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There is a boy in the passenger seat and his smile is dimmed by loss but never completely gone, and you won’t tell him you’re dying.
You traded eternity for a year - consigned yourself to darkness and hellfire and things that don’t bear thinking about - for a year of seeing that smile in the passenger seat, for hunting and stupid pranks and falling asleep to the slow, measured breaths from the other bed.
don’t tell him don’t tell him don’t tell him
You can’t bring yourself to do it, to own up to what you’ve done, the cost of it, how it wasn’t easy but it was never, never in doubt that you would choose the way you did. The hellhounds will have to drag it out of you (and they will, oh god they will, they’ll rip you apart and he’ll see, what if he sees, please don’t let him see), but you’ll never tell him.
There is a boy in the passenger seat and he is alive and that is the most important of all things; each steady breath he takes makes the weight in your heart a little easier to bear, because you remember the rattling gasps in your ears and the blood on your hands. This is something you never thought you’d hear again, and you treasure it, hoarding every second to you greedily, unwilling to let any of it pass you by.
You wonder if you’ll still remember this a year from now, if you’ll even be allowed to remember anything down there. Maybe you’ll run into Dad (and oh god what would he say, would he say anything, could he, did they get to him the way they’ll get to you), maybe you can save him, send him back to cushion the blow, a consolation prize at the bottom of the cereal box.
don’t tell him don’t tell him don’t tell him
There is a boy in the passenger seat, and he is more beautiful and brilliant than anything this world has to offer you anymore (because he is all the world has ever had to offer you, no matter how much you don’t want to think about it, no matter that you won’t admit it to yourself, that you shy away from that dark corner of your mind you want so badly to delve into). Weeks pass and you laugh and you run and you drive and hunt and fight, and every movement he makes enthralls and terrifies you beyond belief, because your lives are spent dancing on the razor’s edge and you’ve only now realized the pattern of the steps and where they lead you. Every close shave is another near-death experience, another reason for your heart to stop beating and your breath to freeze in your lungs. He looks at you strangely sometimes, wonders why you keep throwing yourself into the path of oncoming danger, protecting him more than usual (but that’s always been your job, it always will be and he doesn’t know, he can’t know, don’t tell him).
You’re not so sure you only mean the deal, anymore.
You look up hellhounds, once. Something inside of you won’t let it go, won’t stop conjuring up horrific images of what they’ll do to you when your deal comes due. It’s not pretty, the words, and the images don’t help either. You slam the book shut before he can see, and you slip it under the driver’s seat when he’s not looking. It might help him, after.
There is a boy in the passenger seat, and he’s hell with a gun and even more dangerous with a knife, drunk on the dregs of adrenaline and gas station beer, and you watch the way his lips form around the mouth of the bottle for longer than you should. The dull ache in your side sharpens to a point, stabbing you with guilt - it’s been months and there’s so little time, so much you want to tell him and none of it what he needs to hear, should ever hear. You’ve consigned yourself to darkness and now there’s silence too, and you push down the words crawling their way up your throat and the desperate want in the corner of your mind and pretend, as you do, that everything’s all right.
There is a boy in the passenger seat whose name fits the beat of your heart, whose life means more to you than anything you’ve ever known, and you are not going to tell him a goddamned thing.