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There can only be so many times he wants before he starts realizing that wanting usually ends in losing. He's a quick learner, but even this lesson takes its time to sink in—you give a man a taste of what he wants, the absence is all he'll think about. A dog hunting for scraps, trying to fill the gap in its stomach.
He is starved, and the world leads him to Ryland Grace.
The man in question clumsily ducks into the passenger seat. He slots into his car like he's always sat there. "Thank you for driving me," he says, with a small, disarming laugh. "I don't mean to impose or anything."
Driver taps the steering wheel three times as Grace straps himself in. "You're not."
Grace is a man who always seems to be folding into himself, like he's afraid of taking up too much space. He drowns himself in long coats and knit cardigans, softening his edges. Making himself presentable. Palatable. What would it be like, he thinks, to peel those layers open? To see what he hides? The thought feels sacrilegious, an overstepping of bounds. It is in the nature of wanting.
"Seriously, you're doing me a huge favor," Grace insists, tugging on his bright yellow raincoat. It seems to lighten up the whole car, a sunspot in the midst of a rainy day in San Francisco. He can't look directly at him. "You've been driving me the whole week because of the rain. I feel like I should give you something..."
"You don't need to," Driver says, as they start to move through the city. He does this because he wants to, because he's greedy despite everything, because the lesson still hasn't quite sunk in. He is a stray at the doormat of a warm house, the heat of a home a bone thrown.
Grace makes a noise of disagreement but doesn't push the issue, settling his bag over his lap and resting his head against the window. The streets smear past them in a blur, and Driver listens to Grace's quiet breaths and the hum of the engine, a balm on the buzz under his skin. A week of this has made him hungry. It has made him, strangely, patient. He could have this if he waits, perhaps. The possibility sets his teeth on edge.
The drive is silent, for the most part. Mornings tend to run quiet, Grace letting the commute wake him up, and Driver never one to break the silence. It's the afternoons that Driver gets the pleasure of a Grace eager to recount his day, his tie loosened and his hands looser, waved around with broad gestures like he was trying to paint a picture in the air for him to see.
There's a piece of Grace he gets here, in his Chevrolet Chevelle Malibu, that he likes to imagine no one else gets. They don't get to see the fond, exasperated smile he has when he talks about a particular trouble-maker in class, one that he thinks just needs a little push to do really great, or the animated bounce to his shoulders when he's recounting his plans for a fun demonstration he's doing for class. That's private—that's for him. He hums and answers when right, just to pull out that pleased grin of his that make his eyes crinkle and his teeth peek out, a reminder he is not completely defenseless.
"-and Sara is totally within rights to ignore him. Jacob needs to learn pulling pigtails is not the way to get a girl's attention," Grace huffs, shaking his head with a roll of his eyes in his direction, like he's inviting Driver to share in his light-hearted aggravation. Driver's lips quirk up, which spurs Grace on to continue, "I got something for you, by the way."
Driver rolls the car to a stop in front of their apartment building, tilting his head towards Grace in question. He flexes his fingers on the wheel, trying to temper the pleased shiver that warms his spine. Grace digs into his pockets, brandishing a lollipop, wrapped in yellow. Something faintly embarrassed flits through Grace's face as he presents it to Driver. "It's, uh, lemon. If you don't like that flavor, I have a bunch more in the classroom. Unless you don't like lollipops? I have other candy, so-"
"I like lemon," Driver says, plucking the lollipop from Grace's outstretched fingers. They don't touch, but Driver can feel the warmth of his skin just by proximity. The relieved smile he gets in return makes it so he has no other choice but to smile back.
Peeling the lollipop open, he slides the toothpick resting in his mouth out and replaces it, the sweet artificial lemon flavor welcome on his tongue. He savors it for a moment, before nodding once. "I like it."
"Good," Grace exhales in relief. He looks Driver in the eye for a scant few seconds, enough to make him hold his breath, then says, "That's good."
I can be good, Driver almost says. I can be good for you.
"Wait," he says instead, a quiet request. Grace blinks, hand halfway towards clicking off his seatbelt, before acquiescing with a nod. Driver opens his door, stepping out with a habitual sweep of their surroundings. Two men loitering off the stoop near the apartment, a woman rushing by with hurried steps, unused umbrella dripping water by her side, an old man pushing his groceries down the sidewalk. He catalogues it all as he walks to the passenger side, opening the door for Grace.
The man looks up, eyes wide and especially blue behind his frames. There's a rosy flush Driver can see creeping up neck and spotting his cheeks. It's endearing. "Geez, you didn't have to- uh," he doesn't seem to know how to finish his sentence, words trailing off as he swings his legs out of the car. "You're a real gentleman, huh?"
Driver only waits patiently as Grace steps onto the sidewalk, joining him on his heels as he readjusts his bag. "I try."
He earns a laugh at that, a victory that tastes sweeter than the lollipop in his mouth. "More than try, I think," Graces teases, as Driver opens the door to their complex for him. "You trying to sweep me off my feet or something?"
It's said with the tone of a throwaway comment, a joke meant to be laughed off and brushed away. Driver doesn't much feel like doing either of those. "Is it working?"
Grace pauses, halfway into the elevator, like he was stopped dead in his tracks by surprise. Driver slips into the elevator, their jackets brushing as he presses down on the faded three button. "Wh-what?" Grace stammers, nervous fingers flying to his face to fidget with his glasses. The doors start closing, and Grace seems to snap out of his fluster and falls into place next to Driver. It feels right. "Um, sorry, what was that?"
"Is it working?" Driver repeats, knowing full well Grace heard him the first time. He doesn't mind repeating. Grace swallows, and Driver watches the bob of his Adam's apple down his throat with searing intensity, wondering how it would feel under his tongue. Suddenly, the lollipop doesn't feel enough. He shoves his hands into his pocket, well-practiced in taming urges like that.
"…You're really pulling out the red carpet," Grace jokes, an attempt at redirection that falls flat when he can see that the red flush on his neck has spread to his ears. He scrubs his face like he could rid himself of the color, but Driver rather likes red on him. "It's, uh. You gotta let me get you something more than candy, at least. You're making me look bad."
"You could never," Driver says, just to watch his face reignite into splotchy reds. The elevator door opens, and Grace stumbles to get out while trying to, unsuccessfully, appear much more collected than he was. Driver follows, ever so loyally, another flicker of a smile moving his lips up. He rolls the lollipop around his mouth, still watching.
"Okay, okay, I get it, you're real smooth," Grace grumbles, visibly fighting to tamp down his blush. They get to his door, three-oh-nine, and Grace shuffles through his pockets for his keys. "Listen, how about I treat you for dinner? As a thank you. You can't say no," Grace adds insistently, wagging a finger like he was repeating an instruction to his class.
"Okay," Driver agrees, seeing no real reason to refuse more time with Grace. His easy concession after a week of saying he owed nothing must've taken Grace off-guard, his brows raising in pleasant surprise.
"Okay," Grace echoes, biting his lip in a poor attempt to stifle his smile. "I'll be honest, I didn't think I'd get this far. There's this diner a few blocks away. Penny's? You know it?"
Yes, Driver thinks. You stop by every weekend around one-thirty. You order a scrambled with bacon and waffles, and sometimes you get a chocolate milkshake with it. The waitresses know you. You spend a couple hours there grading papers. He doesn't say any of that. He only nods.
"Great! Does, um. Does six work?" As best as he tries to hide it, it's clear to Driver that he's nervous. He wants to reach out and smooth the crease of his brow, wants to adjust his glasses so that they're not hanging precariously off the bridge of his nose, wants to cup his face to soothe the anxious clench of his jaw. Again he goes, with wanting. He keeps his hands in his pockets.
"I'll drive," is all he says. Grace's lips quirk up in amusement, and he turns to his door to unlock it. Driver gets a glimpse into his space, the scent of what he imagines must be home wafting out into the hall. He inhales, imagines being able to one day exist in that space, then exhales. Grace takes no notice of this, and waves a brief goodbye.
"Six!" He reminds him, like he would forget. "I'll see you then." The door clicks shut, and Driver stands there longer than he needs to. He looks down and sees the small doormat by his feet, the words Periodically Nerdy printed in bold. He shakes his head, and tries not to think about pacing here until it hit six o'clock.
He checks his watch. Four twenty-two. He has an hour and a half. He lets out a silent breath, before making his way across the hall, a few doors down, to his own apartment. He can wait. He can be patient.
—
Driver is used to being across the street, watching from the other side of the glass. It's strange then, to be the one sitting across Grace in this booth, eating greasy diner food and listening to Grace ramble about everything and nothing.
"I'm running a little behind, but I think the kids will have fun with making the rockets. Personal demonstrations like that usually land great," Grace says, stabbing his fork into a piece of his waffle. "It helps they're a little more motivated with the promise of some extra credit if they make theirs go the highest. Oh, I should stock up on candy again, they're running me dry. I need some sugar to snack on throughout the day too."
"Mm," Driver hums, taking an idle sip of his water. Grace had frowned and told him he could order whatever, it's my treat! He settled with strawberry pancakes. Breakfast for dinner felt a little strange, but Grace only held up a finger and winked cheesily. Cheat day. He hadn't ordered a chocolate milkshake.
"I do need to slow down on all the candy though, or my teeth are going to fall off," Grace sighs, resting his chin on his palm. Somehow, his glasses have migrated to his chin, where they've managed to dangle halfway from without falling off. Driver's not sure how they get into those positions, but it's cute. "You liked the lemon lollipop, right? Any other flavors? Sweet treats? Or just foods in general."
Driver studies the relaxed slant of Grace's shoulders, the open trust of the moment. Making a decision, he reaches out and slides the glasses off his chin, carefully placing them back on his nose. They frame his eyes like a picture, a moment in time he'd like to capture forever. Grace stares at him from over the frames, mouth parting slightly to reveal a hint of his pink tongue.
"I like pie," Driver answers quietly, withdrawing his hand. Grace's fingers hover over his glasses, like he could feel his leftover warmth. Did he crave it like Driver did, he wondered? Did he imagine their fingers intertwined, their warmth shared? "Apple is fine."
"…Oh," Grace says, his hand falling to the table, before clearing his throat. His eyes dart away, staring at some fixed point over his shoulder. "That's- that's a classic. I wish I could bake that, but I really shouldn't be trusted in the kitchen for anything beyond microwaving instant noodles. I'm… definitely not getting that security deposit back."
Driver imagines Ryland in his kitchen, an apron with a stupid science pun written over it tied around his waist, trying to cook something for himself. It's a pot of pasta. It's rice with chicken. It's steak, medium rare. It doesn't matter, not entirely—it’s the domesticity of the scene that has him clenching his hands on his knees. He thinks about where he would slot in; perhaps by his shoulder, lingering with his chin hooked close to his neck. He could lean in, hear his pulse, the rhythm of his breaths, the cadence of his voice. Feel the scruff his beard.
He so desperately wants.
"How are you boys doing?"
One of the waitresses sidles up to their table, painted lips stretched into a friendly smile. She knows Grace. A sharp spike of possessiveness lances through him, a hammer to a nail. He resists the curl of his hand towards Grace's, lying flat on the table, but he can't help the press of his foot against Grace's under the table. Grace shoots him a surprised glance, but looks up to the waitress while pressing back.
"We're doing good, thank you, Leyna," Grace says, flashing a smile in return. He glances at their finished plates, making a considering hum. "Do you think we could get a check?"
"Of course, honey. No desserts?"
"No, no, thank you. We're good. Check, please."
Her gaze wanders to Driver for a moment before she's looking at Grace again. "You're treating your boy right, yeah?" she asks teasingly, and Grace, predictably, splutters disconnected answers, hands fluttering in the air. Driver can feel the woman's attention on him though, and gets the feeling she was asking him.
"He's not- We're not- I mean, this is my treat! But it's not like that. He's just, helped me out a lot! Y'know, just paying him back."
"I'm just messing with you, sweetheart. I'll be right back with your check." She sweeps away as quick as she came, and Grace starts opening his wallet, lithe fingers sorting through his bills.
"I, uh, I'm sorry about. That. She jokes. I guess it's because I don't bring people… here. A lot." He sets down two twenties. "I usually come here on the weekends. It's nice here, the servers are nice, and I get a bit of work done."
I know. "I see."
"Yeah. So, if you want to, you could join me. Only if you want," he adds hastily, like there was ever a chance Driver would turn this down. He has a foot in the door now, and Driver wants and wants and wants. "Company would be nice, and, well, I can treat you more. For this whole week."
Driver had no plans on letting Grace pay for him the next time they went here. And wasn't that something? A next time. An intentional invitation into Grace's world. A thrum of excitement warms his body, receptive to the idea of more next times.
"I'd like that," Driver says. Grace beams, bright and happy. It's moments like these that Driver can believe that he's capable of holding something as precious as Grace without crushing it between his gloved fingers. He's the one who did that, the one who put that smile on his face. It's a heady feeling, knowing he can do that.
"Guess we'll be seeing more of each other then," Grace laughs.
He has no idea how true that'll be. "Yes," Driver agrees, "we will."
—
It's clear Grace wasn't expecting to be seen here, in the dingy laundromat a block from their apartment. It's a sensible enough assumption, considering it's seven in the evening on a nondescript Thursday. He's wearing a large, cream white cardigan that swamps his frame with gray sweats—a laundry day outfit if he's ever seen one. But Grace has a routine, so therefore, Driver has a routine.
"Oh, hi! Funny seeing you here." Grace seems to huddle deeper into his cardigan, like it would hide him from view, while shuffling his sneakers. Driver approaches casually, his laundry basket sidled on his hip. "It's, like, what, the third time? I guess we got more similar hours than I thought."
Driver starts unloading his clothes into the washer, the hum of the laundry machines settling into the space between them. "I work flexible hours," Driver says, as an answer. Grace nods, accepts it easily. He doesn't think on it further. Driver wonders if it's trust that guides this easy acceptance, trust in him specifically, or if Grace gave this kind of leeway to most people in his life. That was dangerous.
It's a good thing Driver was here, if Grace kept being so open like this—vulnerable, caught in the soft hours of sunset. He's a good guard dog. He chews on his toothpick, rolling it over sharp canines. This time of day, any number of shadows start to creep out.
"I come out here to avoid the usual crowd," Grace speaks up, watching the spin cycle of the washer. Driver inclines his head attentively, his voice soothing in this empty laundromat. There's only the two of them. "Gets busy on the weekends. There's some nosy people sometimes, and they like to chat. Which is fine! It's just I'm not really in the mood." He blinks a couple times, before he whips his head towards Driver, eyes wide. "If I'm talking too much, tell me! Oh my god, I ramble all the time in front of you, seriously, just let me know if I get annoying, or-"
"I don't mind," Driver cuts in, stopping this train of thought. It wouldn't do for Grace to start toning himself down, like he seemed to do in every other part of his life. He wanted all of him. "I like hearing about it. All of it," he says firmly.
Grace ducks his head, teeth peeking out to work at his bottom lip. Driver has to clench his jaw, trying not to indulge in the vivid image of taking that between his own lips. He knows he would taste sweet. "You're…" Grace leans forward, his forehead resting on the glass of the washer's door, a helpless laugh escaping him. "You're good to me, you know? Way too good to me."
Driver feels his throat dry, his pulse spike. Say that again, he wants to demand. But that isn't something to demand—it's something to earn.
"I feel like I should know more about you," Grace admits, turning his head to look at him. His face is still pressed against the glass, dirty blond hair sticking up in a ran-through mess, like he was combing through it with anxious fingers. "Like, what do you do? What's your job? You know I'm a teacher."
"I drive," Driver says, and that's always been enough, usually. Not here. If he bared himself to Grace, the writhing, ugly whole of him, would he still want to know more? If he presented his neck, naked and bare, would he cradle or choke him? Or better yet, hook a collar under his chin and tell him heel? "For movies. Mostly, I work at a garage."
"For movies, huh? Like a stunt driver?" His eyes are alight with curiosity, the fluorescent lights hanging overhead reflecting off of them. "That's pretty cool."
He offers a one-armed shrug. "I suppose so."
Grace's brows knit together into an expression of concern. Then, hesitantly, "Is it safe? I mean, obviously, there's a little danger there, stunts and all. Sorry, dumb question."
"Thought there was no such thing as a dumb question," Driver says. Grace lets out an involuntary snort, a hand coming out to muffle the sound. Without thinking, Driver steps closer and wraps his fingers around his wrist, tugging it down to reveal the traces of laughter left on his face. They meet eyes, and for a suspended moment, they're the only people there. They're the only thing that matters.
"What… what are you..." Grace breathes out, shaky. Does he make him nervous? Do his nerves sing like his does when they're close like this?
"I like hearing all of it," Driver reminds him. Grace flushes a pretty pink. He opens his mouth, searching for words to no avail, his hand clenching in and out into a loose fist.
"I-"
Ding. The beeping of the washing machine jars them back into the laundromat, the smell of detergent and soap sharp against his nose. Driver pulls away, dropping his hand. Grace shifts to open the machine, studiously keeping his focus on moving the clothes into the neighboring dryer.
Maybe he overstepped. Maybe he moved too fast. He doesn't think so, but… His teeth click together, his toothpick snapping in half. He frowns, taking the two pieces out and discarding them. "It's a little dangerous," he says, answering Grace's previous question. The abrupt words seem to stir Grace from his task, the dryer door swinging shut.
"That's good to hear." Grace awkwardly fidgets with his glasses, a habit to keep his hands busy. He sighs, shaking his head. "Sorry. I'm really bad at this."
"This?" Will he put a name to this intangible thing that lives behind his ribs? Driver would take anything. He'd be content with friendship. Companionship. Grace purses his lips, one side twitching up in reluctant amusement.
"I don't know. Whatever this is. Neighbors?" He shrugs tentatively, like he knows that wasn't nearly enough to encapsulate whatever this was. "Friends?"
"You don't need to be sorry." Driver nears him again. "I'm… bad at this too." An understatement. Always, the dog who bites and gets sent off. It's who he is. He so badly doesn't want to mess this up. Not this, not this good thing he has right here, close enough to touch.
"So we'll be bad at this together," Grace laughs, grinning at him, his body relaxing. It's a small, but real thing. He smiles back, hoping it's soft. Hoping it's nice.
The spin cycle for Driver's washer stops with a ding! Even after Grace's clothes finish drying and they're all folded up, he stays with him until Driver finishes up his load. Driver pictures a time where their laundry baskets are mixed with each other's clothes, their scents so deeply intertwined they might as well be the same. They would use the same washer and dryer, fold their clothes on top of each other's.
"Did you walk here?"
"Yeah." Grace squints at him, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. "Let me guess. You'll drive?"
Driver huffs a quiet laugh. "I'll drive."
—
Grace is late.
Driver taps his foot anxiously against the floor, eyes darting from his watch to the door. Four days ago, Grace had told him he didn't need to drive him to work everyday anymore. "It's not raining as much now," he said. "And besides, I need the exercise. I'm fine with biking." Driver had managed to wrestle a concession from the stubborn man—Tuesdays and Thursdays, he could drive him.
Otherwise, Driver knew his schedule: he got home around 4:30 on average, sometimes 5:00 if it was a particularly busy time at school, usually during exam periods. It isn't exams period, though. And it's 5:23 p.m.
He snaps another toothpick between his teeth, standing up with restrained nerves. Pulling on his gloves and grabbing his keys, he leaves his barren apartment and stalks down the hall, silently mapping out his route. Grace might've just been caught up in getting grading done before the weekend. He might've had some meetings that ran late. He might've gone to run errands.
It's a lot of might haves. Driver doesn't rely on those.
He takes his car down the usual path to Grover Cleveland Middle. It's not completely dark out yet, but the setting sun does no favors for people still walking through the streets. Driver keeps his eyes peeled, just in case.
There must've been something divine shining down on him at that moment, something lucky, if he was inclined to believe in that sort of thing, when he spots it: Grace's bike. It's shoved up against a wall, near a dark alley between a second-hand store and a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He pulls up next to with a sharp turn and steps out, immediately making his way to inspect it.
It's damaged. From a fall, it looked like. Driver feels his head clear, his breathing even, his hands still. He isn't calm in the slightest, all coiled violence. He turns his head to the alley, a bloodhound sniffing out a trail. He hears it then, the distant sound of hissed threats and a pained cry. Stepping into the alley, the first thing he sees is Grace's yellow raincoat.
He doesn't remember the first punch. He does remember the second, the third, and the fifth. He remembers digging his heels into their head. Everything after, he does remember. The catharsis of knuckles breaking skin, warm blood splattering across his face. He takes no joy in the violence of it, only surety in the purpose of it. A guard dog off his leash.
When the man below him ceases his pleas for him to stop, Driver stands over the body. He's not dead. He will wish he was. Even so, Driver can feel his body shake with adrenaline, chest heaving with exertion. It's not only adrenaline that pumps through his veins.
It's fear. A fear well-worn in him, familiar as every part of his car. Grace's trembling body is hunched against the wall, the hitch in his breath like a gunshot in Driver's ears. What now? What now? He has shown his teeth, his willingness to bite down and rend flesh. He has shown the dirt and blood staining his nails. He shouldn't have had to see that. What does he think? What grace would he give him? Would he deserve it anyways?
Slowly, he turns to face him. Grace looks up from him on the ground, the frames of his glasses bent in half. Blood trickles down from his temple, bruises already blooming along his cheeks and down his jaw. He still looks good in red. Despite himself, Driver watches a drop of his blood bead down his chin, before dripping down onto his shirt collar. He wants to reach out, wipe it away with his thumb, lick it. He stays in place, shaking like a cornered mutt.
"You-" Grace swallows down the knot in his throat, wiping away the blood with the back of his hand. It only smudges his skin. "Is he- is he dead?"
Driver can't muster up the courage to speak. He only shakes his head slowly, still staring. Grace nods to himself, the gears in his mind visibly turning, turning, turning. A sentence is being doled out, and Driver can only lay his head down for judgment.
"Okay," he mutters to himself. "Okay." He climbs to his feet on shaky legs, a hand clutching his side. An injury. Still leaning against the wall, Grace makes tremulous eye contact with him, matted hair sticking of his face. "You're- you're not hurt?"
The question knocks the wind out of him, the air leaving his lungs in a staggering whoosh. He shakes his head again, examining the drying blood on his leather gloves. "No," he whispers. "Not my blood."
"I thought so," Grace says weakly. With a fortifying breath, Grace pushes off the wall, one hand cautiously reaching out towards one of Driver's, lying limply by his sides. Driver flinches, taking a step back, and Grace raises his hands up, backing off. "Hey. Hey, look at me. It's- we're going to figure this out. Yeah?"
Driver can only stare, mind readjusting to his words. Grace takes another careful step forward, watching for any sign of Driver turning tail. He doesn't. He couldn't. He hadn't known this was an option, Grace approaching instead of running like he should've.
"Let's go home," Grace pleads, his hand finally grabbing on his own. Driver shivers at the contact, even with the barrier of his gloves, but he doesn't pull away.
"It's- dirty. I'm all bloody," Driver stumbles over his words, his fingers twitching under Grace's. Grace looks down at the red splattered over his gloves, and only tightens his grip.
"I'll clean you up. You might be hurt." Grace stubbornly doesn't look at the unconscious man lying by their feet, briefly letting go of Driver's hand to bend down and pick up his fallen bag. Driver's hand stays in the air, bereft, spasming from the loss, before Grace straightens up with a wince, returning his hand into his hold. "We should get out of here."
In a daze, Driver lets himself be led out of the alley and to his car. The sun has long sunk down the horizon, bathing the sky in fading oranges and dark blues. The bike is still slumped against the wall. Grace stops by the car door, taking one look at Driver and letting out a delirious laugh.
"Am I driving this time?"
"What?" Driver jolts himself out of his stupor, squeezing their hands together. "No. I'll drive."
Grace takes a long look at him, cataloguing his features, like he was a particularly difficult puzzle. He doesn't think he's all that complicated, just... a puzzle set missing a few pieces. "You sure?"
"Yes." He breathes in, out. He… hasn't ruined everything. Grace is still here. Somehow. "Please. Let me."
Grace focuses on their intertwined hands, thinking it over. "Okay,” he relents. “You'll drive."
They manage to make it back to their apartment building, limping by with little notice. It's silent the entire time, the air vibrating with unsaid words, waiting for the chance to be spoken. Not yet, Grace's face seems to read. Not yet. Most likely, he was waiting for them to reach the safety of their rooms.
When Grace's door comes into view, Grace takes a hold of Driver's arm, dragging him with him. Driver realizes then that he's getting a chance to come into Grace's home. Where he cooks his food, where he comes to at the end of the day, where he sleeps. He peers down at the doormat, trying to make sure he wasn't dripping blood on it. He'd hate to stain it.
"Come in," Grace ushers, and Driver snaps his head up. He steps in, a threshold passed, and takes in the living space. There's children's drawings pinned to the wall, old pictures of a younger Grace sitting on the entryway table. What he can see of the living room is cozy, throw pillows and soft blankets thrown over a plush sofa. Chipped mugs with bad science puns sit atop the coffee table. It's lived in. It's wholly Grace.
"The bathroom is over here," Grace says after throwing off his coat, guiding him over into the small space. They make do, cramming into it as Grace forces Driver down to sit on the toilet. He spreads his legs to make room for Grace, the man shuffling to stand between them. The proximity makes Driver hyper-aware of every fixed point of contact as Grace brushes against him while rummaging through his cabinet.
Once he finds the first-aid kit, he cracks it open, taking out gauze and rubbing alcohol. "Take off your gloves," he instructs, and Driver obeys, slipping them off and placing them on the edge of the sink. Split knuckles greet him, the sting of cold air clearing his head. Grace makes a noise of sympathy, taking one of his hands into his and dabbing it gently. Driver tries to wind himself in, to not stare holes into the side of Grace's face, but it's a futile endeavor. Grace is pretty even all beat up. Maybe even because of it.
When Grace finishes cleaning up his right hand, he moves on to the left, leaving Driver free to hover his hand over Grace's waist, before settling it there. Grace jolts at the physical contact, eyes flying to his hand, but he doesn't pull away. He stays. He's staying.
There's a constant, restless buzzing under his skin, calmed only by his hand on Grace. Slowly, he moves it up, watching Grace's face for any signs that he wants him to stop. None appear. Grace continues to methodically clean up Driver's hands, only shuddering minutely the higher Driver drags his hand up.
Then he's done with his task. Driver has both hands to hold onto Grace, and he does so with a desperate need. Grace gasps as he tugs him impossibly closer, the two sharing breaths. Driver averts his gaze to the side he remembers Grace clutching earlier, moving a hand and experimentally pressing down. Grace winces, feeling the pressure even through all the layers.
"You're hurt," Driver murmurs. "How bad?"
"Just some bruises," Grace assures, his hand drifting down to cup Driver's. "Really. I'm lucky it's the weekend after, ha. Could rest it off. Hopefully the bruises fade by Monday… I don't want to be fielding questions about it."
"Let me see." Driver pinches his rumpled shirt, and Grace blinks owlishly down at him.
"What?"
"Let me see," Driver damn near pleads. "Let me help."
"You've done plenty," Grace says, and Driver hears it for the recrimination it is. He retreats back as much as he can, which isn't far, but Grace grabs his forearms to stop him in his tracks. "Wait. I didn't- I didn't mean it like that. You did help me. I was getting mugged in some shady alley and you found me, somehow."
"You were late," Driver mumbles, relenting to the urge to rest his head against Grace's stomach. He inhales his scent greedily, all the grime and blood and him. "And I found your bike."
"You did." Gently, Grace's hands caress Driver's jaw, cupping it and tilting it up to face him. Fear is still etched into the lines of his face, but beyond that, there is an acute determination that blazes fierce in his expression. "I'm not going to leave you, Casey."
There's really no other choice but to surge upwards and kiss him. An instinct, a drive to be close pushes him forward, lips colliding together like a car crash. It's messy, uncoordinated, and Grace only just doesn't stumble in surprise by Driver's grip on his waist.
Grace kisses back. He kisses back, and Driver thinks he could stay here forever, tasting him over and over. He nips at Grace's bottom lip, earning a bitten-off moan that sends heat down his spine. "Ryland," he groans, just to say his name. "Ryland."
Ryland's back hits the sink, his hands scrambling for purchase on the back of Driver's neck, one hand coming up to thread through his hair. With a sharp tug, he pulls Driver's head back, their lips disconnecting with a lewd pop that echoes off the bathroom tiles. They're both breathing heavy, and Driver could never tire of the way Ryland gets red all over.
"Wow," Ryland says stupidly. He blinks hard to reorient himself. "You're not bad at this at all."
Driver smiles. "You're not bad yourself."
"Shut up." Ryland seems to shake himself out of his kissed-stupid daze, which Driver is a little sad to see. Something hesitant crosses over his face, and Driver observes his gaze wander down to evidence of Driver's reaction to their kissing. "I- I don't…"
"We don't have to do anything," Driver says, glad to see something in Ryland's body loosen. "Nothing you don't want."
"Are you sure? You… you have-"
"I'll take care of it," Driver brushes off dismissively. "I'll take care of you."
Ryland lets out a long groan, leaning back against the sink. His hands hang loosely off of Driver's shoulders. "Bad at this, my butt," he grumbles, to Driver's amusement. "Do you-" he clears his throat, steadying himself. "Do you want to stay the night? Sleep over?"
Maybe there is a world out there where Driver finds the restraint to say no. Where he makes the smart decision for Ryland and books it out of there. There is a world where he knows no amount of gentle touches and kind words will scrub the blood off his hands, where he knows his teeth will not dull. This is not this world, and selfishly, he is glad for it.
"Yes," he says, leaning in. "I do."