Re: log: ren/adrian - ren's place
He wasn't afraid of motorcycles. He had once been so afraid of so many things, and now he was really only scared of what he might do on a bad night where things went a little wrong. Motorcycles and clutching the warm waist of the driver while the wind whipped by made his adrenal glands go. He did so love a bit of a thrill - it made him want to bite something. He took the helmet and smacked it on despite the temptation to throw it to the curb, though. He could be good, he could try to be good, he could even pretend he was.
The thought rang a little hollow. Had that been what he'd been doing in the case? Pretending he was good?
He clutched Ren tightly as the motorcycle kicked off, then leaned back and howled into the helmet, loosening his grip to get a little rush of fear, terror, excitement, blood in his flesh. Ren was the right person at the right time, on the right night. It felt like he was whipping the memories of the past year behind him as the motorbike sped off. Trees blended into trees, and they passed places he had been - the turnoff to a certain cabin, the sign for the docks on the lake, places he'd ruined himself and been miserable and humiliated and needy and cried and cried. He could leave that person behind, like a ghost falling out of his body. He had been someone new before. He could be someone new again, and escape.
When they pulled over at the gas station he released Ren, standing up off the bike and stretching his arms. His muscles were twitching, and he didn't even know why. He felt like he could run a mile all of a sudden. "Drinks, bad food, tetanus." He pulled the helmet off for the moment, stacking it under his arm. He was beaming - his eyes were alight. "Yes," he said, with relish. He appraised Ren. "Don't we look handsome," he said. He felt like he was actually here - that was the nice bit. Not seven feet outside his body, just here, standing with Ren with his breath in his lungs.