Dear Diary...

Rating: PG-13

Fandom: FFTL

Ships: some Moorebloom

Warnings: murder

You’re jealous. There’s no other way to slice it. You watch the boy from afar, with his choppy black hair and pierced lip, his messily applied eyeliner. You watch him sing, and scream, and laugh with his friends when nobody’s around, and you want it.

But you don’t just want what he has, no.

You want to be him.

He doesn’t sound quite so intimidating offstage. In fact, he dies with little more than a whimper as he bleeds out in the grass. You step into his skin, and it feels like coming home.

You’ve never had a home before.

“Hey, Sonny,” Matt says from the very back of the van, socks kicked up on top of one of Derek’s drums. He’s on his laptop mooching off McDonalds WiFi while the others are doing god-knows-what. You look up from your guitar and hum. 

“Apparently, some kid found a dead body out behind last night’s venue.” He cracks a beer. “Victim unidentified. They’re resorting to dental records ‘cause his face is totally gone.”

Derek is a snuggly thing. He’s as warm as you always imagined, and if he’s not in your lap between rest stops, it’s because he’s pulling you into his or it’s his turn to drive. You like the warmth. You like the way he says your name.

“Sonny-bunny,” he groans in the pale morning light, pulling his jacket up around your shoulders. “You’ve gotta quit drooling on me in your sleep.”

Travis stares at you like he knows what you’ve done. Like you never bothered washing the blood from your hands. You look up from tuning your guitar during sound check and catch his eyes.

He looks away before you can read them.

He knows better than to call your bluff. Dental records can only go so far.