Author: Mosh
Fandom: Lost Souls

Title: Choke
Pairing: Steve/Ghost
Rating: PG
Summary: Another roadtrip, another story.
Disclaimer: These boys belong to Poppy Z. Brite. No money being made, no copyright or trademark infringement intended.
A/N: After reading the short story America, I decided to try my hand at writing a roadtrip. With thanks to Akuni for looking over this for me! 720 words.

Note: You may not archive, re-post, or alter any of my stories without my permission. Please contact me first. Thanks!

A thick sheet of orange dust rose from the ground, winding like an enormous red-tail boa across the countryside. The T-bird's wheels speckled the clouds of dirt with small stones and grit as they spun past fifty, fifty-five, sixty miles per hour. Any faster and the car would start shuddering like some junkie clawing for a fix. The passenger window was rolled right down, but the driver's side would only go three quarters of the way. These things were all part of the T-bird's charm, its owner would say. The ridge of blunt glass dug into Steve's skin as he leaned his arm out the window, letting his fingers trail nothing but warm, balmy air. His other hand, sweat-damp on the wheel, steered them on toward the next gas station, wherever that might be.

Steve glanced over at the shape draped across the passenger seat, boneless but for one leg cocked up against the dash, scuffed sneakers with their bright, mismatched laces. He reached for the radio dial and turned it down until Nine Inch Nails' Letting You was just a faint buzz like a fly trapped in the broken fan heater.

“So did you hear about that peanut?” Steve turned his gaze back to the road. Up ahead, he could just make out a small dark shape on the horizon, a mole-like blemish on the landscape. It had better be a gas station; they only had a quarter tank left and would need a refill before dusk started to drop its purple curtains.

Ghost's groggy voice drifted over, faint beneath the roar of the engine, but loud enough for Steve to hear the hoarseness. Remnants from the LOST SOULS? gig the night before, where they'd played not one but two encores. “Huh? Peanut?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “You know, that genetically modified peanut they had in China or somewhere. Grew human tissue on it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw a faded green t-shirt and pale-skin blob slowly unfold from its curled position. The foot perched against the dash dropped to the floor. Ghost shuffled, arranged his limbs. “You can't grow human skin on a peanut,” he said.

“Can too, I swear. It was in a book I read—new one I picked up from the library in Corinth.” Steve looked over at Ghost, who was scrubbing at his eyes with his fingertips, the bones of his wrists stark points against the smooth white skin. The tendons in his long neck stood out, disappearing cords into the frayed neck of his t-shirt. There was a little hot-rock burn in a perfect circle just below the neckline, a glimmer of chest poking through, skin that was soft like silk, Steve knew. There were a few things about Ghost that felt like silk, a few things that beat hot like little punches to Steve's stomach.

The T-bird's wheels drummed on the hard shoulder and Steve cursed beneath his breath, dragging his beloved death-trap back, rejoining the road.

“Anyway,” he continued, as if nothing had happened, “they grew some tissue on this peanut by seeding cells from human samples. Pretty fucking cool, huh?”

Ghost threw him a sceptical look. “Sure, whatever you say.” Then he furrowed his brow. “Why a peanut?”

Steve hitched one shoulder. “No idea. I guess they just wanted a challenge.”

“Sounds... crazy.”

“From you, that's saying something.”

“Ha-ha.” Ghost peered out the dusty windscreen. “So?”

“So what?”

“So what happened to the peanut?”

“Oh, that,” said Steve. “Well, they're gonna use the research to help them grow human organs and shit like that. I read those Chinese scientists got pretty attached to the peanut, though. Gave it a name and everything. Can you believe that?”

“No.” Ghost rolled his neck on his shoulders, retrieved a small diamond guitar plec from the dash and used it to pick dirt that had wedged under his blunt, glassy fingernails. Thoughtful silence burned along with the fumes from the car exhaust. “What was its name?”

Steve had been waiting for it. “Cho Kon Mee,” he said.

Ghost chewed the information for a few seconds. “Choke on me...” he muttered. “Aw, shit, Steve!”

The T-bird swerved on the road, engine coughing and hacking, wheels kicking up billow after billow of orange dust in time with Steve's laughter.

~Fin~