InsaneJournal

I feel you, warm against my back as I shield you from the wind. Your hold shifts from uncertain to strong, though I don’t know what brings the change.

Your breathing has gone rough; for a moment panic flares, worry that you might be drifting into a seizure again. The motorcycle fights me as I veer toward cover to check on you.

Then I feel you pressing against me, at once deliberate and tentative.

Heat rises to my face; under normal circumstances…but these are hardly normal, are they?

Your movements make me keenly aware of the rumble of the engine between our legs; I don’t have the heart to stop now, though I can’t say quite why it matters. Maybe it’s the one point of reality you can touch.

I shift gears, throwing the vibrations into a lower, stronger range.

Your cry is not lost on the wind, my friend.

Only when I feel your grip go slack do I stop the bike. I won’t make you ride without a wash, that would be cruel – and sticky, right?

I try not to think about what you might or might not see right now, as I clean you as easily as a sleeping baby. I hope you enjoyed whatever dream the bike gave to you, wherever you are.

If you’d just come back to yourself, come back to me, I’d take you riding again, Spike. But next time, you take care of the cleanup, okay?

I’ll worry about the driving.