Heatwave [PickxRome | OffGun]

03

uhm, i'm sorry?

warnings for general anxiety and the mention of the (past) death of a parent

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They arrive late Saturday night and Pick is all kinds of exhausted.

The last stretch had been a nightmare, what with having to dodge drunk drivers and obnoxious taxis. Tired and prickly, Pick had honestly been one wrong word away from getting into a fight with one of those arseholes. If it hadn't been for Rome's worried looks and the occasional firm grip on his wrist, Pick would've probably had a nice layover at the police station at some point.

By the time he's dropped off Rome and finally pulls into his own driveway, Pick's eyes feel like sandpaper and are itching like hell. There's nothing he craves more than a shower and about an eternity of sleep.

Not even caring about unloading the car, Pick gives Porsche a vague grunt and walks straight inside and up the stairs.

As Pick peels himself out of his disgusting clothes and stumbles his way into the shower, he tries to steer his muddled brain away from thoughts of Rome. He really can't deal with this right now. Or ever.

And he definitely can't deal with remembering the stupid shower that started all this. Or what followed. Not to mention the reason why there's no underwear mixed in his pile of discarded clothed beyond the stall.

He turns the dial, making the water come hotter. Its welcome sting douses his crawling skin and he absently scrubs at his arms, his belly.

Pressing his forehead against the tiles, Pick closes his eyes and takes a few, deep breaths.

Please shut up, he begs of his screaming brain.

It doesn't, of course, which is why - when Pick finally slides into his own spacious and depressingly empty bed - his last thought is that he misses Rome. And if he wasn't such a fuck up, he would have been able to have him at least one more night.

*

The morning light is far too bright and Pick curses as he blinks into it.

I forgot to close the curtains, fuck.

Blindly, he reaches for his phone and squints at the time. Too fucking early, is what it is. Especially for a Sunday morning.

He also realises that he's missed several messages from Rome - 5 from last night and 4 from this morning.

Fuck, he can't deal with this right now. The sight alone is enough to make his anxiety sky rocket.

Letting the phone slide from his sweaty palms, Pick rubs them roughly along his thighs. His stomach has already started to knot and his skin is already crawling again. He stops himself from scratching at it, but only just.

Here, alone in his quiet room and miles away from Rome's irresistible presence, his actions from the past two days seem like some kind of fever dream. What the hell had he been thinking? And what the fuck is he supposed to do now?

It's one thing to have some ill advised fumble in the middle of nowhere. But now they're back. Back in their everyday lives, surrounded by people. People who know them, people who can gossip and judge them-

"Fuck," Pick whispers harshly.

A sudden burst of laughter alerts him to the faint sounds from downstairs. A distant murmur of voices and the clinking of tableware-

Which can only mean one thing - his dad is here.

Groaning, Pick rubs at his face, then runs rough fingers through his hair.