Heatwaves Dreamnotfound (NOT MINE)

Chaoter 12: July

Another burst glitters into the accumulating smoke above them.

He hesitates.

Blues and greens flash onto his hair, while soft white from his open device washes over his chin and nose. He wants to tell George how wonderful their "petty American holiday" is—but shouldn't.

It hurts.

The next boom that rattles through the crowd lines up inexplicably with his thumping heartbeat.

His sister catches his sudden stillness, and asks, "you wanna take a video for Mom?"

It hurts, he thinks, but it's okay.

He shakes his head. "No, I'm sure she can see them from the house." He shuts off his glowing screen and lets the thoughts retreat to his pocket quietly. "More fun to watch, anyway."

Gold crackles with loud cheers and whoops from the ecstatic crowd they stand in. The dinky, store-bought fireworks grow and cover their little sky with boldness, and fury.

His sister leans into his side.

"It looks like magic," she says between loud booms.

He wraps an arm around her upper back, and murmurs, "yeah. It does." 

When he glances at her bright smile again, head tilted up to the ash-raining sky, her eyes are full of color.

He wonders, for a moment, if he were to rise suspended in the air and float among the stars, what colors his exploding heart would leave behind, too.

-

The sun beats on Dream's neck ruthlessly as he stumbles down the stairs, and floats through the open parking lot. His palm connects warmly to the handle of his car, and he heaves the driver's door open to collapse into the stuffy seat—with a loud slam of latches complaining about his rush.

He shoves keys into the ignition, hands on the metal and white-blob figurine that dangles from the ring, knuckles pressing to the console as he cannot turn his fist.

He'd done it. He'd really driven himself back to the beige-painted walls and dark red couches and PhD's perched on shelves near the clock. A black clock, where a tin one used to hang, that counted the hour and a half he'd sat with interrogated stress before someone who used to know him.

He wills his hand to move, to start the engine, but his body refuses.

His fingers slip from the waiting keys, and he slumps back into his seat. The stagnant air around him settles under his nose, carrying the smell of a forgotten car freshener he'd tucked in an open compartment somewhere.

A shaky hand runs through his soft hair.

The large windshield in front of him holds hints of palm leaves, orange buildings, white parking lines. Above the blocky shapes and swaying trees, the sky stretches a rich blue.

"It's okay," he voices the words with breathy tremor. His chest tightens. "It's o-okay."

The crying comes slowly today; beginning with thick pain in his throat, redness rising to his cheeks, rapid blinking of his eyes until his nose pinches, the weight tips, and hot tears begin to slip down his face.

His lungs ache with the weight of his sobs; his hands find their way to grip the leather wheel. As he tightens his hold on the bumpy hide in his wringing fingers, his ribs begin to lighten.

Salt drips from his face to his lap. One hiccup of pain turns into release, and then another, and a smile lifts across his features.

"God," he breathes nasally.