Work Text:
When Dirk starts college in a week he'll be moving halfway across the country. You're going to apply to the same college and you both know you'll get in, but the year that you'll be apart is like a sea you don't know how to cross.
The last days of summer pour out over you and the tension between you grows. Before, he'd get up to grab some Doritos from the kitchen and slide a bottle of apple juice onto your desk as he moved back to his computer, or pass you his headphones so you could to listen to what he was working on. Now the air between you fills with silence.
Tonight he gets up and pauses behind your chair until you look at him. He jerks his head. “Let's go.”
“Where?” you ask.
He shrugs.
“Okay,” you say.
He pulls on his jacket and gloves and snags his helmet; a glance at you, and you turn to do the same. Someplace far, then. You could stand to go some place far tonight.
--
The motor purrs between your legs and your arms are locked around his waist. Dirk leans into the wind, and you tilt your head so you're looking into the headlights from the wrong side of the road. His leather jacket keeps his body heat from you, and your fingers idly bump against his zipper's metal teeth.
You soar onto the highway. He revs the engine and you're not afraid at all. The roaring wind is the only thing you hear.
You don't know how long the two of you go for, but the moon is noticeably higher in the sky by the time you pull into the lookout spot. There are some other cars there, but they're dark inside.
The two of you dismount, and he takes care of the bike while you pull your helmet off. You turn back and see him shake his hair free from his own helmet, then bend to rest his elbows on the seat, arms crossed at the wrists and face turned to the sky. You hook your helmet around the handlebar closest to you and mirror his pose on the other side of the bike. You face the highway and its rushing cars, and the moon, and the dark shapes of roadside greenery. Your shoulders brush and he doesn't look at you. You don't look at him, either.
In time your ear picks out cricket song underneath the traffic. You watch the movement of the trees like you're on Lost and it might mean something. Even out here, there's silence between you.
“You know,” you say at length, “this is a makeout spot.”
Dirk turns his head slightly, an eyebrow quirked at you. It's dark and both of you have your glasses off. The moonlight changes his face, strange highlights and stranger shadows.
“Yeah?” he says.
“You know at least three of the four cars here are full of heavy petting or some shit,” you continue, and he just nods, his expression serious and attentive. “A girl is probably losing her virginity right now as we speak. You're corrupting me, bro.”
“Not much left to corrupt,” he says. “You did that fine on your own.”
“You helped,” you say.
“You didn't have to look,” he says, a lazy half-grin pulling at his mouth, and you bump his shoulder in response. “Hey. Easy,” he says, gesturing at the bike which you're both balancing on. You shift, made restless by the scolding.
You peer over your shoulder to see what your brother is looking at. You catch a glimmer of lights in the valley below, but that's it. You turn the other way and your nose brushes against Dirk's cheek. You tense, and so does he, but you've been in each other's personal space for longer than you have memory. You're not sure which of you relaxes first.
“Hey,” you murmur in his ear.
His voice is pitched low to match yours. “Yeah?”
“Don't forget to write.”
“I'll write you every single goddamn day,” he says somberly, and you're too close to try and read his face, you can't tell if he's serious or not. For a moment, you debate which is worse: that he never contacts you at all or that he deluges you with pages of purple prose.
“You fucking better,” you decide upon. “I'll be waiting up by the mailbox.”
“Count on it,” he says.
The wind is cold as it comes in from the valley. You're glad for your jacket, for the warmth of your brother's cheek against your own.
--
It's well past midnight when you tiptoe through your house and fall into your beds. You lie flat on your back, staring at the burned-out glowing stars peeling from your ceiling, and know he's doing the same.
You turn to look at him, and on impulse, reach out a hand. It's sleepover hours; he won't mention it in the morning.
He extends his hand, and your fingers barely touch.
“Good night, bro,” you whisper.
“Good night,” he murmurs back.
You wonder who you'll say that to when he's gone.