𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢

𝟹𝟷. 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚢

❥ nsfw. 18+. mdni. masturbation.

| Jean's POV |

☾ sunday, middle of the night.

The music is blaring and the moon is hanging in the sky, kissed by a valley of stars on its palette of nighttime gray.

Jean's hands, for once in their painful lifetime, are more than steady, resting on his steering wheel of expensive black leather.

He should be tired, exhausted even, from the events of today, and the scant amount of sleep he's running on since the ghost of his best friend decided to haunt him in a bed that wasn't his own. But he's not. His thoughts are on overdrive, making him the opposite.

He's awake and he's wired.

What's possessing his mind that was once so infected he couldn't even recognize himself, are a total of two things:

Your existence–the very proof that angels can walk in the form of a human–and how many hours he's going to have to push through until he gets to be back in Trost, next to your nurturing side.

Briefly, Jean fleets his eyes away from the dark freeway to glance at the digital-white numbers pinned to top of the touch screen of his infotainment system.

1:30 a.m.

He huffs at the hour. Focus cutting back to the road ahead, never comfortable looking away for too long, he does the math quickly in his head.

It was 48 hours when he separated from you. There are now around 44 hours left.

44? It's only been about three hours and some bullshit minutes since he parted from you? That's it? Jesus fuck.

Time is so damn cruel.

[ ⅠⅠ ▹ play: yes i'm changing - tame impala ]

Driving with his two front windows rolled all the way down, Yes I'm Changing by Tame Impala bleeds through the scattered holes of his car's speakers. He's grateful his vehicle comes with Sirius XM to make up for his tragic loss of Spotify. If he had to hear one more overplayed pop song on the radio during this drive, he would have lost his ever-loving mind.

The night air is fresh but heavy when it whips through the interior of his Mercedes, across his skin, and through his ears. The volume of his music is rather loud, the base vibrating against the surface of his car every time it strikes, but the rhythm is dim and shallow, a musical stream of nothingness, by the time it reaches his brain.

His thoughts, flooded with nothing but the entirety of you, are too damn loud to process anything else and it's nothing he can help. He doesn't even make an effort to anymore. It's pointless.

Why?

Because Jean knows.

He knows that he's in love with you.

He also knows just how deep those feelings, as unwanted as they are, run. It's metaphysical, what his polluted soul possesses for you.

This is his verity, freshly bloomed, and unspoken because he fucked up–yet again–by pussying out when he should have confessed the state of his heart the moment it dawned on him beneath the moon—a self-made eclipse.

Now, he's alone, isolated from you, and it has no place to go, despite the fact that it wants to go everywhere. What a hell of a thing to be forced to choke on, his face slowly turning blue.

All of this might be pathetic for a man who is supposed to care about nothing, and push away everything that is filled with such meaning, but that's because he is.