Heatwave [PickxRome | OffGun]

01

oops, my hand slipped and i wrote some PickxRome porn. there's far too little of that ship around, so i kinda saw it as my duty to provide.

i do have plans to add more, comments always very welcome <3

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Pick can't settle down.

His thoughts are like a carousel, or rather a roller coaster. His head is spinning, far too alert for his tired body to handle. He's so exhausted - so fucking sick of himself he could cry. But he just can't stop thinking about it.

Well, there's a whole lot of things he can't stop thinking about, but mostly he can't stop thinking about it.

Next to him, the warm line of Rome's body shifts. Pick shifts away. His fingers grip the edge of the mattress - he's one wrong move from tumbling out.

And, ha, isn't that a fucking joke in and of itself. Him, balancing on the edge of a cliff. The same fucking cliff he's been clinging to for the past year. He'd never admit it out loud, but he's fucking terrified and no amount of running seems to be doing him any good.

Something soft and tentative brushes against his arm and Pick flinches even as goosebumps instantly spring to life across his skin. The touch instantly disappears.

"P'Pick?"

It's hardly more than a whisper and Pick really, really wants to ignore it. But if he doesn't do something, and soon, he fears he might actually lose his mind.

"Hmm," Pick hums, going for noncommittal and ending up vaguely choked.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Rome asks softly.

The blankets rustle, the mattress dipping as Rome shifts once more. He's not coming any closer, but Pick still feels his presence like a physical touch. The air between them is loaded, it always is, but they're rarely alone long enough for it to manifest like this. Pick feels like he's about to vibrate out of his skin.

"Talk about what?" he snaps.

He's bristling, scrambling for protection behind his usual shields. Not that it's ever done him any good with Rome.

"Your thoughts are so loud, P'," Rome says in the same soft tone. "You might feel better if you talk about it. Maybe I can help?"

Pick's fingers are aching, clawing tighter at the edge of the mattress. He can hear his own breathing, loud and fast in the otherwise silent dark. Like a caged animal.

"You can't," he presses out between clenched teeth.

Rome is silent, and for a moment Pick doesn't know what he wants more - for Rome to speak up again, or for the conversation to be over for good.

"Am I really making you that uncomfortable?" Rome asks finally.

And though his voice is still whisper-soft, it hits Pick like a ton of bricks.

"Because I- that's not-" Rome breaks off and Pick can hear him taking a deep breath. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable with me. Not ever."

"I'm- it's not-" It's Pick's turn to stutter stupidly.

"I can sleep on the floor if-"

"No," Pick cuts in sharply, wanting nothing more than to stop fucking talking about this.

Silence stretches between them.

The nights are dark here. Far darker than back in Bangkok and the utter quiet beyond their little room is almost eerie. Right now, it feels like he and Rome are the only two people in the world.