Chapter Text
“The End of the Road (Sort Of)”
Faifa knew it was irrational. He knew it was unreasonable. He knew it was, by every standard of logic and emotional maturity, a complete overreaction.
And yet.
He was sad.
So sad, in fact, that he had buried himself under his blanket like a moody spring roll, pillow firmly pressed against his face, contemplating the cruelty of life.
Because Wine — sweet, clueless, perfect Wine — had just announced, with sparkles in his eyes and a proud puff of his chest:
“I passed my driving theory test! I’m booking the practical exam next week!”
A normal boyfriend would say: “Congratulations!”
A supportive one might hug him, maybe offer to help him practice parallel parking.
But Faifa was not a normal boyfriend.
He was in mourning .
**
“You’re being dramatic,” came Wine’s voice from the doorway, equal parts fond and exasperated.
Faifa groaned. “Leave me to die.”
“You’re lying on three pillows and hugging my hoodie like a body pillow.”
“I said leave me to die .”
Wine padded into the room, barefoot, smelling like shampoo and betrayal.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you really upset I’m getting my license?”
“No,” came the muffled, sullen reply. “I’m upset that I’m going to become obsolete.”
“Obsolete?” Wine blinked. “Babe, you’re not a Nokia phone.”
“Exactly,” Faifa snapped, sitting up dramatically. “I’m not just a driver! I’m your personal Uber. I take you places. You text me ‘Pick me up’ and I come. Rain or shine. Dead of night. Post-class coma. I’m your hero!”
Wine stared at him, wide-eyed.
Faifa pointed at his chest. “This heart beats for you and also for the soft purring of my car engine while you hum along to music I didn’t choose!”
Wine tried not to laugh. He failed.
“Are you jealous of my future car?”
“Yes!” Faifa cried. “Because once you get your license, you’ll be independent . You won’t need me anymore. You’ll just… go places. Alone. Without me. No more road trips. No more complaining about my parking skills. No more ‘ P'Faifa, I forgot my wallet again, can you turn back?’”
There was a silence. A very long, awkward, pitiful silence.
Then Wine, very gently, took Faifa’s face in both hands and kissed his forehead.
“I love driving with you. And even if I get my license, I’ll still ask you to take me places.”
Faifa blinked. “You will?”
“Of course,” Wine said, smiling. “Because driving with you isn’t just convenient. It’s comforting. It’s ours. Even if I can drive, I’ll still want to sit beside you, play DJ, and remind you for the tenth time that the left lane is not for cruising.”
Faifa sniffled. “That’s the meanest part, actually.”
“I know,” Wine laughed, rubbing his thumb across Faifa’s cheek. “But you love it.”
And maybe Faifa did. Maybe he loved the bickering, the quiet moments at red lights, the way Wine always reached out to touch his arm when he laughed too hard at something on the radio. Maybe driving wasn’t just about going places. Maybe it was how they stayed close, even when the world moved fast.
Faifa threw his arms around Wine. “Fine. You can get your license. But only if you promise one thing.”
“Anything.”
“You still let me pick you up from class.”
Wine grinned. “Deal.”
“And you keep pretending not to know how to use Google Maps.”
“Always.”
Faifa smiled into his shoulder, feeling just a little bit ridiculous — and completely loved.
Maybe the road ahead wasn’t so scary after all.
A week later, Faifa found himself crouched behind a bush near the DMV parking lot, sunglasses on, iced coffee in hand, watching Wine’s driving test like it was a wildlife documentary.
He wasn’t spying.
He was observing supportively from a safe emotional distance .
Wine, inside a little white car with the word STUDENT DRIVER slapped on the side, looked adorable and slightly panicked. Faifa could see the way he gripped the steering wheel like it was trying to escape.
The instructor, a middle-aged woman with the patience of a saint, gestured toward the cones.
Parallel parking.
The final boss.
Faifa whispered a soft, “You can do it,” to no one in particular.
Wine tried once.
Backed up too far.
Pulled forward.
Hit a cone.
Tried again.
Hit the same cone.
Faifa’s heart clenched. His sweet, lovable, occasionally-doesn’t-know-his-left-from-his-right boyfriend was trying so hard. He could practically hear the internal monologue from across the lot:
“Okay. Turn the wheel. Wait, which way? No, wait. That’s—ugh, why is the car moving like that? Did I just invent a new parking position?”
After the third failed attempt, the instructor gently told Wine to move on to the next task.
Wine drove off looking like a kicked puppy.
⸻
That night, back home, Faifa found him curled up on the couch, pouting into a throw pillow.
“I failed,” Wine mumbled without lifting his head.
Faifa sat beside him, running a hand through his hair. “I know.”
“I hit a cone.”
“I know.”
“It wasn’t even a real cone! It was foam! But I still managed to disrespect it.”
Faifa bit back a chuckle. “That cone had it coming.”
Wine finally looked up. “You’re not laughing at me?”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Faifa said gently. “I’m proud of you.”
Wine blinked. “Proud?”
“You tried. You got out there and did something scary. That takes guts.” He kissed his temple. “Besides, now I get to keep driving you around for a little longer.”
Wine stared at him. “You’re not happy I failed… are you?”
Faifa smiled. “No. I’m just happy I can be there for you.”
Wine melted a little at that. “You’re really okay with this?”
Faifa nodded. “Of course. I like being needed. I like when you text me at midnight to come pick you up. I like when you mess with my playlists and complain about my ‘aggressive braking.’ I like… us, on the road.”
Wine didn’t say anything at first, just leaned in and hugged him tightly.
Then, muffled into Faifa’s chest: “You’re still teaching me how to park though.”
“Absolutely,” Faifa grinned. “Lesson one: cones are not your enemies.”
Wine laughed, and in that moment, Faifa didn’t care if they ever passed a driving test. As long as Wine kept riding shotgun, Faifa would happily drive forever.
___
Three weeks later, on a sunny Saturday morning, Faifa stood in front of his apartment building, staring in quiet horror at the familiar car now being driven by the love of his life.
Wine waved enthusiastically from the driver’s seat. “Get in, babe! I brought snacks!”
Faifa blinked. “Snacks? For a fifteen-minute drive?”
“It’s called being prepared ,” Wine beamed, patting the passenger seat. “Now come on, I’m taking you out today.”
Faifa climbed in slowly, like someone boarding a rollercoaster he regretted buying tickets for.
Wine adjusted his mirrors with way more confidence than Faifa felt was safe, then reached over and squeezed his hand.
“You okay?”
“Of course,” Faifa said, voice slightly higher than usual. “Totally. Fine. Great.”
Wine started the car.
Faifa immediately slammed his hand on the dashboard. “ Brake check! ”
“We haven’t moved yet.”
“Oh.”
The car lurched forward — gently, but to Faifa it felt like being launched from a catapult.
He smiled.
A little twitchy.
But still a smile.
“See? Smooth,” Wine said, pulling onto the main road with cautious optimism and only a slight drift to the right.
Faifa gripped the seat. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”
Wine glanced over. “You’re sweating.”
“It’s joy. Overflowing joy.”
A few turns later, Faifa had relaxed exactly 3% — which was impressive, considering Wine took a corner like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Bangkok Drift .
When they pulled into a quiet parking lot near a lakeside coffee shop, Wine turned off the engine and grinned like he’d just conquered Everest.
“I did it!”
Faifa nodded, heart racing. “You did. You really did.”
“I didn’t hit anything.”
“You didn’t.”
“I even used my signal!”
“I saw.”
“I’m amazing.”
“You are.”
Wine leaned over, gently brushing Faifa’s hair back. “Were you scared?”
Faifa paused. “Only mildly traumatized.”
Wine laughed, and Faifa, despite everything, laughed with him.
Then he looked at Wine — bright-eyed, proud, and entirely his — and felt something soft settle in his chest.
“You know,” Faifa said, “I think I could get used to being your passenger.”
Wine’s smile softened. “You’ll always be more than that.”
Faifa leaned over and kissed him, grateful for the road ahead — bumpy, maybe, but filled with love, laughter, and far too many snacks.
And as Wine proudly grabbed his tote bag and skipped toward the coffee shop, Faifa called out:
“ You’re still parking too far from the curb! ”
“Old habits!” Wine shouted back.
Faifa shook his head, grinning. Yeah. He could get used to this.