Sasquatch to the Moon

29: Drive

HÅKON

The drive is long, longer than I want it to be. His hand is on my thigh most of the time, rubbing circles into the top of my knee, dozing off against the window, constantly reaching for me, wanting to be touching me, wanting his hands on me, wanting the warmth of my skin. His hand, long lithe fingers, brushes up and down my thigh, running his knuckles against the seams, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the crease, all while dozed off.

I slip my fingers into his and pull his hand up to my mouth, brushing my lips across his knuckles as I drive. I let him lace his fingers with mine and I spend a few minutes glancing back and forth between the long thin winding road and the way his hands look, delicate almost. Long, gentle, perfect.

"I love you," I whisper against his knuckles, half hoping he hears it and half hoping he doesn't.

He doesn't respond at first, then in a sleepy drawled strung-out raspy mumble, he utters something long and monotone in Czech, alerting me that he is very much asleep at this moment in time.

I kiss the hollow of his wrist. "I love you," I whisper again, this time in Swedish. "Sweet thing. Sweet, sweet, thing. Get some sleep, you deserve it." I glance at him, only taking my eyes off the road for a moment. I savor that split second, his parted lips, relaxed expression, head strung funny in the seatbelt to stay supported.

I lean on my elbow somewhat, holding his hand in mine, lips unmoving on his knuckles, and I drive. For another half hour. I drive as the sun dips insanely close to the horizon but never passes. Midnight Sun. It's the solstice, after all.

"Mhmn," that's how most of his sleep talking starts so I know I'm in for a long slurred one-sided conversation for the next few minutes here. "But.... nnn, hmph, that's... that's not the... code."

"What's not the code?" I mumble against his hand. Sometimes I'm able to interact with him in his dreams, which is fun, because then he wakes up and tells me I was actually in them and that's just right-out adorable and makes me feel all squishy inside.

"Hnn... four, it's... there's... gah! Just.. gimme." His free hand pinches together like a crab a couple times, like he's acting out what's going on. "Lads."

There it is. My favorite part of his sleeptalking. He's never used the word 'lads' anywhere while he's awake. I don't even think he thinks to use the word lads. And yet, when he's asleep, it's in every other sentence.

A bubble of adoration sparks in my chest at the twitch in his neck and the squeeze on my hand, he goes through a long slur of Czech, his voice slightly deeper and raspier in his first language. I kiss his knuckles one by one.

"... nhnn, no, nikdy," his voice tumbles back and forth between languages and then I get a little shock when I hear: "flygplan." Why does he know the Swedish word for airplane? I'll blame Little Milo. His voice shifts slightly to say it, back into his throat, putting a different feeling around the word. It makes my stomach flutter, I won't lie.

"...for... no... four score... and... hhhnngh seven years- ago..." for a man who's not an American in any way, having only lived there for four-six years, this is new. "Our fathers-" he starts yawning. "Brought fourthanewnation... no... that'swrong mmhng, on this continent, then... yeah... nation." he stretches his hand out and places it flat on the dashboard. I lock the doors, realizing that he could probably open up that door if his dream suggested it.

"Ah," he mutters. "I fucking hate Americans." it's so crisp and clear compared to all of everything else he's been saying that I have to cough to keep in a laugh. "C'ept Stephy." he mumbles. "He's... acceptable."