minutes tick by as indicated by the blinking red light of the alarm clock residing on his nightstand. He picks at his lip, chews the inside of his cheek, eyes glued to the door. It’s concerningly quiet—Z isn’t used to experiencing extended moments of peace like this. His skeleton feels too big for his body.
Twenty minutes. Z convinces himself that Regect’s just grabbing a bite to eat, tries so very hard, but the escalating panic corroding his chest won’t cease. He wouldn’t leave him. He can’t leave. They haven’t even found—who were they searching for again? Oh right, Bigfoot.
By the time a half-hour elapses, he pushes himself to his feet, hands clutching at his scalp, heart clenched in unbridled worry. God, he despises himself. He hates Regect even more for causing him to act like this. This is all his fault, obviously, paying him so much attention over the week they’ve been on this trip, lavishing physical affection on him like Z has ever been a person worthy of that—he hates him so goddamn much.
What he hates most of all is how desperately he wishes for Regect to walk through that door. Fuck he thinks as he returns to his bed, bringing his knees to his chest. I’m pathetic.
Z doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he re-enters the waking world with a groan. The first thing he registers are the legs tangled with his, Regect’s loud snores drilling into his ear. He came back. The sigh of relief Z breathes is involuntary as he turns on his side, jolting when he realizes how close Regect is to his face. A mere two inches separates the two.
Z stares at him for longer than he should, paralyzed. It would be really easy to touch him, map out his invisible limbs he only receives fleeting glances of when the sun shines particularly bright. He raises a trembling hand, splaying his fingers out over the steady rise and fall of Regect’s exposed rib cage. He stops breathing, caressing the ridges of one rib before he remembers who the hell he is and closes his hand into a fist, ramming it into his stomach.
Regect wakes with a pained cough, arms flying up in defense. “What—what the fuck was that?”
“You’re such an asshole!“
“Oh my god, I didn’t do—“
“Where—where the fuck did you go? Where the fuck were you? Why did you—“
“I—“
“Where the fuck were you?” Z shouts, blinking away the irate tears pooling in his eyes.
“Chill out, man—“
“No, tell me where you were.”
“God, if you’d shut up for, like, a second, I was asking that front desk douchebag for extra sheets and then Maturin called, so I-I had to talk to him for a while and—“
“You’re a shitty liar.”
“Am not!” Regect angrily throws his blanket on the floor. “I knew you’d be a little bitch about sharing a blanket and I wanted two for myself.“
“Uh, why in the—why the fuck are you in my bed at all?”
“Because I noticed that you don’t get nightmares when I’m here!”
Z reddens, burying his face in his hands.
“Yeah, yeah, I always hear your crybaby ass when we’re at home, so like, you’re welcome because I’m the best roommate ever and I, like, totally deserve a Nobel Peace prize.”
“I don’t have nightmares, like, every night, dude…”
“You kind of do,” says Regect.
“Okay, uh, I don’t know why you think you’re helping—“
“Oh, oh, my name’s Z and all I do is deflect—“
“I’m not deflecting!”
“Because I’m a stupid asshole who can’t admit—“
Z whacks him in the chest. “Stop—just stop already. Shut up.”
Regect listens to him for once, reaching down to pick his blanket up off the floor and wrapping himself back up in it.
It’s only when snores fill the room that Z allows himself to relax, hesitantly throwing an arm over Regect’s waist. The blanket burrito snoring up a storm is warmer than a heater, and as reluctant as Z is to admit that Regect is right, he is. Z hasn’t had a nightmare since they left the house. How Regect’s oblivious ass managed to notice that is incomprehensible—maybe he cares about Z more than he lets on. He does remember all of these little things about him, after all, like his favorite food and color and how he flinches whenever someone laughs too loud. Most of the time, he taunts Z or uses those facts for ammunition in one of their countless arguments, but well… he feels seen either way.
God, he really is a loser. The guy isn’t even human. He looks at the empty space where Regect’s head should be, visualizes what kissing him would entail. Would he materialize a mouth out of thin air? Does he have teeth, razor-sharp like a monster or blunt like a human? Would an entity know what a kiss signifies?
He retracts his arm and rolls over to the other side, pulling the covers up to his chin. This is a highly stupid line of thinking to indulge in. All they do is argue most hours of the day and he gets on Z’s last nerve so often, he has a vacation home there. He likes Z in some capacity, sure, otherwise he wouldn’t drag Z to every corner of the world, but nothing Regect does suggests that he has any real feelings for him. Why would he? Z doesn’t bring much to the table besides a host of anger issues and a chronic inability to open up. Yeah, real ideal in a partner.
And Regect would utterly suck to date. His room is a permanent mess, his pranks more often than not result in Z brushing with death, he has more invisible limbs than visible limbs—the point is that the cons outweigh the pros by a long shot. But he can’t stop thinking about pulling him in, about the soothing warmth of his body pressed against his, about how pretty he is sitting in the passenger seat of the car and showing him around museums, and how right the world is when Regect is all over him. He nibbles his bottom lip until he draws blood, letting out a small hiss under his breath as he wipes the small injury with the edges of his blanket.
He is so unbelievably fucked in the head.
A loud knock on the door rouses Z from slumber again. Regect is already up, frantically packing the scant belongings they’d brought out from the trunk into a duffel bag.
“It’s past checkout time,” croaks whoever is on the other side. Their voice sounds the way wasabi tastes.
11:01 AM flashes the alarm clock. Z arches an unimpressed eyebrow—they’re a whole minute past checkout time and it’s not like this dump is overflowing with guests. Still, he stands with a yawn and trudges into the bathroom to collect his toiletries, wincing at his greasy appearance. He runs his fingers through his hair, suddenly self-conscious, then remembers what he was thinking about last night and looks away, wrapping his arms around himself.
Regect looms in the doorway, breathing heavily. “Hey, Z, hurry up, man. I’m gonna—I’m gonna rig this joint with TNT—“
“You’re what?”
“Yeah, so, we gotta go. C’mon, chop chop!”
“You can’t just—“
“I’ll, uh, I’ll meet you in the car, dude, just get out of here.” He vanishes before Z can get a word in.
With an irritated sigh, he gathers their belongings and walks to the car, trying and failing to keep his intrusive thoughts at bay. They need to go home already; he’s lost his damn mind on this godforsaken road trip. He wishes Moe was here to act as a buffer between them, distract him so he doesn’t have to think about Regect’s legs slotted through his. He should kill Regect for spawning all of these outlandish ideas in his head.
But this time, it’s not Regect’s fault though, is it? It’s easier to pretend that it is.
Said man comes barrelling into the passenger side, pointing forward and yelling at him to step on it. Large explosions boom behind them as Regect whoops loudly, pumping a fist in the air.
“That’s what they get for making me pay—“
“All motels make you pay, stupid.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a dumb policy and I-I don’t believe in capitalism.”
“… Weren’t you the one who refused to generate diamonds for me because you said it would crash the economy?”
“No, I just don’t wanna give you handouts. I’m, like, an upstanding citizen and shit.”
“Oh my god, no, you’re not—“
“Yes, I am—“
“You won’t give me anything because you—you’re a fucking asshole—“
“And I hate you.”
Z frowns. They repeat that phrase to each other with such frequency, it’s evolved into more of a greeting than an actual insult, but his hands still tighten on the steering wheel in displeasure.
“What’re you so pissy about?”
“Nothing, I—“ Z’s mouth flattens to a thin line. “Whatever.”
“Oh,” says Regect. “Pull over.”
“Why?”
“Just—just do it, quit asking so many questions.”
“I asked one—“
“Pull over!”
Z complies, parking behind a particularly tall oak tree. “What?” he asks pointedly.
“Remember when you, like, when you asked me why we went on this road trip?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“I, uh, I—“ Regect folds his hands on his lap, presumably glancing out the window. “I just—I thought maybe—maybe it would help. It was Moe’s idea, really.”
“What? What—what are you talking about?”
“I mean, you just—you’ve been, like, you’ve been super off for a while, man. And Moe kept bugging me to do something because she thinks that I—um, so, so, uh, here we are.”
“I-I don’t really know what you’re saying.”
“Okay, it’s like—you never used to have nightmares before and—you just—you seem super depressed or something. I don’t know, Moe and I just wanted you to, like, to have a good time.” It sounds like it physically pains Regect to admit that.
Z is speechless for a solid thirty seconds, brain working overtime. “Uh? Kinda sounds like you—like you, uh, care about me, fucking chud.”
“Okay, well, I might or might not, fucking chud supreme.”
“Ah,” says Z, suddenly nervous. “No Bigfoot then?”
“Yeah, no, not that I know of.”
“Why—why didn’t she come with?”
“Ask her yourself—actually, no, don’t worry about it.”
Z has no idea what to do with the strange fizzy feeling in his chest, stomach flitting with uncomfortable butterflies. “I’m not depressed.”
“If you say so.”
“Um. Thanks, I-I guess. It’s—it hasn’t been that bad. Um, hanging out with you.”
“Yeah, I know, I’m great company. About time you recognized that.”
“When you’re not being a complete jackass, sure. Too bad that you are one 24/7.”
“Whatever, just—just take us home already.”
Z starts the engine again, letting it idle as he re-evaluates what he wants to do. This is so stupid. He’s stupid for even contemplating what he desperately wants to do. He knows he is.
“Z?”
Z turns, face flushed like he’s finished running a marathon.
“You, uh, you gonna get moving?” mumbles Regect.
“… Yeah.”
“What’s the holdup?”
“I—uh, I—“ Fuck it. He lunges toward Regect, eyes screwed shut as he plants a kiss on something solid—god, he hopes he hit his mark—and is promptly shoved away. Fuck. Fuck, he is the biggest idiot to ever exist.
“Wha—dude, what?”
His stomach drops to his feet. He wrenches opens his eyes, swallows the lump in his throat to spit something out. “I just—“
“No, um—“ Regect cups his jaw, and there’s no visible way to tell that he’s leaning in, but Z can tell as soon as something warm aligns with his lips, tentative and light in a manner he didn’t think Regect to be capable of.
Z slips his arms around Regect’s shoulders, wishing he could rip the stupid center console out of this car as he presses Regect against the car door. He’s too eager, and Regect is definitely going to make fun of him for this, but he can’t bring himself to care when he’s got this stupid entity that has caused him an infinite slew of problems since day one exactly where he wants him. He parts his lips, feeling terribly inexperienced as he licks around the interior of Regect’s mouth. The other has really sharp teeth; he moans in surprise when a forked tongue wraps around his, heavy breathing intermingled.
He finds himself yanked onto Regect’s lap, ripping a whimper out of his throat as the entity worms his hands under Z’s sweater, touch like a flame warming him inside and out. He swears Regect is trying to eat him alive—he wouldn’t mind going out like this, truly. Unfortunately, he’s running low on oxygen so he backs off, turning his head when Regect attempts to drag him into another kiss.
“Uh…” starts Z, mind entirely empty.
“That was pretty gay.”
“I—you—shut up, you’re such an idiot.”
“Uh-huh, yeah, okay. Homo.”
“You’re a homo—“
“I think—I think you’re the winner of the homolympics.”
Despite himself, Z cracks a fond smile. “That’s all you.”
“Whatever, shit for brains,” Regect says before sweeping him into a lingering kiss. His clawed fingers dig into Z’s hips, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Down to fuck?”
“Wha—Jesus, not in the car, man, the fuck is wrong with you?” Z sputters, thanking his lucky stars that he doesn’t have to witness the shit-eating grin he knows must be present on Regect’s face.
“All right, take us home then.”
“… Fine. Dipshit.”
“Asshole.”
“Jackass.”
“Motherfucker.”
“Shit for brains.”
“Hey, I just used that one, don’t—don’t copy me—“
“I hate you,” says Z with a grin threatening to split his face.
“Love you too."