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Driver has been here since Tuesday.
He won’t say his name, so Lars has decided to call him Driver. Lars found him in his car on the side of the road, half passed out against the wheel, clutching his stomach which was all stained red with blood.
Lars drove him to the hospital, even though that meant moving him, and touching him, and getting the sticky blood all over his fingers. Lars hates touching blood. But he wasn’t going to leave someone to die on the side of the road.
Driver didn’t want to go to the hospital, and he shook his head adamantly when Lars suggested it. But his eyes were glassy and confused, and he was too weak to really thrash against Lars, if that’s what he wanted to do.
Lars doesn’t particularly like going to the hospital, either. But it’s not so bad. Dagmar is very good, Lars had assured Driver, who was getting blood all over his passenger seat. Anyway, there’s only one thing to do if you have a knife in your stomach.
Lars stayed at the hospital while Driver was there. He didn’t like to think of him left there alone, with those big confused eyes and no one to look out for him. No one should be at the hospital alone.
~~~
Now Driver is here. Lars took the liberty of moving into the house while Gus and Karin and the baby are staying at Karin’s parents’. He’s glad they’re gone, right now. Driver seems to like quiet, and there is no quiet, with a baby.
Driver doesn’t talk much. Almost not at all. Instead he looks at Lars, and Lars has to guess what he means. Lars has never been particularly good at guessing that kind of thing. He tries to pretend he is Karin, but he’s not always good at that, either.
“I’ll wash your jacket,” Lars says, holding his hand out. The bottom half of Driver’s jacket is dark and stained with blood. (The blood goes all the way around, like it’s not only from Driver’s injury. Lars pretends not to notice.) It’s ripped, next to the zipper, from the knife that was in his stomach. Lars doesn’t think Driver should wear a bloody jacket.
Driver shakes his head, eyeing Lars warily.
Well. That’s okay. Lars doesn’t like when people take his blanket, either.
“Then you come wash it,” Lars says.
That is how Lars finds himself on the chair in the basement, pressing his hands together and watching Driver sit on the floor in front of the washing machine.
“I can fix it later, if you want,” Lars offers. “I know how to sew.”
Driver tears his eyes away from the machine, looking at Lars.
“You can watch,” Lars adds.
Driver nods. “Okay.”
That’s more words than Lars usually gets. Maybe Driver is in a talkative mood.
Lars folds laundry while he watches Driver. He wonders where Driver got his jacket. Maybe it’s from someone important. Maybe he just likes the golden scorpion embroidered on the back—maybe it keeps him safe.
After a while, Driver stands up.
“I can help,” he says.
Lars nods. He doesn’t particularly want Driver to help—he likes his laundry to be neat and ordered, and Driver might fold it differently. But he gestures to the basket of unmatched socks—some his own, some leftover from before the others left.
“Do you hate folding socks?” he asks. Lars hates folding socks. He hates the way they feel against his fingertips, rough and cottony and loud.
Driver shakes his head.
“Could you fold them, please?”
Driver nods, dragging the basket towards him, and they fall into silence. The only real sound is the hum of the washing machine and the whir of the old LED strip on the ceiling.
Driver is focused and methodical. He lays out the single socks on the old fold-out table, darting for pairs when he finds them and folding them together. He piles up the folded pairs. He even sorts them—the baby ones, and then Karin’s, and then Lars’s and Gus’s in one pile.
Driver looks up at Lars questioningly when he’s finished.
“That’s good,” Lars says, because he knows that sometimes it’s impossible to tell. “Thank you.”
Driver blinks a few times. He doesn’t smile, but Lars can tell from the way he straightens up that he is content. Driver likes to be good.
Lars lets Driver fold the dish towels, too. He folds one, first, and asks him to copy it. Driver nods solemnly. He is very precise, not like when Karin and Gus fold the laundry. Lars could probably let him do it again. It’s nice.
~~~
Driver offers to help with a lot of things. He helps with dinner—Lars asks him to deal with the sticky parts, because he doesn’t seem to mind—and he washes the counters afterwards. He fixes a weird rattle in Lars’s car that has been there since the beginning of time. He even builds the baby’s new crib while Lars is at work.
Every time, he looks to Lars questioningly, and every time, Lars tells him that’s good. Sometimes, Lars experiments: he says, that’s very good (the crib), or, you’re good at that (the car). The latter does make Driver smile, shy and nervous with engine grease all over his sleeves. It’s the first time Lars has ever seen him smile. He hopes he can make him do it more.
~~~
Driver has a nightmare.
Lars only knows because he wakes up needing water, and because Driver has insisted on sleeping on the couch and not in one of the empty rooms. He’s sitting up, wrapped tightly in the quilt Lars gave him, and his shoulders are shaking.
“Are you okay?” Lars ventures, stepping forward. He drags his hand over his mouth nervously. He doesn’t know what you’re supposed to do when you find someone after a nightmare.
Driver’s gaze slides right over Lars.
Lars turns on the lamp. He sits beside Driver on the couch.
“Nothing is wrong,” he says. “You’re just here.”
Driver looks at him, eyes as glossy and confused as they were when Lars first found him. Lars tries not to look down at his lap, even though he doesn’t like to make eye contact like Driver does. He knows that it comforts people.
Then Driver reaches forward. Lars flinches back, instinctually, and Driver falters.
Right. Touch comforts people, too.
Lars takes a deep breath. Squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them again. Driver is still there, still watching him, with his shaky hand withdrawn and resting against his knee.
Lars extends one hand into the space between them.
“You can touch,” he says stiffly. “Just not too much.”
Driver blinks at his hand, and then looks back at him, confused. Most people are confused by Lars.
Lars shifts closer, tense. He puts his hand on Driver’s shoulder. Their skin is separated by Driver’s shirt, and by the thick quilt. It’s not so bad. Lars can feel the way Driver’s shoulder loosens under his touch.
“You’re okay,” he says, and then, because maybe it will help: “You’re good. I think you’re good.”
Driver tilts his head, eyes wide and searching. Lars doesn’t know what he’s searching for, and he doesn’t know how to give it to him. But he sits there with his hand on Driver’s shoulder for a long, long time.
~~~
Lars tells Gus and Karin about Driver.
At first, they are very silent. Then they have a lot of questions.
What’s his name, Karin wants to know. You found him on the side of the road? Just like that? Gus asks. They ask if Dagmar talked to him. (She did, but Lars didn’t tell her he brought Driver home.)
“He was bleeding,” Lars says, more defensive than he needs to be. “He was scared.”
“Where did he come from?” Karin asks gently. Lars can hear the baby crying somewhere in the background.
Lars looks at Driver, who is sitting across the table stirring his tea. His shoulders are all hunched up.
“I don’t know,” Lars says truthfully. “He doesn’t talk much.”
Karin and Gus are silent. Probably mouthing things to each other. Lars hates when they do that.
It’s Gus who speaks next. “Can we talk to him?”
Lars squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Of course they want to talk to him. Lars didn’t think of that.
Driver blinks at him from across the table.
“Can they talk to you?” Lars asks, holding the phone out. He would really like for them to talk to Driver. He isn’t sure why it feels so important, but it does.
Driver looks at the phone, and then up at him. Lars worries his bottom lip with his teeth. He looks at the ceiling. Gus and Karin are waiting.
After a moment, Driver reaches to take the phone from Lars. He brings it to his ear.
“Hello,” he says into the receiver.
There’s a pause. Lars hopes that Gus and Karin don’t overwhelm Driver. They can be overwhelming.
“I just needed a place to stay,” Driver says quietly. “I’ll be heading out soon.”
Lars frowns. They haven’t talked about Driver leaving. Why do they have to think about that already?
Lars takes the phone back quickly. Whatever Gus and Karin said to Driver, he wishes they wouldn’t have.
Karin asks Lars if they should come home early. Gus says to be careful with guys you don’t even know.
But Lars does know Driver. He knows the way Driver pairs socks: focused and methodical. He knows Driver likes to chew on toothpicks, even though it’s bad for his teeth. He knows that Driver doesn’t really drink tea, but he makes it anyway, and he always offers to make a cup for Lars too. (He remembers just how Lars likes it, and he always uses the correct mug.)
Gus and Karin don’t understand these things, so Lars just tells them he’ll be careful.
Lars hangs up the phone. He looks up at Driver, who is already looking at him.
“You don’t have to head out soon,” Lars says. “You could just stay.”
Driver doesn’t really react. “Maybe.”
“Will you tell me where you came from?” Lars asks.
Driver shakes his head.
~~~
So Lars goes to work, and goes to church, and hangs out with his friends. When he gets home, Driver is there. Sometimes they talk, or sometimes they barely interact at all. A few times, Lars takes Driver out somewhere quiet, like the woods. Most nights, they make dinner together. It’s nice. Lars likes Driver being there.
Things are calm. Things being calm always means things will be bad soon. But Lars has never been good at remembering that.
~~~
Lars doesn’t register what’s happening until he’s slammed back against the wall. A grimy hand presses against his mouth, and the touch burns through his skin like a hot iron.
Tears rise in Lars’s eyes immediately. He’s ten feet from his door. It’s dark out already, but the porch light illuminates the man’s face—Peter, the new guy from work. He must have followed Lars home.
He needs out. Every inch of Peter’s skin on his is torture, and his breath is hot against Lars’s face, and Lars can feel bile rising in his throat, and he needs out.
He twists desperately, pulling at Peter’s arm with his hands. Peter lets go of his face with a grunt, grabbing his wrists and pinning them up on either side of his head.
Lars should yell. He should yell. No one knows Driver is staying with him—Peter won’t expect it. But even with Peter’s hands free from his mouth, Lars can’t make the words come out. They’re lodged in that place deep in his esophagus, right where they always get stuck. Useless.
“Let’s not fight,” Peter whispers, low and dangerous and far too close to Lars’s face. “Can we make this easy? Is that alright with you?”
Lars squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his head back against the wall as hard as he can so that he can feel the indent of a piece of panelling digging into his skin. This isn’t real. It’s not real. It’s not happening.
Maybe it’s the blood rushing in his ears, or maybe it’s the soft grass or the way he approaches, but Lars doesn’t hear any footsteps at all before the crack of a fist colliding with flesh. There’s a hiss of pain, and then Peter isn’t touching him anymore.
It’s Driver—of course it is. Lars can see the flash of his jacket as he disappears into the dark, either following a crawling Peter or dragging him away from Lars’s field of view.
Lars sinks down against the wall immediately, letting his shaking knees fold up in front of him. He tears his hands through his hair. He whines, somewhere in his throat, though he doesn’t mean to.
It’s not just the touch, though the touch does linger, rough and painful and violating, a horrifying blister that digs into his wrists and face and even his chest.
It’s that Lars can hear groaning, and he knows it’s not Driver, and he knows it’s not him, and he knows the grass must be stained with red.
Lars doesn’t want to find out why the blood on Driver’s jacket went all of the way around. He doesn’t.
Eventually he hears the splutter of a car engine turning on. He draws into himself. He wants to plead with Driver not to go. What about the unmatched socks? What about dinner? He can’t hear groaning anymore.
There’s a moment after the car disappears down the road where the world is silent. Lars lets his head fall forward against his knees. Hot tears soak into the fabric of his pants. Everything burns.
But then Driver is in front of him on the ground, ducking to meet Lars’s eyes.
“Did he hurt you?” Driver asks. His voice is tight and unsteady.
Lars looks up. Driver’s white jacket glimmers in the light from the porch. His right hand is a stark, violent red.
Driver notices Lars’s stare and glances down at his own knuckles. He looks back up at him, shaking his head.
“I just hit him,” he says, words clumsy. “I let him go. I just—I just told him not to touch you. I let him go. Okay?”
Lars nods. Breathes. Okay. Okay. That’s okay.
Driver let him go. He just hit him. That’s okay; he was hurting Lars, and Driver needed him to leave. That’s good. No one can blame Driver for that. Lars can’t.
“Let me give you my jacket,” Driver murmurs, pulling it off. He’s careful not to get the blood from his fist onto the cuffs. “Here, will you—will you take my jacket? It’s cold.”
Lars lets Driver drop the soft fabric over his lap, so that the scorpion curls gently around his knees. He doesn’t think he can move.
“M’ sorry,” Driver mutters, still kneeling in front of him, hands folded up to his body, bloody fist staining his t-shirt. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Lars shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s okay. It’s fine. It’s okay.
They stay like that, frozen, for a while. Driver never shifts from his place at Lars’s feet, head bowed, trembling. He never moves to touch him. Lars is glad he doesn’t. Mostly, he’s glad he’s there.
~~~
Eventually, Lars feels human enough to make it inside.
He lingers by the sink, watching Driver’s blood swirl down the drain as he rinses his knuckles. He passes Driver the neosporin and bandages—he should offer to do it for him, but he doesn’t.
Driver points Lars to the couch as he ducks into the basement to find a fresh shirt. Lars is still holding the jacket, and he finds himself pulling it on. It’s silky smooth, and the cuffs hang over Lars’s stinging wrists. An extra layer of protection.
Driver returns, turning the lamp on and the overhead light off. He sits on the couch with Lars, watching him so intently, like he always does. He doesn’t get too close.
Lars looks at his lap. He interlaces his fingers, pressing them together and flexing them apart.
“Thank you,” he manages, looking up.
Driver’s brow creases. He shakes his head. “Don’t. Not for this.”
Lars nods. He gets what Driver means. It’s not the same as folding socks or making a crib or memorizing how he likes his tea. He is thankful, anyway. But he doesn’t have to say it.
~~~
The burning is mostly gone when Lars wakes up. Still, he’s glad it’s Saturday. He doesn’t want to go anywhere.
He doesn’t know what to do about Peter. He thinks he’ll tell Cindy, and she might help him figure it out. She’s good at this sort of thing. Well, Lars has never really encountered this sort of thing. But she’s good at most things.
Driver is asleep when Lars pads into the living room. His head is slumped forward against the table. He was watching the door, Lars thinks. Even though it’s locked.
Lars makes himself tea. He makes Driver tea, too, even though he doesn’t really drink it.
The clink of the mug against the table makes Driver startle, and he sits upright, blinking at Lars.
“Sorry,” Lars says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Driver shakes his head. He looks at the mug for a moment, and then curls his fingers around the handle, pulling it towards him. “Thanks.”
Lars nods. He goes back for his own tea, pausing at the kitchen counter to shrug off Driver’s jacket. He hopes it’s not too wrinkled—he forgot to take it off last night.
He sets his tea on the table, and then spreads out the jacket, draping it carefully over Driver’s shoulders.
Lars pulls his hands away before Driver’s hands come up, pulling the jacket more securely around him. Lars presses his fingers together. He sits down.
Driver’s eyes close for a moment, and then blink open. Lars isn’t sure he recognizes the expression on his face. “It’s warm.”
“I was wearing it,” Lars points out.
Driver nods.
They’re silent, for a bit. Lars drinks his tea and Driver stirs his. Lars finds himself looking at his own stitching on the front of Driver’s jacket. The thread is the wrong color, a pale pink instead of white, and it’s not nearly seamless. The wound it hangs over top of must be nearly healed by now.
Driver looks down, too. He runs his fingers carefully over each uneven stitch. Then he presses his hand down across them, like he’d been pressing around the knife when Lars found him, like he’s going to bleed out.
He looks up at Lars.
“I want to be good,” he says quietly. The words sound strange, like he’s been turning them over in his head for a while.
Lars blinks. You are good, he wants to say, but he doesn’t. “You can be good.”
Driver stares at him for a moment, as if he’s looking for something. He’s always looking for something. “I want to keep trying.”
“Then you should keep trying,” Lars says. “I would like that. I think you’re good at it.”
“At being good?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause, and then Driver nods, looking down at his tea. “Okay.”
Lars nods, too, pressing his hands into his thighs. It’s a nice plan. He hopes Driver decides to be good here, instead of somewhere else. He thinks this is a very nice place to do it.
“I could tell you my name,” Driver offers, back to watching him. “If you want.”
Lars looks at the ceiling. He smiles. “Okay.”