Kaitlin - Angelo De Augustine it’s my favorite sad song I know you will do good with it
warning: mentions of sex... and this one’s kind of long honestly
“you can drop me off here, right out front.” you speak quietly, turning your head to look at mark and see if he’s heard you. judging by how clenched his jaw is, he has, but he ignores you anyways, pulling into the parking lot in front of the building where tickets are sold. his blatant disregard for your wishes makes your eye twitch, but you suppose beggars can’t be choosers. you’d certainly had to beg for mark to help you run away, telling him mid-thrust that you’re going to live in true heat-of-the-moment fashion.
he’d only paused for a moment, shaken his head once before fucking you so into his bed so hard you’d cried. his headboard had banged against the wall repeatedly for what felt like a lifetime, the only thing keeping your head from hitting wood being mark’s hand cushioning you like always. you know that, come morning, he’ll have a noise complaint on his hands. come morning, you’ll be 500 miles away.
“got everything?” mark asks once he’s parked, idly gesturing towards your fully packed backpack. you don’t bother checking - you don’t have much to take, and your money is safe on your person. you don’t nod, nor do you shake your head. you don’t have to - it’s mark. he knows, he always knows.
“this is it, then?” just as you’re about to push open the door of his beat up pickup truck, he asks the damning question, tone obviously angry, torn. your hand stops mid air, and you retract it from the handle slower than you thought humanly possible. he continues, paying you no heed even as he’s speaking pointedly at you. “you’re just upping and leaving? you’ve never known jackshit outside of this fucking town, and you’re just... going? why? for what?”
“there’s nothing left for me here, mark.” you respond, voice scratchy from lack of use. you don’t elaborate, not when the man beside you rakes his fingers through his hair at the sound of you saying his name. when he looks at you, you know that, in that instant, he’s learned what disappointment is.
he wants to ask, it’s obvious - he wants to hand you a ‘not even me?’, a phrase too neat and pretty and succinct to ever be about the two of you. he wants to ask, but he won’t, because mark knows your need to get out is far greater than your need to stay, regardless of who you’re leaving behind. regardless of the fact that it’s him you’re leaving behind. finally, finally, mark sighs, relaxing - deflating, really.
“i hope you find someone to love wherever you end up.” he says, leaning over to push your door open for you. in that moment, the second your eyes meet his, you can’t help yourself: you grab the collar of his worn brown jacket, mashing your mouth against his. before you can lose your grip and your sight on your waiting Greyhound bus ticket, you hop out of his truck with your bag, slamming the passenger’s door shut behind you. he tastes like watermelon, and now watermelon is all that’s on the top of your tongue. it’s all you’ll taste for the next day.
in the car, mark watches you go, face void of emotion. his heart is shattering, but he refuses to let it show, refuses to give you the upper hand even when you’re not here. it’s only once you’re completely out of sight that mark tears his eyes away from the ticket building in front of him, shifting his gear.
tears flow freely down his face as he drives home. he ignores them, even as the salt drags across his lips, washing away the remnants of your kiss.
you might’ve left him behind, but you’re taking his heart forward with you.
please don’t send any more!
