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frankmillerturnonyourlocation · 2 years

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Spotify Wrapped Prompt #49

I'm sick of slow rock, I'm sick of quick quips/Sick of holding onto nothing when i just wanna hold your hips

Luther's playlist was nostalgic in the most distracting kind of way.

"Doesn't he have anything on here other than slow rock and…" You fumble around for the cassette's case and drag a finger over the ridges of the careful handwriting. "…80's hits?"

Your friend doesn't answer you. He's got a wrinkle between his brows so deep it could be a gorge and a little bit of hair that needs to be combed over to the other side. You start folding the candy wrapper you've been using as a bookmark, keeping your hands occupied and nowhere near fixing it for him.

"'Cause like, listen, I like Sting as much as the next guy, but." With a bit of breathy laughter, you try to catch his eyes. "That's not a whole lot, you know? And between him and, like, Aerosmith or whoever we've been listening to for the last twenty minutes, I'm about to say we shut it down and go back to working in silence."

He presses his fingertips into the nape of his neck, mumbling something you can't quite catch over Sting's crooning.

"Sorry–" You reach around the stack of records and turn down the music, just a little bit. "–could you say that again?"

With a world-weary sigh, Five Hargreeves drags a hand down his face. "I'm tired, Em." He tosses the manila file folder onto the stack haphazardly, as if to punctuate his point. "I'm calling it a night."

He still hasn't met your eyes. You shift in your seat. "You want to take a break? I can keep going for a little while, if you want me to take over your pile of–"

"No, Emerson, look. Look at me." He's focusing somewhere around your chin. "I know you want to get to the bottom of this as fast as possible. But it's a marathon, not a sprint." He reaches a hand out, as though he can feel you slowly recoiling from his words and wants to hold you in place. He doesn't, though– his hand rests about an inch away from yours, covering the article you had just combed through. "Nothing is going to change between now and tomorrow morning." His mouth seems to stumble over the unspoken promise of nothing will happen to you.

He must truly be exhausted, you think vaguely.

Part of you– a young, trembling, bleeding part of you– wants to ask him why he doesn't care about this as much as you do, or else why he doesn't seem to believe you enough to care. It stands in the center of your mind and sobs. You leave the grocery store without it.

Instead: "Is it okay if I leave everything out, I don't– I just don't want to lose my place."

With a heavy kindness usually reserved for maybe two of his brothers, Five nods. You place your makeshift bookmark delicately between the pages of the census records on the table in front of you, eyes glossing over the records within. You stay there for a moment or two, letting your eyes unfocus slightly. You don't want to stand up.

Then you hear another tired sigh. "Come on," Five says, already pushing his chair in. "You're not staying there all night. Take a break."

You lift up your head. He's reaching a hand out to you, waiting for you to take it. He's looking straight ahead, though, a rare little half-smile on his face.

The next song on Luther's cassette begins to play. You take Five's hand and let him pull you to your feet.

He makes a face, standing there with you in the study. "I'm not giving this cassette back to him," Five murmurs, swaying back and forth ever so slightly. "It's going in a landfill."

"Aw, you're telling me that Sting hasn't grown on you at all?" You crack a tired smile and, before you can stop yourself, squeeze his hand. "Sounds to me like you just want to keep the mixtape all to yourself. This modern music is growing on you, old man, admit it."

He lets out a short breath of generous laughter. Five is almost exactly your height. You're standing almost nose-to-nose with him, the soft music warm and alive with static, and it takes you until his hand slips out of yours and moves to your hips to realize that he would like to dance with you, if you would let him.

Warmth floods your body, embarrassment and fondness swirling together into something bright and shining and almost to much to look at directly. So you close your eyes. With stuttering breath and a slow grin you're too tired to hide, you close your eyes, bring your hands up to cup his face, and bump your forehead against his. You feel him relax against your body. You figure that you probably do the same.

"I know this song," you say, feeling as though you should whisper. Your eyes are still closed.

"Mm?" He smells like coffee, like warm skin, like sleeping in on a cold morning. You wonder if he's looking at you.

"Yeah," you say, letting him guide you in a slow circle. "I think I had to sing it in high school for something."

"Mmm," he says.

If his eyes are closed, and your eyes are closed, then the two of you could be anywhere, really. You could both be here by choice.

#writing #drabble #....nine of them...anyway.....#what is that. a nonadrabble? like a pentadrabble. that can be a thing right #*grips writers block by the neck* yayyy writing :)))#i have at least three wips that i would LOVE LOVE LOVE to be able to finish #but to finish anything i do bullshit like staying up til 11. like i just did.#bc god forbid my brain let me write before 9pm #tired. ah well. im happy. im glad i wrote this one.#reverse urashima taro #wish me luck waking up tomorrow. I'm gonna do my best.

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