Work Text:
Sharp autumn smell creeps through the evening air, filling out the creases long deemed full and undeserving of the season's magic. It passes through tree tops playing chameleon with colors, through the thin grass, cornfields that lie awake in the dead of night, under bridges where young men hide their deviant escapades from the world's gaze. The remains of summer wither away under layers of dying leaves and reborn dreams, everything the heat took the breeze brings back stronger, sturdier, more colorful.
Dirk drops his brother's can of spray paint into his bag. Cold breeze, stronger under their little hideout, tickles the back of his neck. As his hair stands on edge he pulls his hood over, sacrificing hair in favor of a small fraction of coziness. It helps, and Dave smiles at how nicely the giant hood towers over his sibling like an anime leaf over a mouse. It's endearing, but despite that he reaches over to ruffle Dirk's quiff out of the garment.
”Should've brought a hat,” Dave sighs and lets his fingers linger in the sharp tips of his brother's styled hair which usually doesn't bend in that direction. Dirk shuffles them closer to each other, visibly amused by the other's worry.
Inhale -- exhale, go their chests in near perfect sync as they stand in a tunnel reeking of paint and littered with cans and wrappers of previous visitors. There's the snickers bar Dirk fished out from the bottom of his bag two weeks ago. There's that pile of shattered Heineken bottles they emptied before using as a rage dump last week. All throughout, cigarette butts with their faces pressed down threaten to tell nothing to no one, lest they be crushed further for their treason. They’ve been here for many weeks.
And there lie their cans, empty of paint and dispensed like this is where they belong. The place they treat not like a dumpster, but like a second home, glimmers with life and prior excursions of the two young men itching to get out of the coop and peck in different fields.
Dirk brushes his finger over Dave's cheek. It's a gentle and calming gesture until Dirk snickers and points his thumb at his brother.
”Oh come on,” he jerks back in a fit of laughter and starts rubbing at the spot like an old man applying ointment to a rash. His whole palm is orange when he looks at it, much like the whole left side of his face. ”Okay okay okay. How many times do I gotta Apply Directly To The Cheek before my face gets mutated into an unrecognizable hentai monstrosity? Tentacles and everything, reminiscing on its former glory when it didn't live off of ogling petite teen bod and shoving wigglies where they don't belong?”
Then his speech comes to a halt, when Dirk grabs him by the shoulders and puts their cheeks together.
”As many times as it takes,” he replies, pressing in with the obvious intent of doubling the toxic face tattoo. ”You're going to own that face broctopus and there's nothing the CIA nor Area 51 can do about it.”
”Forreal tho,” Dave wiggles out of his twin brother's clutches and eyes the stain on Dirk's cheek. It's cute, kind of like a little couple's tattoo or a mutual infection. ”Can this kill me?”
The fumes around them aren't kind to the lungs, but even worse is the nicotine they don't seem to worry over. Streetlights in the far distance illuminate only so much, and the single flickering lamp under the colorful bridge isn't enough to expose them to wandering eyes. There's no one around to witness their crimes against the walking man and the only allies they have are moths desperately yearning for the weak city lights. At times they see themselves in those puny insects, albeit away from the other's gaze, lest they take offense in it somehow. There's this feeling of dread in knowing that the thing you're craving the most can ruin you in long term exposure, and there's something in not caring for the consequences at all.
”Hopefully not,” replies Dirk, feigning the lack of confidence in a moot attempt to scare the other. ”You can do a face transplant if it gets to critical levels.”
”Oh yeah?” Dave raises an eyebrow. ”Do you know anyone identical enough to donate a good portion of hentai cheek tissue to restore all of this?” he gestures.
”Mmmhh,” humming, Dirk adjusts the straps on his bag so it fits him better. His hip's leaning onto the wall and his pose is relaxed, welcoming. As cold as it is he's still keeping Dave close like some sort of a heat leech, even as the other flinches in surprise at Dirk's cold nose pressing onto his neck. ”Dunno. Maybe that one kid from Vine.”
Before Dave can snort Dirk shushes him by papping his lips a few times. Dave licks his fingers for good measure.
But Dirk had a point to all of this. The walls gently shake, and the vibrations escalate each passing second. An ongoing cascade of the inevitable, figure the brothers as they slowly turn their heads towards each other and sigh out. One of them will fear the upper walls tumbling down and burying them in an unholy mixture of train and ceiling, and the other will hold him as the lights flicker more than they do, warding away any stray debris that might drop. They both smile and huddle like they've been told they have to win this game or go home despite the intimidation from the opposing team (some members look old enough to shave, come on). Then, as their enemy roars from above with nostrils puffing steam and eyes glowing a threatening red, one of them presses his lips against those of the other and sinks into the feeling of both dread and content.
Hidden in the night, under a bridge, the sound of lips clumsily working gets shut out by the train roar above, protected from whatever star snags a peek through the clouds. Stars gossip, don't you know? Both the boys and the moths that sought refuge from the sky, get to indulge in what they crave most of all.
Unlike the faint bridge lights, the boys don't flicker, in favor of shining blindingly bright.