@w4ylast, cont.
routines are dangerous. miles had slipped up somewhere, gotten too comfortable in -- in whatever this is. burnt motel coffee and fighting over radio stations (he doesn't even like music that much anymore -- the walrider in him prefers the sound of static -- but he starts fights just to hear waylon get worked up about his favorite bands) and falling asleep to the even sounds of waylon breathing.
if waylon sounds nervous, miles isn't picking up on it. he feels like he's being held underwater at the idea of after, his mind struggling to re-orient itself. after everyone's gone.
it's a future he hasn't allowed himself to think about. what then, when he has no more acceptable targets to slake the walrider's lust for suffering? (if it is really the swarm's desire, and not, as he secretly fears in a place he'll never admit, his own.) and the swarm is the only thing keeping miles' body alive -- his heart beating, his lungs taking in air. will it decide it doesn't need to exist once murkoff is gone, leaving waylon to wake up one day in bed with a long-rotten corpse? christ, he'd hate that. and forget the walrider, what is miles meant to do? he's legally dead. he's more rage and hate and open wounds than he is human these days. that's not the kind of thing anyone should make a life with. maybe he'd lose control over his body's passenger, now that they don't have a common target anymore. maybe it will be miles waking up to waylon's corpse, instead.
he doesn't look at waylon. fishes around instead in his pockets before remembering he smoked his last cigarette earlier in the day. fuck. in his pockets, his hands clench into fists. bracing himself.
"whatever you want, park," he says, blunt. "shit, go take a nice long vacation. you could use a little sun, you're white as a sheet. i..." you'll what? "got some stuff to take care of." liar. "not like i need your dead weight slowing me down." he says it like it's a joke, kind of. but it's barbed, meant to hurt. it's for the best. rip the damn band-aid off.
