(no subject)

[unironickylorenfan]

[As soon as Drunk Shakespeare's wrapped up, Liam sneaks Marty out to the rusted cars and presents him first with a cupcake (and burns himself immediately with the cheap plastic lighter he uses to light the sparkler stuck in it) and a grocery bag brimming with junk food — assorted candies, jerky, chips, cosmic brownies, a bag of jumbo marshmallows, and a can of cherry-flavored vodka-infused whipped cream. Once the novelty's worn off, he digs a small duffle bag out of one of the cars' trunks and hands it over. It contains an assortment of fire-based goodies: a very manly scented candle, a pack of flash paper, packets of campfire color change powder, a finger flasher, and packs of sparklers and bottle rockets. At the bottom of the bag there's a simple tarot card. Liam's written "Mahasiah may be The Chariot, but you're my Star. Happy Birthday." on the back.]

Comments

[survivalof]

It's not quite what Marty had asked, and he does notice how Liam avoids actually saying that he would be okay, but it's acceptable. He can't force him to promise a full recovery, not honestly. When Liam presses close again, Marty squeezes him too tight. He may be all jagged edges, but he refuses to let the other boy unravel. Liam is too important to him. He hasn't been troubled by worrying what he would do if anything happened to Liam because he can't even consider it. It's like trying to visualize a billion — his brain just isn't capable,

Liam's breath is warm against his ear, almost ticklish, and Marty smiles. "Yeah. We will," he agrees. Liam is the smart one, and if he says it, Marty can believe it. He leans back against the trunk, clumsily pulling Liam with him. "Now, you feel like blowing some stuff up?"

[unironickylorenfan]

There's no time to dwell on potential futures or wallow in fear where Marty's involved. He crushes Liam's worries in his arms, seals the cracks in Liam's composure, then drags him right on to other, better things. Liam's feet slip across the dirt and he stumbles awkwardly against Marty, one hand clutching the back of his shirt, the other slapping against the trunk lid when he throws an arm out to steady himself. And just like that, it's just the two of them and everything else is left behind.

"Alright, Godzilla." He laughs, accidentally bumping his nose against the side of Marty's face, then, feeling suddenly and unspeakably thankful for Marty, slowing to more gently nuzzle him there, too. "Mm, it's your birthday," he presses his lips to the sharply angled point where his jaw and his cheek meet, murmuring against his skin. "We can blow up whatever you want."