Draven is sitting in the passenger seat of the green Saturn that wheezes whenever his boyfriend brakes too suddenly, watching the signs pass by that he can't read German fast enough to decipher before they're already in the rearview, and it occurs to him that he did not actually pack a bag.
There's a backpack between his feet under the console, gray and worn and covered in a smattering of partially unraveled patches, but it's full of mostly dog-eared books he's too pent-up to read. James—James, who he feels dizzily grateful for being here at all, for putting up with this grief-induced spur-of-the-moment cross-country jaunt—had thought ahead enough to grab his wallet, a pair of rainjackets, water, and chargers, but that was it. They're running on next to no plans and relying on James's phone's GPS to hold strong under the dangerously overcast sky, and Draven knows, logically, that he should be worried by this, but all it feels right to do is laugh.
He almost says several things—do you want me to drive? or maybe we should stay the night somewhere or is it too late to go back and, like, actually pack—but he does not say any of those things, and what comes out of his mouth instead is a sudden, clipped, "Thank you so fucking much."
For a moment, he catches a glimpse of his own expression in the bent rearview mirror, and James must see it at the same time because he responds by smiling in that soft, melting way that he does, because Draven's expression reflects an emotion that neither of them can really place. It's something approaching a smile, but not quite reaching it; not an unhappy look, just a heavy, complicated one. He looks a little bit crazy, actually. He decides he's fine with that.
"You doing okay, hon?" James's eyes are on the road again, because he's vigilant even though it's late and the highway is nearly deserted, but he rests a hand on Draven's knee and Draven can feel his expression relax, the tension lessening.
"I have no idea."
James exhales through his nose suddenly, a laugh clipped before it actually becomes one.
"No, you can laugh, it's fine. It's funny, it's fine," and he is laughing, and James shakes his head but he's giggling too, and Draven feels a rush of relief. "Just—yeah. This is crazy. We can laugh." He's trying to say something that won't quite come out right, but he thinks James understands it just fine.
"I mean. It is crazy, yes, and you owe me, like, a full tank of gas once we get back."
"Unless the engine explodes like it's been trying to for a year and strands us on the German border."
James looks like he's trying not to laugh out of sheer spite. "You are so damn lucky I love you."
Draven's been holding the steel box close to his chest this whole time, because it doesn't feel right to do anything else with it. It's tucked safely between his arms as he sleeps, dreamless and light, mud from the grave smudging on the sleeves of the Columbia jacket. When he wakes and sees the dirt staining the green fabric, he has the oddly acute sensation of being in the middle of a transitional event—this jacket is his father's, but by the time they reach their destination it'll be his.
[…] Draven, who Talloran had held as he cried on his old sweatshirt until there weren’t any tears left in him, whose hair he carded his fingers through when they both needed to calm down, who he still remembers laughing with wild joy as they ran along the boardwalk together, salt and ash and love in the air.
He breaks down again later in the car, thinking about his father, and thinking about the sea, which has no way of knowing who he was but who cared for them anyway, and it wrenches something deep and violent out of his chest that Draven can’t quite articulate. James awkwardly, but earnestly, hugs him close over the console, resting his chin on the crown of his head. All he says is I know, hon, I know, but it’s all Draven needs right now.
James had loved him too; James, whose family was a distant, mostly unpleasant memory, one that brought him to quiet melancholy whenever they were mentioned. Above everything, Benjamin had been kind. Sometimes, Draven muses, rubbing the tears from his eyes with his sleeves, shifting closer to make it more comfortable for James to support his weight, that’s all you need for someone to become important to you.
James is trying not to cry now, and Draven’s voice comes out soft and cracking as he reassures it’s okay, we’re okay. He’s overcome with an odd feeling as his partner sobs quietly, his grip tightening on the fabric of Draven’s jacket; he’s so fucking glad the overwhelming numbness he’d felt before is over. Draven’s heart hurts, but it’s full.
It's cold out, but they walk.
There's wind, salt and sand flung in the air with it, and the sea is slowly pulling back the tide; it feels like the sun should be out, but it's overcast and there's a bite to the breeze. Draven pulls the worn green jacket with tears on the cuffs and pilling across the shoulders closer to his chest, and squeezes James's hand tighter.
He looks to the horizon. The ocean's long since carried the ashes away, and the fishing boats in the distance know nothing of the couple from across the border walking on the beach. Draven watches himself as a stranger, one whose bare hands created a cenotaph from the muddy graveyard of Site-17, who came here with his partner cradling an iron box in his arms and seeking peace.
It feels right.
Draven kicks off his shoes, and the sand is cool on his heels.