Work Text:
Lars likes Driver.
He found him a bit intimidating at first, though it was hard not to be a little scared of the man upon their first meeting. It's not every day Lars stops to get gas and sees a man propped against the hood of a car, covered in blood.
Lars was honestly really scared when he first saw him; he thought that maybe something had just gone down and that he needed to call the cops. But the man didn't look terribly distressed. He looked like he needed a hospital, obviously, but he wasn't reacting like something had just happened, like this was a fresh injury that had just occurred and needed the cops involved.
Plus, Lars didn't really trust cops. They had never been much help before, with his dad.
When you know everyone in town, everyone is innocent. Even when they aren't.
So, no cops.
Lars had eased out of his car, making his way over to the mysterious man and willing his voice not to shake in fear when he asked. "Do you need help?" He should have asked 'Do you want help', because it was obvious that he needed help. Regardless, the man looked away from where the numbers were slowly ticking up on the pump and towards Lars. His face was a mix of emotions. Stoic resignation, calm ease, guarded coolness.
Fear, fear, fear.
Lars was struck for a moment by his features, his tanned complexion that was such a rarity in these parts, his clean-shaven face that showed off the sharp cut of his jaw, his prominent nose. He was quite handsome, this stranger. And also, bleeding out.
"I'm fine," grunted the stranger evasively, moving in a pained limp to cut off the gas pump before it could fill his tank, and started to get back in the driver's seat.
"I don't think you are," Lars had insisted, shifting side to side and blinking hard. His skin felt tight and uncomfortable with the conversation. He didn't like talking this much with a stranger, but it must be done. He just couldn't forgive himself if something happened to his man and he didn't even try to help him.
It's what Bianca would do; she always cared so much about people.
That statement stopped the man in his tracks. He turned away from the car and looked somewhere over Lars's shoulder, not making eye contact. "We don't have to go to a hospital," Lars assured, though he knew they should. He detested lying, but he had a feeling it was the only thing that would get this man to get any help. "You can…follow me home. We can patch you up there, and you can be on your way." The man's eyes finally drifted over to meet Lars's, hesitant, analyzing.
"I won't keep you," Lars swore.
The man's mouth shifted and turned, his tongue poking into the junction of his lips and cheek like it was missing something to worry. He didn't say anything in response; he only nodded and lowered himself, slow and delicate, back into his car.
Lars led the way home, and he kept his promise. He didn't keep him. Driver decided to stay.
That was months ago now.
Driver had been patched up properly at a hospital after he passed out in Lars's bathroom, trying to sew himself up again because he apparently had popped his first set on makeshift stitches hours before Lars found him.
Seeing the distress on Driver's face when he woke up in the hospital bed still made Lar's stomach turn to this day. He didn't like seeing that frozen, wounded fear on Driver's face. He looked hunted, like a hurt prey animal pinned to the ground, knowing there and then that this was the end.
Bad luck.
Luckily, Karin was there to calm him down, sweet and delicate in a way Lars thought he never could be himself. Soothing, motherly. She calmed Driver down and said that when he was discharged from the hospital, he was more than welcome to stay with them until he was back on his feet. There would be a place for him in the Pink Room.
Driver takes her up on that offer, and thus, their life together begins.
Driver doesn't talk much; he talks even less than Lars does, and Karin thinks that's quite a feat. She says as much one day at breakfast, light and joking, but both he and Driver hear the undertone of concern for the both of them. The unease at being around two people who were just one step outside of human. Two enigmatic creatures that orbited their normal lives, but were never close enough to be fully a part of it.
Lars doesn't mind that Driver doesn't talk much. Actually, he quite likes that about Driver. Lars doesn't feel pressure to perform, to play the part of a full person.
He doesn't feel like a full person, never has.
Even with Bianca.
Sure, he felt more whole, buoyed, but there was always a little hole at his center, something that couldn't be filled. Lars has a feeling Driver feels the same way. But that's ok, they can play at being one whole person, together.
Lars likes Driver.
He likes his voice, when he does speak. He likes his penchant for toothpicks and the way he always carries them around. He likes to watch his lips work around that sliver of wood, the way his tongue fiddles with them inside his mouth. It's what he was missing that first day they met, and now Lars knows, and can't really picture Driver without them.
He supposes it's like his blanket; he's never without it, and when he is, he reaches for it still. Still grasps for the soft drape of it, the comfort of the plush yarn, the knit stitches long felted together from use and washes, from the way it rubs against his neck and catches the short hairs there.
They're quite a pair, the two of them with their little vices, their small comforts.
Driver has another comfort, though, his gloves.
Lars likes those too.
He likes the way they wrap themselves snugly around each and every one of Driver's fingers, likes the way they caress the palms and backs of his hands, hug the lithe lines of his wrists. He likes the way Driver's hands flex within them; the soft creaking of the worn leather is as soothing to Lars's ears as a masterfully crafted, cloying lullaby. Lars likes to watch him pull them on, the way his fingers wiggle and settle into their rightful place, ready to do a job.
Their job—other than to hold Driver's hands while he drives—is to touch.
Driver's touch is…staggering, wholly and totally consuming, rapturous in its delicacy and care.
And most importantly, it doesn't burn.
"S'okay?" Driver's soft, quiet voice intones. His gloved fingers trail over the curved plane of Lars's arm, disrupting the hair there and sending little kissing tickles in its path. Lars watches, enraptured, marveling in the way that his caressing leaves only sweet pleasantry in its wake.
He must take too long to respond, as Driver pulls his hand away. Lars's mouth goes to open to invite him back, but Driver works his way in first.
"Lars?" He's gently concerned, ducking his head to peer more closely at Lar's face.
Lars doesn't mind when he looks; it doesn't make his skin crawl. Driver's eyes don't burn Lars's cheeks with scrutiny. He doesn't demand eye contact, he doesn't press. His gaze is as soothing as his touch. Lars likes when Driver looks.
"It was good," Lars assures, looking at Driver's sweet eyes, keeping the contact for a moment before it becomes too overwhelming, and he darts them away. Again, Driver doesn't push; he never pushes.
Driver smiles, that soft, closed-mouth thing that stirs something deeply longing and affectionate in Lars's chest. It feels different than it felt with Bianaca, different than the budding feelings for Margo. It feels all-consuming, fervid in its insistence of acknowledgment.
A totality of the heart.
Lars mirrors his smile, feeling the way his mustache hairs brush against his lips with the movement. Another brush of the skin that doesn't burn. He wonders if Driver's touch would burn there, or if it would be sweet and soft like it is everywhere else.
He discovers he'd like to find out.
Driver reaches for him again, hand cosseting his wrist; he pauses, checking in with Lars with a glance. Lars nods his assent, chest fluttering because he knows what comes next.
They've only done this a few times before, but each time it excites Lars beyond measure. He can barely contain the feelings within himself, leading him to overwhelm. He blinks hard, he holds his breath, his free hand fidgets.
The first time, when Driver's fingers trailed over the back of his hand, light and inquisitive, he was so overcome that he pulled away, gasping and clutching the blanket draped around his neck.
Driver startled, snatching his own hand back like Lars's hand was a viper, spring coiled and ready to strike. His face was paved in guilt, his sad little eyes downturned and sheepish. Lars wanted to wipe that look away. It wasn't Driver's fault. Driver was good, he was so kind, he made Lars feel real, feel halfway to human, feel understood. Lars could never pay him back, all his goodness that he had given to Lars. He wanted to, though, in some small way.
A small way that gave them both something they needed.
He had reached back out, palm up, and expecting. Driver's hand had been steady and sure as he moved it to hover above Lars's. They stayed like that for a moment, their body heat radiating from their palms and mingling in the air, twining together like the twisting of a riverbank grape on a sturdy oak tree.
Driver had moved first, lowering his hand until just their fingertips touched. The smooth, polished finish of his gloves against the raised lines of Lars's fingertips was almost too much to bear. The polarity of it, how opposite they were.
But Lars had wondered, if under that sleek veneer, they were the same. If their groves would fit together.
Lars spread his finger in anticipation, and Driver moved to slot his own between them in turn.
It was…wonderful. It had burned, but pleasantly. Like holding your hands just a little too close to the fire in the grip of a winter's chill. Warming and needed, despite the sting.
Warming, and needed.
It was still overwhelming, but Lars kept himself from flinching away again, instead basking in the feelings. Deep breaths, hard blinks. He was strong, he was brave, he could do this. He wanted to do this. He liked doing this.
He liked doing it so much that he asked for it again, and again. It was slowly becoming a part of their routine. It usually rounded off their little trysts of touching, moving as it was. Lars could hardly stand to bear any more after he felt the strong grip of Driver's hand within his own.
Driver's hand curls over Lars's, cupping the back of it, finger tips curling to press against his palm and turn his hand over. Lars concedes, letting his hand be moved, exposing the soft underside of his wrist, the smooth expanse of his forearm where hair doesn't grow. Driver moves his hand, mischievous fingers spreading so that his pinky trails over the sensitive collection of veins and tendons that sit just below the soft, pale skin of Lars's wrist.
Lars gasps, his fingers twitching and flexing at the touch, the tendons jumping up to press more assuredly into the contact. Driver smiles, something sly and teasing as he presses his pinky more firmly into their connection.
"Bah bum, bah bum," Driver lilts softly. Raising his eyes from where he was watching his own hand, and looking from Lars's chest to his face. Lars makes a dainty, inquisitive sound, confused by the nonsense words.
"Your heart," he explains, "I can feel it." Lars blushes, cheeks warming as he ducks his head as if to hide it. But it's of no use, Driver has already seen and drunk it in like the richest glass of holy wine. "S'fast," he continues, "Like a rabbit."
Lars's heart skips a beat. He wonders if Driver can feel that too.
Driver ceases his teasing and trails his fingers back up to Lars's palm, running them over it softly, coaxing Lars to spread his fingers so that Driver may slot his own between them. Lars lets him, relishing in the glide of the leather on his own callused fingers.
Their fingers finally merge. Driver bends each joint, the leather of his gloves creaking as he grasps Lars's hand fully in his own. Lars bends his fingers in turn, letting out a little breath at the brush of bare skin on bare skin where Driver's knuckles peak out of his gloves.
That's secretly Lars's favorite part of holding Driver's hand. That skin-on-skin touch that he wants more of, craves to have with Driver, if only it wouldn't hurt.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt.
Lars imagines a world where his father never ruined touch for him. Where touch wasn't a threat, a weapon. A world where touch meant love, true love, and not what his father deluded Lars into thinking was love. That wasn't love. That was vile. That was poison on his life. That was what drove Gus away and left Lars all alone with that lonely, sad, sick man.
Lars hates him; he hates that he ruined touch for him. He wishes he had never existed; he wishes he were still here. Wishes that he were still here so Driver could fix it, make things right. Succumbing to his drinking habits was too easy a death for what he did. Driver would have fixed it.
Lars imagines a world where Driver takes off the gloves and holds him, touches his face, his neck, his lips.
Lars wants to touch his lips.
He only did it once with Bianca, that sad goodbye of a kiss. And that's what it was, a goodbye. It never felt right at any other time. Bianca was too perfect, so human and good, untouchable. On a pedastool of Lars's own making.
But Driver, he was different. Driver wasn't some untouchable, unobtainable thing. Driver was on his level, feet on even ground. He was perfectly imperfect, a mirror of Lars's outline. Two shapes that slot together.
Lars wanted to slot himself against Driver, he wanted to feel their edges line up, click into place. He thinks it would be good for both of them. Like their small touches.
Something they both would want. Something they both needed.
He looks at Driver, who is looking at their clasped hands, enamored. Lars reflects that look in his own eyes.
He wants to open his mouth to speak. The words are choking him, sitting in his throat, and begging to jump out. He can't get them to leave his lips; he just can't tip over that edge. Driver always makes the first move; he's the brave one between the two of them. He's always the one to approach Lars, to slide up next to him on the couch, to make that first point of contact. Lars may ask with his eyes, but Driver listens to those looks and asks in words.
"Do you want me to touch you?" He will ask, cloying and saccharine. Lars will say yes, or sometimes no. But it's usually yes.
He'll say yes, and Driver will smile. That sweet, sweet thing that Lars always longs to see, day in and day out. And Lars will mirror it, unable to let that joy sit dormant in his chest. They'll smile at each other in the quiet din of the garage, the crickets chirping their song outside, serenading each moment. They'll smile at each other, and Driver will pull on his gloves, and Lars will watch, enraptured, knowing that soon those hands will be on his clothes, on his skin. Those hands in his own.
Driver will touch him, and it won't burn.
So, Driver always makes the first move, and Lars has never asked for a kiss before, so how will Driver know that's what he's asking for in his enamored gaze?
He'll have to speak. The idea is terrifying; it's horrific. He's giddy with it. He wants nothing more.
"Casey," he murmurs, relishing in the way the word, the name, feels in his mouth. It fits, it's right, it's where it belongs. Driver's eyes drift away from their intertwined hands, and up to Lars's face, searching there for what he wants. Lars waits to see if there will be a strike of recognition in these baby blue eyes, but there is not. There is only easy affection, soft and wholly devoted.
"Casey," he says again, just to say it, just to hear it.
"Lars," Driver answers, his eyes darting to Lars's lips when he speaks, but otherwise shifting around the other man's face, taking in the beauty of him.
Lars takes a deep breath, it shakes on the exhale like a newborn deer.
"Will you kiss me?" His voice is barely audible, more mummered bass than pronounced tenor. But Driver hears him all the same.
Lars watches his eyes soften; the littlest bit of tension held in his lower lids is let go. His eyebrows smooth out in a downwards line. He altogether melts at the words.
"Want me to kiss you?" His voice is warm, happy, curious, and craving. Lars watches the way his lips twitch, trying to hide a smile, the way he tucks his bottom one into his mouth and bites.
"Yes," Lars breathes, just as warm, just as craving.
Driver nods, letting his lips go to smile fully. His boy is soft, so smiley. He’s the real Mister Sunshine. He deserves this, he deserves all that he wants, he deserves all Lars can give. Lars can give them both this.
"I'll kiss you, Lars. I'll do whatever you want me to." The 'forever' is unspoken, but Lars hears it; he always hears it. Driver's devotion is felt and heard in every little thing he does. His loyalty is unwavering, like an obediently trained dog, completely devoted to their master. Trained to do whatever is commanded, happy to please even when the act is loathsome, when it's vile, and perverts the flesh. The dog will heed he who holds the lead.
Lars holds the lead.
He holds the lead in an affable, slack grip. The dog can wander wherever it likes, but it chooses to stay by his side. He gives the dog only gentle commands; it deserves only tenderness after the long fight it has fought at the hands of others. Sleep, eat, rest, touch, kiss. Only good things. Only things that will fill out those hollowed bones and keep the fear from its eyes.
Lars asks for so little, and Driver is always ready to give.
Driver hasn't let go of his hand, and Lars doesn't want him to. He takes his free, gloved hand and reaches up, hovering at Lars's jaw, ready to cup, to impart Lars's cheek with his touch.
Deep breath, hard blink. Reset, let it happen.
No, don't let it, want it, crave it, long for it. He does, he does.
Lars nods. Driver moves closer; Lars can feel the heat bleed from his hand—the anticipation of the touch tingles, like little pinpricks. His hair brushes against Driver's fingertips, the movement tickling his scalp; he shivers. Driver moves his hand closer in little increments, letting Lars adjust at each step.
Finally—blessedly—they make contact. Lars inhales sharply through his nose and waits for the pain to begin, for all this to fall apart at his feet. But it doesn't; there is only warmth. Warmth like the summer sun shining down through the gaps in the trees, dappled light on the forest floor, striking his face serendipitously. It's a cozy, welcomed warmth, something he didn't know he was missing until just now. He wants more.
He opens his eyes, which he didn't realize he had closed, and gazes into Driver's eyes. His skin doesn't itch and crawl, he doesn't feel the guillotine blade hover above his head. He only sees Driver's eyes staring back, soft and subdued. That gentle nature so prominent in his glassy eyes.
Driver reads him like a book. He glances down at Lars's lips, then back to his eyes. 'Yes,' Lars says with his look. 'Yes, you can kiss me. I want you to kiss me.'
And so he does.
Lars doesn't know who leans in first, who closes their eyes at the proximity soonest, only that it happens. Their noses brush, the little point of contact starts the tingling again, sending heat over the high points of Lars's cheeks and to his ears. He tilts his head up, hoping the position will give him better vantage, eager for their lips to finally meet. His patience is rewarded. All those nights of fear, of hiding, of burning touch. All the years of waiting, of looking, seeking in the little places he could. His blanket, Bianca, Margo. That comfort has transformed into something new. He's molded it with his own hands, delicate but sure. He's before his own machination, and it wants him just as badly.
He's rewarded for all his hardships, sweet and vindicating. Skin on skin. Lips on lips. Blessed, heavenly devotion.
Lars gasps into the kiss, his blood fizzing in his veins. Shocks, like little static zaps, shoot from where their lips touch. It's not painful, it's dizzyingly sweet. Sweet, sweet, sweet. Overripe fruit in the summer, fresh honey dripping from the comb, the first time he saw Drver smile, the first time they touched.
His heart beats, rapid. Like a rabbit. He feels it in his throat, in the tips of his fingers—wonders if Driver can feel it against his hand. He feels laid bare, naked through all his layers, as if this one single touch has stripped him down to the skin where Driver can see him, see it all. That Driver can see inside him, see his heart beat, nestled as it is behind the strong cage of his ribs. That Driver can see all the ugly that's tainted his soul, that runs through his veins, made of barbs that rush to the surface when they are called upon by touch. That Driver can see beyond even that, to the deeper, writhing part that's set beyond the darkness. Can see the softness, the delicacy of the twisting ropes, the love that's harbored there, safe from the storm. He feels that Driver can see it all, that he takes it all in stride, the way he takes all things, ready and willing.
Driver can see all of him, and loves him all the same.
Driver presses into him, a strong, firm line of heat against his side. Lars's gasp has left his lips parted, and Driver takes the invitation. He's hesitant at first, waiting to see if Lars is ready, if this is something that he wants.
He does, he wants.
Driver's lips move against his, the sweet drag of dry, but softened skin. Lars moves his lips back, eager and hungry. He's never felt a want like this, a desire to touch and be touched. It strikes him as possessive. A possessiveness he only felt tendrils of Bianca, when she was spending all her time with others, when she was supposed to be with him.
This, this is more. Lars wants this always, always this. Always touching, always kissing, always Driver close to him, within his gaze.
Their lips move in a pleasant dance, one after the other, shifting, twining, moving together. Lars hears Driver breathe, hears the soft sounds he makes, the little exhales and hums. He drinks them, savoring the taste of them on his tongue, like a child savoring a rare Sunday sweet. He drinks them in and becomes aware of his own noises; the little gasps, the delicate sighs, and mewls. He's never made such noises before—he's had no reason to. But now, oh, now.
It giddies his soul, the touch of this man, this succoring meeting of skin. He can't believe he's so lucky, so lucky that something like this has found him, that he gets to bask forever in this moment. He gets to have this, this treasure, all to himself. No one else will sully it, try to take it away from him. No one would want to; it's only he and Driver, forever. He can't help but smile into the kiss. He just can't keep his joy inside himself anymore. His lips stretch, parting from Driver's slightly, and he can't help the diminutive whine that leaves him at that loss. Driver smiles back, whether it's from his sound or the fact that Lars is smiling as well, he doesn't know. But it doesn't matter because it's Driver, and he's smiling, so everything must be right.
Their smiles interrupt their kiss; the only point of contact is their noses, pressed to either side of each other's.
"Okay?" Driver's whisper is tender and hopeful. He wants this as badly as Lars does, and who is Lars to deny him?
"Okay," Lars echoes, and purses his lips again, pressing back into Driver, who does the same.
They kiss, and it's the most beautiful thing Lars has ever experienced. They kiss, and the world feels right. They kiss, and he feels…whole.
Lars likes Driver
Lars likes when Driver takes him to the lake. He likes that they sit out in the grass in comfortable, contemplative silence and watch the waves lap at the shore. He likes that he doesn't have to say a word and still Driver hears everything he says. He likes to sit there, their hands overlapping on the blanket that they sit upon. He likes it when Driver's pinky strokes over the back of his hand. Lars's bare hand, Driver's bare hand. He likes to sit in the quiet and just enjoy one another's company, tiny touches here and there. Soft assurance of each other.
Lars likes it when he takes Driver to the treehouse, and they have quiet, murmured conversations about the people they've loved. He likes it when Driver listens to him talk about Bianca, about how good she was, about how many people loved her. He likes it when Driver talks about Irene and Benicio, about how kind they were, how much he loved them, and they loved him back. Lars is happy Driver got to have that, for however brief it was. He hopes Driver gets nothing but love for the rest of his life. He hopes he gets to be the one to give it to him.
Lars likes it when they do nothing special at all. He likes it when they sit on the couch in their little guest house after dinner in the main house. He likes it when they sit and watch TV, the mindless fodder playing in the background that they pay half a mind to as they sit, blissful in each other's presence. He likes it when they share a cup of tea at the table in the mornings. Lars likes to see their mugs sitting side by side, steaming in the rays of light from the window. He likes the everyday moments with Driver. He likes the routine.
Lars likes it when Driver touches him. He likes the little touches on his back or shoulder when he's in the kitchen, and Driver needs to get by. He likes it when Driver adjusts his blanket or his hat before he leaves their little home each morning for work. He likes Driver's trialing fingertips on his arms, on his thighs. He likes it when their hands intertwine, their fingers interlocking, or their palms clasping together. He likes it when Driver holds his hand as they sit and watch TV in the evening, no special occasion, and no reason to touch other than to do it. He likes it when Dirver touches him without his gloves. Driver hardly wears them anymore; his touch doesn't burn as others' does. Not even a little bit. Instead, it is warm. Warm like the kiss of a first spring thaw, chasing away winter's icy grip. Warm like a summer breeze blowing through the leaves. Warm, good, all things right.
Lars likes it when Driver kisses him.
Lars loves it when Driver kisses him.
He loves it more than anything. He loves the look Driver gives him when he wants to kiss him. Soft, wanting eyes, asking permission. Lars loves the way his heart speeds up, the fast pitter-patter that rushes blood to his cheeks, pinking them so pretty that Driver compliments them. He loves to feel the touch of Driver's hand on his shoulder, pulling him in. Or those hands cupping his jaw, Driver's fingers mapping the expanse of his neck and soft jaw. He loves the way Driver caresses his cheeks, rubbing the pads of those fingers—whose grooves fit perfectly into his—over the supple skin there, christening the flesh with tender adoration. He loves when their lips meet, the give of flesh as they press against each other, the way their lips move together in a synchronistic dance. He loves to hear Driver sigh into their kisses, his muscles relaxing, all that tension bleeding away. Lars loves to melt back into him, their soft parts meeting. He loves to lean into that love, that gracious devotion, that amiable reverence. He loves to put all of himself into Driver's calloused, knowing hands and be held so benevolently. He loves to hold and be held. He loves to touch and feel and be understood. He loves to be perceived in this little way, by this one person. He loves this, he loves all that Driver gives him.
Lars loves Driver, and he will love him even when he can't anymore. He will love him beyond his time in his life, however long that may be. He will love him in the little ways, the big ways, and every way in between, forever. He will love him utterly and fully, and Driver will love him back.
They will love each other, two half-made enigmas orbiting the rest of the world, as one whole.