"I need a shave," White says. He's got one hand on the steering wheel and the other on his chin. "Maybe a fresh shirt. You mind if we swing by my place?"
There's a sandpaper rasp of palm on stubble. Freddy looks out the passenger side window with studied nonchalance. He's got less than a second to unwrap the words. Was there something too careful in the way White said it? Is it some kind of test? Maybe White has him pegged for a nosy bastard who'll jump at the chance to find out where he lives. Maybe White's worried he's the kind of asshole who can't roll with it when someone promises him a burger and then drags him on a detour.
Maybe White just needs a shave.
"Whatever," Freddy says, still looking out the window. He stomps down the urge to glance over and see how his answer's gone down.
Be cool, he thinks. Don't sweat it. It was just a question.
Street signs and storefronts fall onto the map in his head. The sun's in his eyes, making him squint. He worries he looks too interested in where they're going, so he screws with the radio dial. A traffic report blips by, followed by a commercial for an auto body shop, and then the bridge of "Paradise City."
White smacks the back of his hand.
"Hey!" It's not like it hurt, but still.
White shoots him a hard-ass look that's obviously a put-on. "My car, my music. Put it back."
Freddy can't help but laugh. He dials back to the oldies station, where some falsetto doo-wop group is crooning about tears on their pillows.
There's a weird sense of deja vu as they turn down more familiar streets. They're maybe four blocks away from Freddy's apartment now, just around the corner from his bank and his laundromat and his favorite comic book shop. It fucks with his head to think that he and White could have bumped shoulders in the crowd outside a bar, or browsed over the same frozen dinners at the grocery store. The idea doesn't sit right, like they somehow would have recognized each other. Bang, boom, sparks fly—aren't you the guy who's going to put me away?
So maybe it's a relief when they pull up to one of those by-the-week rentals for traveling salesmen and the kind of actors you sort of recognize but not really. It's not the Four Seasons, but it's not a shithole either. Concrete, two stories. There's a pool that Freddy probably wouldn't swim in, but there's nothing floating in it.
"Home, sweet home," White says as he guides Freddy through a dark, air-conditioned hallway with a hand between his shoulders. He unlocks the door to Room 6 and ushers Freddy inside. "Make yourself comfortable. You want a drink?"
The apartment's a small, bland bachelor. It doesn't feel particularly lived-in, but there's no luggage sitting out. Beige carpet, beige linoleum, beige walls. Freddy tries not to look too interested, and then tries not to look too uninterested. He flops down on the tan-colored couch and smiles up at White. "Nah, I'm good."
Re: Orange/White, shaving kink - FILL: "Cut My Throat" 1/10
There's a sandpaper rasp of palm on stubble. Freddy looks out the passenger side window with studied nonchalance. He's got less than a second to unwrap the words. Was there something too careful in the way White said it? Is it some kind of test? Maybe White has him pegged for a nosy bastard who'll jump at the chance to find out where he lives. Maybe White's worried he's the kind of asshole who can't roll with it when someone promises him a burger and then drags him on a detour.
Maybe White just needs a shave.
"Whatever," Freddy says, still looking out the window. He stomps down the urge to glance over and see how his answer's gone down.
Be cool, he thinks. Don't sweat it. It was just a question.
Street signs and storefronts fall onto the map in his head. The sun's in his eyes, making him squint. He worries he looks too interested in where they're going, so he screws with the radio dial. A traffic report blips by, followed by a commercial for an auto body shop, and then the bridge of "Paradise City."
White smacks the back of his hand.
"Hey!" It's not like it hurt, but still.
White shoots him a hard-ass look that's obviously a put-on. "My car, my music. Put it back."
Freddy can't help but laugh. He dials back to the oldies station, where some falsetto doo-wop group is crooning about tears on their pillows.
There's a weird sense of deja vu as they turn down more familiar streets. They're maybe four blocks away from Freddy's apartment now, just around the corner from his bank and his laundromat and his favorite comic book shop. It fucks with his head to think that he and White could have bumped shoulders in the crowd outside a bar, or browsed over the same frozen dinners at the grocery store. The idea doesn't sit right, like they somehow would have recognized each other. Bang, boom, sparks fly—aren't you the guy who's going to put me away?
So maybe it's a relief when they pull up to one of those by-the-week rentals for traveling salesmen and the kind of actors you sort of recognize but not really. It's not the Four Seasons, but it's not a shithole either. Concrete, two stories. There's a pool that Freddy probably wouldn't swim in, but there's nothing floating in it.
"Home, sweet home," White says as he guides Freddy through a dark, air-conditioned hallway with a hand between his shoulders. He unlocks the door to Room 6 and ushers Freddy inside. "Make yourself comfortable. You want a drink?"
The apartment's a small, bland bachelor. It doesn't feel particularly lived-in, but there's no luggage sitting out. Beige carpet, beige linoleum, beige walls. Freddy tries not to look too interested, and then tries not to look too uninterested. He flops down on the tan-colored couch and smiles up at White. "Nah, I'm good."