#my joint pain is worse now that theyre holding so much more weight but im still hopeful about getting stronger

[caffeinatedopossum]

Anyway just an update, I kept going and the ed recovery is actually recovery-ing now 👍

[reesewestonarchive]

chapter five / rem belongs to @forlornraven / masterpost / mature content

I don’t have a tag list so if you’re interested lemme know

South of the California border, Nakoa finds it.

The weather’s good, better than the Midwest, and Rem’s attitude is better. Freer.

Nakoa likes him like this. He buys booze and cigarettes with money that he won in pool in Vegas, and Nakoa makes a deal with a hippie they meet outside a record store for weed, and strolls the streets of Ferris, California high as a kite.

He feels pretty fucking good when he finds it, a tiny shop tucked away in between a coffeeshop and a consignment store. Music plays so loud it drifts onto the street, and Nakoa steps inside after he puts his joint out.

The shop owner lifts a hand at him in greeting, but says nothing. There’s a sign overhead that reads, DISCOUNT CASSETTES - $2 and Nakoa makes his way there, ignoring the albums and the deep seated desire he has to own them again.

When he gets a job. When he settles down.

London Calling sits right on top, along with a few other albums. Nakoa peeks inside, makes sure they’re right, that they’re really the one he wants, and… they are. All of them in damn near pristine condition.

Nakoa blinks. Picks up all three albums, puts them carefully on the counter and slaps seven dollars on the counter as well.

The clerk blinks at him. “Cassettes?”

“The van only has a tape deck.” Nakoa prefers it. CDs scratch, they skip. A tape deck can be rewound, if the ribbon comes out. Spliced back together.

The sound quality sucks, but Nakoa’ll make do.

The clerk shoves the tapes into a brown paper bag, and Nakoa leaves.

Stuffs it into his pocket, and continues down the street, taking in the city.

LA’s bigger, but Ferris is huge. Nakoa feels anonymous, here, lost amongst the sea of suits and skirts. There’s freedom, here, in a way Nakoa isn’t used to, even from the days in car from Withervale.

He crosses the crosswalk, wonders what Rem’s doing now. If he found another idiot to hustle, if he’s gambling.

If he’s still lying in the room at the motel, like he was when Nakoa left him.

“Hey,” Nakoa says, when he opens the door to the motel room, digging for the joint as he does. “I have something for—”

The motel room is fucking trashed. The bed upended, the TV sideways on the floor, scratches in the walls. Broken tables.- light flickers from where it hangs on the wall, and.

There’s a lot of fucking blood. Nakoa’s mouth goes dry, and he takes a careful step forward into the room. Wonders if he should say anything. If he should call Rem’s name, or turn around and leave.

Th van still sits in the parking lot, though, so Nakoa steps forward, into the room.

“Rem?” he calls, quiet, then louder. “This some kind of fucking trick?”

Shallow breathing, and Nakoa wishes he had a weapon. But then, Rem’s arm comes over the side of the bed, still donned in the bracelets he always wears. Relief might wash through him were it not for the blood.

“What the fuck?”

Rem staggers to his feet. “It’s—fine. Shut up.”

“There’s—” Nakoa makes a gesture to the walls. “No!” He feels a bit like he’s flailing in the water, trying not to drown when he should know how to swim. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last.

“It’s not mine,” Rem says, like that’s supposed to help. His voice is strained. He’s holding his side, limping, and—”Don’t give me that look, Warren.”

Nakoa clenches his jaw. “What happened.”

His brain is a fog of relaxation and weed and Rem is a fan blowing it all away.

Rem sits on the edge of the bed. Surveys the damage. “The van’s still out there, right?”

“That’s not a fucking answer!”

His voice sounds too loud in the space, and someone knocks on the walls, harsh and Nakoa has half a mind to ask them what the fuck happened.

The album weighs heavy in his pocket. He says, “Rem. What the fuck?”

A beat and then Rem snaps, “Like you’re some kind of fucking saint.” Before Nakoa can respond, he says, “I was cleaning up your mess.”

“What mess?!” What has Nakoa done, aside from shop, get high, fake ID himself into a liquor store; beside put the idea of leaving in Rem’s head to begin with—besides pay for the fucking motel rooms and food, and—

Nakoa grits his teeth.

“You’re an addict,” Rem says, pot calling the kettle, and, Nakoa sees red. “And you’re more trouble than you’re worth, you know that?” His tone falls flat on his tongue and, hell. Nakoa grinds his teeth, angry and lost and heartbroken. “Always looking for your next fix.”

“Fuck you,” Nakoa says, and wishes the blood on the walls were Rem’s, because maybe then he’d shut up. “You—” He wants to punch him, but—

Rem stares at the walls, at the floor, his voice sharp when he says, “Why’d I fucking come with you?”

His tone is vicious. Nakoa’s not sure he’s ever heard him so fucking irritated, so irate, so cruel. Rem says a lot of shit, his mouth gets him into trouble in more than one way, but Nakoa’s not used to being on the receiving end.

“What the fuck did I do? Besides give a shit about you, want you to be happy?” Nakoa grits his teeth. He can’t throw punches, really wants to knee Rem in the dick for this, for dragging Nakoa across the country and pulling this on him because—

Because he got fucking scared.

Rem’s still talking, continuing to throw shit around the room, cursing Nakoa’s tendencies towards whiskey and weed, at the one time he tried heroin, voice growing louder and louder until Nakoa snaps.

“You want me gone, I’m gone. Take the fucking van.” Nakoa pulls the albums from his jacket, holds them in the air, then throws them at Rem’ chest, grateful for the way he flinches, for the clack the cases make as they fall to the floor. “Good fucking luck.”

He turns, then, sticks his hands in his pocket, and disappears through the door to the room.

“Where are you going, Warren?” Rem calls, stalking after him.

“Doesn’t matter. Not here.”

Panic might settle in his chest, if it weren’t for the weed clouding his head. He’ll figure it out. Sell himself, if he has to.

But Rem grabs at Nakoa’s arm, desperation written across his face, and Nakoa almost gives. Almost. “I’m—Nakoa. Come on.”

Just fucking once, Nakoa wishes he’d say please. “What?”

Rem licks his lips, lets go of Nakoa’s wrist. “Don’t make me say it.”

Because it’s so terrible. Nakoa goes, anyway, won’t, doesn’t listen.

It starts raining. Nakoa walks around town, without Rem at his side, and in Ferris, it’s hard to not draw attention. Nakoa ducks into a bar, flashes a fake ID, and downs three shots of whiskey in one go. It’s smooth, warm, gentle.

The things Rem aren’t, and Nakoa knows he won’t find an answer at the bottom of a shot glass, but.

Worth a try, anyway.

He keeps to his own, glaring at anybody that tries for conversation. Nakoa’s chest aches with fury, but as the night wears on, and the clock ticks closer to last call, Nakoa regrets leaving.

Did Rem leave, Nakoa wondered. If all that’s left is Nakoa’s shit. Would he? Would Rem leave him here? Alone in a strange town. Nakoa’s been left in worse places, but the idea that Rem left, without him, is… fuck, he wishes he could call him. Talk to him without seeing his face.

He closes his eyes and shoves his palms against his eyes. The bartender clicks her tongue and says, “Suck it up, sweetie. Life just gets more exhausting the older you get.”

With a peek through his fingers, Nakoa says, “Great.” Life already seems pretty shit. Nakoa can’t take much more. “That’s uplifting.”

“Not my job to reassure,” she says, and Nakoa thinks he’d sleep with her, if she asked. “My job is to pour shots. You ready for round two?”

Round two ends up in the alleyway behind the bar, smell of vomit and alcohol pungent in the air. Maybe Nakoa’s not the only one drowning a past he’d rather not remember.

-

Rem is beside himself at the motel, pacing back and forth with his keys in his hand when Nakoa stumbles through the front door. “Thank fuck,” Rem says, his expression so relieved it looks painful.

Like nothing he’s ever felt before, Nakoa wants to touch. Rest his head against Rem’s chest and wrap his arms around his torso. Press his nose against Rem’s jaw, and…

“Are you okay?”

Nakoa nods. The world spins. He shakes his head. Closes his eyes against the onslaught of nausea and says, “Move,” shoving Rem out of the way and heading to the bathroom to dry heave into the toilet.

Sick sounds echo off the tile in the room, and Nakoa’s muscles ache, but he sits for an hour. Half an hour, until he stops feeling woozy. Until he can get up and…

He makes it to the other room, collapses on the bed. Just a second later and Rem sits beside him, drawing his fingers through Nakoa’s hair with feather light touches.

Nakoa hums. Pushes against Rem’s hand.

“Feeling any better?”

No. Nakoa says nothing, squirms down to rest his head on Rem’s lap, though, one leg on the floor to keep the spinning in his head down. Even the thought of talking sends his stomach into twists, so he draws his nails along the seam of Rem’s jeans.

With a sigh, Rem starts working at Nakoa’s shoulders. It’s as much of an apology Nakoa thinks he’ll ever get. “I’m glad you came back,” he says, his voice soft and quiet. Nakoa waits, for an explanation, for anything, but Rem says nothing. Not about that, anyway. Not about what Nakoa wants him to say. “We could stay here,” he suggests instead.

“No,” Nakoa says. He hates California already. “Mountains.”

Before he passes out, he hears Rem’s soft chuckle, thinks he must imagine the fondness seeping through.

When Nakoa wakes, it’s to the dim glow of the television, Rem’s soft breathing behind him. Rem’s arm is a comfortable weight over Nakoa’s waist.

He has, he notes with distaste, vomit in his hair, and the entire room smells of it—and lemon cleanser, distantly.

Nakoa pulls a hand up to scrub at his face, stare at the ceiling.

Thinks this place is garbage. In a way, he misses the midwest. He never got in trouble in the midwest… at least, not like this.

He shoves Rem’s arm off his waist and sits. Sits on the edge of the bed and feels a thousand years old, a headache that pounds at the back of his skull like a hammer.

“Mm?” Rem says, reaching out. His fingers brush the back of Nakoa’s shirt. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Nakoa says. “Go back to sleep.”

He goes for a shower, then, cold not by choice but by poor water heaters, lets the chill wash goosebumps over his skin. Nakoa’s been high once, one time since they left Withervale, and… what would the hippie have to do with him, now? Nakoa paid. He paid extra, even, because he liked the guy.

…is that what he did wrong?

The door to the bathroom opens. Through the frosted glass door, Nakoa makes out Rem’s form as he comes in. Still, Nakoa says nothing, turns away, shoves his face under the water.

Not sure if it’s shame or anger keeping him from speaking.

The door slides open after a minute and Nakoa hears, feels Rem’s presence as he climbs in behind him. “Shit that’s cold—” he says, and presses himself against Nakoa’s back.

“What are you doing?” Nakoa asks, his voice barely audible over the roar of the water. Rem presses his lips to Nakoa’s shoulders in a kiss. He’s tired. He aches, everywhere, but especially his stomach, his shoulders, with the effort of throwing up. The last thing he wants to do right now is balance for shower sex, or get on his knees.

But Rem’s hand doesn’t travel downward, doesn’t go anywhere except around Nakoa’s waist to tug him tight against him. He’s not hard, either. Not yet. Nakoa’ll give it five minutes and call it.

“You freaked me out,” Rem says, his voice soft. “Thought… what if he doesn’t come back?”

Nakoa goes still, his eyes set on the small bar of soap sitting on the ledge, but that’s… it. Doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t know that he can. His toes are starting to feel like ice. He twists the hot water all the way to the left, but even as the water finally starts to warm up, Rem is still like a fire against his back.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you?”

“This supposed to be an apology?” Nakoa asks. He reaches for the soap, not sure if he cares about pissing Rem off, now. Let him be pissed. What’s he going to do, leave Nakoa here? “It’s pretty fucking lacking.”

“Fuck you,” Rem says. His voice isn’t as harsh as Nakoa thinks he means for it to be, though. Instead, it’s… softer, quiet. Gentle, and Nakoa suppresses a shudder when Rem brushes his lips along the back of his neck. He pushes Nakoa’s wet hair out of the way and adds, “It’s good you came back.”

All the right sentiment and the wrong words. Nakoa relents, finally, says, “Don’t have anywhere else to go.” And he doesn’t. He’s not sure what might await him at home, but he’s not keen on finding out. The other options are hardly appealing—wandering the countryside as a homeless weirdo… Nakoa’ll pass.

Even at his worst, Rem’s still the best thing that’s ever happened to Nakoa. A lifetime of shit led them here, in this moment.

“What do you want from me?”

The water pounds against Nakoa’s skin, almost aching now in its heat. He closes his eyes, rubs soap against his body, and thinks. Commitment’s too much to ask. Nakoa’s not sure he wants it anyway. What would he do with commitment?

“I don’t know,” Nakoa says.

Rem doesn’t speak, after that.

The bed feels better after cleaning the grime off, so just as daylight begins to peek out of the curtains, Nakoa climbs back under the covers. The sheets smell like Rem and spilled whiskey, and he inhales once, twice, heavy and deep, before he settles in.

His head isn’t pounding as bad, anyway. Finally.

Rem’s pulling on his boots at the small table, though. He pauses before he ties the last one, his gaze heavy enough on Nakoa that Nakoa opens an eye, then two. He croaks, “What?” and doesn’t expect an answer.

“I’ll be back later.”

And out the door he goes.

The trouble is, Nakoa’s used to Rem’s disappearances. Before the door’s even locked behind Rem, Nakoa’s eyes are closed again. Rem does better no questions asked, so Nakoa doesn’t ask. Figures if it’s important, Rem will tell him.

He dreams of white picket fences, of guys with clubs and bats, of broken windows and Rem’s bloody knuckles. Of motel rooms across the country, of Disneyland. Of being happy, and Nakoa thinks, that’s what he should have told Rem, when he asked in the shower what Nakoa wanted from him.

Happiness.