Sugar Trip[Driam]

4. Quadraphonic

Death looks like a loudmouth lug in silvery shades and foreign watches, walking Liam's way with a look on his face that could kill. If Liam were a better guy, he'd leave. He would.

It only took a stomach-achingly sweet smile and a couple leading questions for Liam to get himself dragged along to the potluck at Drew's place. Yeah, sleepwalking through space and time can only do so much before all better judgment starts crumbling beneath you like a house of sand.

Drew's place feels different from when he was there last, anyway- softer, sweeter, maybe. Liam's fingers fan over the darkwood door frame, chills mushrooming up his back when Drew's head drops on the mattress.

"Gimme a smoke," Drew urges, exhausted. "And fuck's sake, shut the door, man."

The uppity elderlies, the church-going chatterboxes, the sickening small talk; that's what Drew grew up with. It's more of a wonder than a walk of life. It's even more curious that Drew- Can-I-sleep-on-your-couch, chessy-cat smile Drew- came from the crux of this straight and narrow, smile-at-your-neighbors suburbia. Liam thinks it's amusing, watching it wear at Drew, corroding him like a cavity, like a corpse, pretending to be all upright and amiable around his extended family. Enough conviction and he coaxed Liam to come along, anyways, just to take a little off his plate.

"Your dad freaks me the fuck out," Liam comments, lips forking when he lights a smoke, puffs, and passes it to Drew. "Looks like he wants to put me in one of those saw traps."

"Yeah, he's on this 'eat-the-poor' fad," Drew returns, slouched over this antique-store-lookin' arabesque-motif mattress, messy and unorganized.

"I'm not poor," Liam grumbles in protest, prying open the window, "He's probably pissed because he knows I get cigarettes for you. Thinks I'm a bad influence or something.."

"Oh, don't listen to him. He's got a stick up his ass," Drew made, kicking the computer chair over for Liam to sit.

Liam hums in acknowledgement; Drew's parents were fine, if ripped straight from the cover of those cloying '50s "model-family" magazine covers. They were upright people, the folks that say 'good morning' to passerbys they don't know. Predictably enough, anyway, they didn't take to Drew bringing home his friends for the first time in grass-stained slacks, hair-grease, and pin-up graphic t's. They probably thought he got in thick with a bad crowd or something. Maybe he did.
It's sort of a shame, anyways, since Liam dotes on Drew's parents, wondering what it'd be like if their families were switched, silly stuff like that.

"You don't look anything like them, you know," Liam comments, watching rings of smoke bubble from his mouth and out the window. Drew perks up. Predictable. It's cute.

Drew props himself up, feverishly rubbing his forehead. "Really? You don't think?" He asks, the smell of mimosa subtly lingering, complementing, suggesting. His eyes are owlish and inviting- inciting a color-blasted bubbling in Liam's stomach, weighted and willful.

"Yeah," Liam turns and says. He knows that's just what Drew wants to hear. It's about as true as it is hopeful. "Kinda thought you were adopted before."

"Damn, always heard I looked like my mom. Freaked me out, thinkin' I had the face of that witch."

"I like her," Liam protests.

Drew presses his eyebrows together, puzzled. "Why? You didn't bang her, did you?"

Liam flushes, relenting. People actually do that? "Jeez, no. She just, I dunno. Seems happy... And, she, like, works from home...."

Drew groans, reads him like a book. As if he reads books. He doesn't. "Damnit, Liam. Haven't I told you this, like, a billion times? Just tell your mom to stop working so much already. No need to drool over mine."