Would You Rather

29 - WYR: Mariachi Band or Careless Whisper?

5500 words, sorry for the double length homies. 

mom. absolutely not. <3

***

FINLEY

Fidan drops me off. I'm bundled up in my reflective EMS jacket and his hoodie, which smells like him in the most delicious of ways, and he's clearly rather appalled by his very lovely mother which is hilarious and his hair looks so hot and so professional, which is not something I am usually so attracted to, but I really want to bone him despite the fact that I have a very distinct feeling that if I return him to his mother tousled and twenty minutes late, she's going to know, and it's going to change her whole opinion of me from nice girl Fidan is friends with to slut very quickly.

But it's Fidan. We're fucking. I'm allowed to be a bit of a slut when it's him. And, I mean, we're not going to last forever, we're probably not going to last another three months, and if his mother is gone after this week, I'm probably not going to see her again. Which is actually rather emotionally distressing to me. I have a feeling that she gives the type of hug that can change your entire world outlook and I have a feeling that her home, which, I'm getting ahead of myself, is just the warmest and friendliest and coziest place ever.

I glance over at Fidan, his hands on the wheel, clearly processing our rather strange dinner and whatever it means. And he's... well. He's kind of gorgeous. He's just ridiculously hot. Stupid definition in his forearms that twitches with his grip on the wheel, the creases of his shirt showing off shoulder muscles that I like just a little too much, joggers over his thighs that I think about maybe too often. It's alarming how much he gets to me.

I decide that distracting him is probably a fun idea, so I reach over, brushing the tips of my fingers against the hair above his ear. "Would you rather get followed everywhere by a mariachi band or one guy with a saxophone who plays Careless Whisper at the absolute worst possible times?"

He frowns, only giving my hand a sideways glance for a second before having to refocus on the road. I'm playing with the frayed end of his shirt sleeve. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again: "Mariachi band. One song over and over would be so irritating after a bit. It would be funny, but I don't think I could attend a single meeting when I know that at any given point a guy could just start playing Careless Whisper. The Mariachi band could be funnier with more options."

"I think I'm agreeing with you," I say, watching hair raise on his arm while I drag a nail lightly down the back of his triceps.

"Would you rather always have to eat with your non-dominant hand or brush your teeth with your non-dominant hand?"

"Eat," I say, without missing a beat. "I'm terrified of the dentist and if I stopped brushing well, I'd have to go more often. Not a good situation for me."

"You're scared of the dentist?" He glances over at me, a slight smile lighting up his eyes.

"I've got a prescription for anti-anxiety meds I take before I go. It's terrible."

"Why?"

I shrug. "Dunno. I've always been afraid of the dentist. I don't like people close to my mouth."

"You don't mind me close to your mouth."

"That's different." I pinch the back of his arm, a bit of a scold, and it makes him crack a smile. "It's all the metal tools. Also I've had some gross fillings where they've hit nerves and stuff so I'm anticipating pain every time I'm in there."

He's nodding, "when I broke my... what did you call it? Canine?"

"Yeah."

"When I broke my canine, I snapped it about halfway up. What you see is a cap on it. The nerve was exposed. Every time I breathed or opened my mouth I could feel it in my whole face. Worst type of pain I've ever been in."