Archive of Our Own

He didn’t think anything of graduating high school and all that came after. Or what was supposed to— looking into college, a career, cohabitation with someone who’ll give his mom grandkids. The usual expectations, Randy thought, that would come to him if they wished, while he treaded water, a life preserver that might embalm him for a time, keep him whole and hale until the kids grew up, the marriage dissolved, and his mom died. 

Whatever happened after, would happen. 

It was with these sort of apathetic thoughts, eager to keep his hands to himself, life so harmless he was sure he’d never made much of a mark in anyone’s life, that he had run into his ex-girlfriend at the grocery store. 

She had blinked at him, brown eyes filled with the sort of horror that Randy was feeling, the weight of the eggplants he had been comparing in his hands awkward, keeping him rooted to the floor. He hadn’t wanted to say anything, but Lisa, outspoken and outgoing and out of his league, swallowed down her own reservations and gave him a shy smile, beleaguered, charming despite it. 

“Hey, Randy. How’s it going?” 

He had wanted to toss the eggplants to the floor and book it, a small part of him resenting Lisa for being a good person, for not allowing him to fall to the wayside, for not ignoring him and letting their lives continue to not intersect, forever parallel like they had learned in math class, where she had first passed him a note, bored of the theorems and numbers, more interested in knowing his. 

Randy had shrugged, “It’s going. W-What about you?” 

The conversation had been entirely too stilted, words congested and sentences prematurely cut, for a chance meeting in a grocery store. This kind of setting was supposed to be for seeing old neighbors, nodding at people you went to school with but were never really friends, and running into your old elementary school teachers, that is, if you hadn’t flung an eraser into her eye and caused her life to spiral into destitution. Small nods of their heads or polite sliding of eyes to the side, pretending at not remembering.

But for some reason nearing the end of what had started as an unwanted conversation, impatient glances over shoulders and shuffling feet eager to leave aside, Lisa’s smile had looked more real where it dimpled her chin, and Randy hadn’t wanted to throw the eggplants to the floor anymore, and they had parted with each other’s numbers re-saved into their contacts. 

Running into Lisa might have been the sort of nightmare Randy had the first summer after graduation, holed up in his house like if he hid away for long enough, the world might forget him, might let him start again, something new and never seen before. Maybe he’d be able to make everyone forget about those usual expectations. 

It’s not like it changed anything. Not really. It wasn’t like it fixed anything, either, talking to someone who wasn’t his mom or his thirteen year old sister, immediate world inside the four walls of the house he barely left. It didn’t make him feel any less like an outsider, still hanging onto the fringes of a quilt made long before him— couldn’t thread the needle, sew himself in the right way, stitches loose, knot unraveling. 

Lisa tried to bring him into the fold of friends she’d made working at the mall, this amalgamation of twenty to nearly thirty year olds who lived life like Randy— work and sleep and an aimless meander to something they couldn’t name. 

A bunch of small town cogs in a machine without a purpose. 

Randy had different parts, or so he felt. They didn’t mesh well, he weirded them out or something, or maybe Randy was just a loser. Lisa still tried, a desperation in her tone, news of Oreo echoing at the back of her throat, cajoling him into one last hangout, some house show her new boyfriend’s cousin’s friend’s band was playing at— music Randy had never listened to from a band he’d never heard of at a place Randy had never been to. 

He hadn’t wanted to go. 

But there was that well of hope inside of him that never seemed to run dry.

Despite every disappointment, every attempt at leashing his own expectations to the yard, chain thick and spike ten feet in the ground, that hope still ran off, barking in the street and chasing cars, leaving Randy without air in his lungs as he ran after it, apologizing for the trouble he caused. 

To alleviate the resigned tone of Lisa’s voice, to prevent her own disappointment in him, someone else with another festering wound due to his hands, Randy agreed to go, address printed out from MapQuest, permission from mom begrudgingly granted on account of Randy keeping a job for more than three months, even though it was just the old gas station turned burger joint. 

She hadn’t liked the fact that it was in the next parish over but Randy agreed to take the interstate through New Orleans, freeway cutting his original scenic route down through Marrero, to Avondale and then up to Luling short. Half-hoping if he’d left late enough, if traffic on the ninety was heavy enough, that by the time he got there the party would be over and the band would’ve been packed up and long gone, only thing wasted was the gas on the way, and not any specific, special effort on Randy’s part. 

The space between the houses in Boutte were far enough apart that Randy was worried this house show would be bigger than was promised, Lisa’s words that Bugsy’s band ain’t even all that good to begin with, no one’s gonna wanna come see them holler about butterflies and shit. Randy wasn’t so sure now, coasting down the road and already spotting the house in question, car after car parked across from it in the grassy flatland housing nothing but wilting trees and a long abandoned shanty house, boarded windows graffiti-ridden and front door busted clear off of its hinges. 

The front yard of the house was littered with other cars, parked haphazardly, where people sat on hoods and trunks, on the grass itself, milling in and out of the front door, house alight in the dark of the street, no streetlights buzzing overhead. He could hear music, something indistinct, but deep twangs of an electric guitar traveled to where he idled, drums a second heartbeat under his own. 

Randy parked the Mustang further down the road, near someone else’s house, their porchlight on and a camera with a red light blinking at him, ensuring his dad’s car was being kept an eye on. He took out his phone to send a text message to Lisa, to let her know he was here, if she might meet him at the door or something, to show that Randy wasn’t some gate-crashing dork, but where there were normally a few bars to indicate Randy could call nine-one-one were he out in the street dying, there was zero. Then one. And then it dropped down to zero again. No cell reception. 

He looked around, nine o’clock at night and no moon in the sky, lightning bugs bobbing in the spaces where the buzzing white-blue or incandescent yellow couldn’t reach, dark voids of space between houses lit up like a starry night sky, bugs winking their greenish-yellow lights at him. The trees were thick charcoal against a navy blue so deep it might as well be black, leaves fluttering against each other in the breeze, crickets chirping a storm, the raspy trill of toads croaking.

With a deep breath, he left the peace of standing unnoticed with the bugs and the toads, and approached the house, steps feeling like he was walking on marsh, ground unsteady under his feet, legs a little flimsy feeling, like those houses people kept trying to build on the bayou, support beams somehow holding them up, water crashing against them, shaking. 

Randy felt like everyone was staring at him, or maybe that was just him being anxious, but did it look weird? Showing up alone? After showering, he had thrown on this plain collared shirt, thinking it looked nice enough in his mirror at home, now regretting his choice, seeing all the people in graphic tees, long shirts with popped collars, muscle shirts. Compared the skinny jeans and khaki shorts with his regular, well-fitting blue jeans. Scarves in the middle of the spring, vests and ties without a collar to tie them around, boxer shorts revealed, pants sagging. 

Maybe Randy was being stared at because he looked like a fucking dweeb. 

It was too late to turn back though, already up the steps and at the front door, a wide wrap-around porch scattering even more partygoers around the property, people smoking something that smelled like the musky stink of weed, the strong burning scent of cigarettes, red solo cups sweet and fragrant, attracting mosquitos and gnats. He would look stupid if he just turned tail and ran to his car now.

Despite the way his nerves were under his skin, threatening to bleed out of his pores, spill gross and annoying everywhere, there was a freeing sense of anonymity that was fighting its way past all of that, no face sparking any sorts of memories, no fear that word of tonight’s actual festivities might get back to his mom, threat of Randy grounded until he’s thirty for lying about seeing some Christian rock band at a church shindig in Luling. 

No one could point fingers at Randy and cheer for the hero who took out Blackbeard’s eye, ARGH! Or look at him with disdain, still the same person from high school, repressed and quiet, and Voted Most Likely To Snap One Day, they had tried to get his superlative to say, had been vetoed by the Yearbook President, Lisa’s best friend at the time. Randy was as unknown to these people as they were to him and it was more comforting than having to third-wheel Lisa and her boyfriend— some dude named Landon that she had met while working at the mall, friendly but with clear boundaries where Randy and Lisa were concerned, trading cell phones with his girlfriend randomly to make sure Randy wasn’t putting any moves on her. 

Which, his mom’s Cosmopolitan might say, was controlling behavior that should be stopped immediately, unless he gets sexy with it! ;)

Randy however, hadn’t been having many thoughts of Lisa lately, instead of her shorter figure someone taller in his mind’s eye, stature beefier, with sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, and facial hair, ugly Burgers uniform somehow looking quite alright on wide shoulders, cheap material taut as he mopped, biceps distracting. 

Ever since he started working at Burgers, Randy had been hard pressed to say exactly why he followed Hardy’s rules to a t, besides his general lack of spine, but part of it was wanting to stick around, wanting to see if maybe his older coworker, Benson, would do something surprising, like be Randy’s friend. 

The house was bigger on the inside, front hall splitting three different ways, an archway to his right, sofas filled with people smoking, kissing, to his left what looked like a kitchen and dining area, the source of all of the red solo cups, alcohol bottles ramshackle and on every surface, sweating in the balmy night. The music was louder now, coming from ahead of him, the space opening up to another sitting area, more couches, another archway and through it, people stood shoulder to shoulder, band raised above them on wooden palettes, sound nearly deafening. 

“What’s up, man?” Some guy asks Randy, yells through the music, polite but clearly uninterested, as he walks past him to throw himself on an armchair, girl he’s in the lap of giggling at his weight, arms around him. A blonde girl, hair a rat’s nest, passes him, sees his hands empty and pushes a cup into his hand, plastic cracking ominously, eyes a green or hazel, whites red and pupils wide, red lipstick on smiling teeth, “Hey, guy! Gotta drink to have fun!” 

Randy doesn’t get to reply, argue or agree, before she flounces off, melting into the crowd. He turns to head towards the band when he walks straight into someone, spilling his drink on their arm. Oh my god, you idiot, he thinks. “I’m so sorry!” 

“Ah, hell. Be more careful, now.” The drawl nearly has his heart stopping, neck whipping up to look, stomach turning and thinking he’d just ran into that coworker he’d been dreaming about, butterfly wings ripped off, sitting heavy in his gut when it’s not.

This guy has brownish-blond hair, longer and styled differently than what Randy assumes is a mullet Benson covers with his uniform hat. This guy doesn’t have a beard, his mustache is thinner, eyes hazel and not the deep, dark color that Randy still can’t make out after three months of working together, scared to get too close, like Benson might sniff out the stench of his fear, infatuation simmering beneath, like a bloodhound. There’s actually no real resemblance besides their stature, this guy a whole head taller even, just as beefy as Benson, charming Cajun lilt making his head spin. 

“Sorry, again.” Randy says, nervous. If this guy wanted to start curb-stomping him he had no one that might stop the scene; no one to yell that Randy had a mom, who loved him way too strictly, and a younger sister, who was growing out of having an older brother, at home waiting for his safe return. 

The man shakes his hand out, Randy’s jeans dotting with the rain of alcohol, brows a little pinched, annoyed, before he looks at Randy and something clears it up, smile working at the corners of his mouth, handsome as anything. “All good, nothin’ a li’l water won’t fix up, cher.”

Handsome guys, not even just guys, attractive people in general don’t tend to smile at Randy. If they did, there just had to be something wrong with them. If Lisa ever asked, it was because she was obsessed with the dudes in hair metal bands, like, to the point of writing stories about them. It was sort of crazy. Randy’s point stands— What was up with this guy? 

“The name’s Benoit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen ya ‘round here before?” 

Benoit. Benson. 

There was far too little alcohol in his system to deal with this so he takes a hefty gulp of whatever’s left in his cup, slightly regrets it as it burns on the way down, makes his eyes water. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugs at Benoit. “I don’t get around much.” 

“Don’t blame ya. Get bothered a lot when ya do, don’tcha?” 

Randy blinks at him, slightly confused. Did Randy have bullied loser tattooed on his forehead or what? Did he just look the type? A nerd with his plain collared shirt, beat up Vans, dirty blond hair, dishwater hue, eyes always with that sort of sad look in them no matter how much he practiced smiling in the mirror.  

“Uh, not really? I usually get left alone.” The only person who actually bothers him is Chris and that’s just at work— as soon as it’s time to clock out, even if they’re leaving at the same time, Chris pretends like he doesn’t exist, letting the door close shut in his face, not even looking back to laugh about it. It’s like once he’s not being paid for it, it’s no longer fun. Randy doesn’t know and he’s not going to pretend to understand the inner workings of a mind so far decayed, sex-obsessed and barely able to work the cash register, all on the meagre four dollars and sixty five cents he makes per hour.

“I don’t believe ya.” 

Randy frowns. “Why would I lie about that?” 

The man shrugs, his loose shirt pulling tight at the gesture, folded arms emphasizing the muscle of his biceps, tanned forearms, veins thick to his knuckles. Randy looks up, gets caught looking, but Benoit doesn’t seem to mind, a lopsided grin pulling more to the left, canine a little crooked. “People lie about all sorts’a things. Thinks it makes ‘em seem more mysterious.” 

Mystery is something Randy doesn’t think he has, no intrigue to pique, plain white bread, not even the Wonder brand, just the cheap, about to expire store-brand in the back with all the other clearance food. There’s not much to him, besides an innate penchant to hurt others it seems, but a random dude at a party is not exactly someone he wants to get all vulnerable with. 

“That’s me.” He jokes, tone awkward, “Mister Mystery.” 

Benoit thinks he’s funny as all hell though, genuinely laughing, eyes crescents. “Say, Mister Mysterious, I can’t keep callin’ ya baby blue in my head, do ya got a name I can say instead?” 

Is Randy being flirted with? Baby blue? Growin’ up in Louisiana, damn near everyone’ll call you cher, petit chou, cherie, bebe. The mailwoman had called him darlin’ the other day, merely because Randy had picked up a piece of mail she’d dropped. Just cuz’ this tall, handsome fella is calling Randy this doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Could mean he was raised right, manners entwined with that Cajun charm, sweet and cloying, a real southern gentleman. 

Randy doesn’t feel as tongue tied as usual, stranger in a stranger’s house, words stuttering in his throat and dying in his mouth, taste bitter at the back of his throat, swallowing his hesitation like that mouthful of alcohol, feels it burn on his cheeks instead. “Why do you want to say my name?” 

“It’s only polite.” 

“Is this you being polite?” Randy peers up at him, slight height difference feeling bigger the way he lets himself be crowded back against the wall, close to hear each other yell over the din of the band just the next room over. Benoit’s not quite caging him in so much as leaning against the wall at his side, body folded towards him like a plant might bend to the sun, height allowing Randy to fall into his admittedly charming gravity. 

“This is me tryna be charming.” Benoit says with a bashful crinkle of his nose, hazel eyes bright. 

He doesn’t think anything’ll really come from this, doesn’t think he’ll be led up to a bedroom, movie scenes playing out in his head, car windows foggy and hidden behind a tree. Maybe a kiss if he’s lucky enough to get it, drunk enough to not think about it, brave enough to want it. 

The drink in his cup is gone with the next mouthful he takes, feels it flow to his brain where it cuts off the tension in his neck, Randy shrugging his newly loose shoulders at the other man. “Trying… Succeeding.” 

“It ain’t workin’ that good if I still ain’t got that name.” 

“It’s Randy.” 

“Randy.” Benoit says, tone wondering, “Ya don’t look like a Randy, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” 

He feels like some mythical creature, the way his body lights up at the sound of his name, a weight he hadn’t realized was carried on his shoulders, two syllables a spell spoken aloud, handed over to someone in cupped hands. No one’s called him by his name, like that, in a while. His mom always says it with a tone of censure, accent hogtied and buried under the magnolias, Randy almost a cuss sometimes. 

At work he pretends Bradley is a concession, his first name too precious for the way the air was always thick with grease, breathing in oil and frying his lungs tougher than a chicken-fried steak, instead of a confession that he cares too little to really exist. 

Randy wonders at Benoit’s words, wonders how he might look to this man. “And what do I look like to you?” Realizes the words sound too heavy out between them, an intention to them that Randy isn’t sure about just yet, “Besides a Randy, I mean.” The plastic cup in his hands cracks as his hand spasms, wishes there was more alcohol inside so he could drink it and shut up, numb the nerves again. 

Benoit is kind, hand warm as he loosens Randy’s hold on it, “Maybe a Jean-Luc or somethin’. Beau.” Randy feels like a chocolate candy left in a pocket, melty and messy as eyes linger over him, “Angel, maybe.” The grin isn’t as bashful as before, instead a little sultry, flirtatious. 

Yeah, the dude was for real putting the moves on Randy and he was havin’ a hard time remembering why he was thinkin’ that he didn’t want this to happen. It wasn’t bad form to use the guy if he didn’t know who he was playing understudy to, right? Randy was still enjoying the performance, still knew his name, would give him a standing ovation, maybe. He just wasn’t the guy Randy had been mooning over and it was okay. 

The names make him laugh, thinking about his mom with the naming sense of a Louisiana local. “No way, my mom’s from Texas.” 

Benoit makes a face, “Ah. I get it now.” 

“Are you saying my name is ugly?” 

“Not at all, sweetheart.” He smirks, a little mischievous. “But I do gotta say, it really don’t do ya any justice.” 

Sheesh, he’s really laying it on but Randy doesn’t hate it. Likes the attention, for once, soft and harmless, no cutting words, no disparaging remarks. Something that makes him fuzzy inside, keeps making his cheeks twitch with an unpracticed smile, eyes rolling playfully. 

“Has anyone ever told you to get your eyes checked?” 

“Only when I drive.” 

“How bad are you? That people are telling you that?” 

“Ya wanna see? I promise I’ll be real careful with ya in the front seat.” 

Randy might have taken him up on his offer, whether it was a real drive or an excuse for some privacy, something to distract himself with, another warm body close to his, if he hadn’t spotted fucking Benson off all people, across the room. It felt like someone had hit him over the head with a cast-iron skillet— vision tunneling, sound muffling in his ears, struck dumb. 

He watched as Benson elbowed the guy he was standing near, glowering as his lips moved quicker than he’d ever seen him talk at work, expression clearing up just as fast, pointing at the red-headed girl across from him, mood seemingly jovial. 

Randy’d never seen him like this. 

So alive. 

At work he came across as sort of no-nonsense, the kind of guy who kept his head down and worked hard, but not in the way Randy did. Like a lone-wolf, who hid his teeth until they were needed, who didn’t bother speaking unless it was to say something he deemed important. The sort of quiet, southern man whose only constant in life was the cigarette between their lips and the knowledge that they’d die because of it one day. The keep on keepin’ on sort. 

Didn’t think he’d ever be somewhere like this, this random house party for a cover band screaming about a god machine being cold and dead, electric guitar whining, drums beating double time, cymbals crashing. 

He looks good when he’s all outgoing like that, expressions changing with every other word. Even better when he catches Randy’s eye from across the room and he makes this face, brows furrowed, eyes squinting like he can’t believe it, lip curled like he can’t decide if he wanted to smile or snarl. Thinks he sees his name on them. 

“How about it, Randy?” 

The pull of Benson’s attention isn’t enough for his name at his ear, remembers the guy he was a hair’s breadth away from making out with in his car, pushes himself back to make space for someone across the room, tries not to cringe as he’s followed. 

What if Benson sees? What if he talks to Chris at work and tells him he’s right to call Randy gay? What if he comes over and punches him or something, notices the way he’s been looked at, finds offense at it and wants to put Randy in his place, under his boot. Randy feels a little gross at the way it doesn’t seem to smother the simmering heat of being noticed, only fanning the embers higher, sweat at his back and fighting to keep his attention on this guy who gave him more than Benson ever has. 

“Hm? Sorry, what?” Randy blinks up at him, tries to act natural, act like he was before, that fun Randy without the off-putting nervousness, but it’s all wrong now. He’s an ant under a magnifying glass, trapped between glass slides under a microscope, a gaze piercing him like a ray of super-focused sun, like a scalpel, feels peeled away, hunter’s knife under buckskin.  

There’s a little furrow in between Benoit’s brows, “Um, I hope I wasn’t bein’ too forward with ya. If ya ain’t like— like that, I’ll go ‘head and leave you be.” Maybe Randy’s a bad person because the sudden absence of Benoit’s confidence makes him more handsome in his eyes, endearing and even more charming than before. But it’s not enough to distract him from the approaching figure at the corner of his eye and it’s not enough to write over the way his heart is pounding, another man with the same three letters at the first syllable, making him feel so wildly different. 

When the vibration of steel-toed boots stop heavy at their feet, it isn’t Randy who Benson speaks to first. 

“Benoit.” Benson drawls, a mocking sort of smile quirking his mustache. Randy watches, drinks him in like the alcohol he was needing earlier, burning down his chest, makes his eyes water, goosebumps across his skin. He’s wearing some band shirt that’s got the sleeves cut off, biceps not as muscular as the other man’s but still enough to make Randy’s teeth itch. 

“Boudreaux.” Benoit’s hesitant tone is gone, no charm from before to take its place, something that makes Randy shiver, his hazel eyes gone cold. It makes him look a little different, a little more like someone Randy wants to nick his finger on the edge of, blood heavy on his tongue. 

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” 

“I believe I was.” 

“Ya know I hate hearin’ that.”

“Shoulda kept on walkin’ then. Ya needed some attention or what?” 

“Not from you.” 

Randy’s spine feels like a lightning rod in the middle of a field, storm growling overhead, hair on end, Benson’s eyes electric, making him stand straighter, away from the body at his side. 

“You know Randy?” Benoit asks, eyebrow raised at Randy who feels a little like he’s been caught with a hand in someone’s cookie jar, like he had been lying earlier about not getting around, crumbs on his face. Benson’s eyebrows raise, mouthing Randy’s name, making him look away, wipe at his mouth. He’s about to tell him that they work together, flippin’ burgers and mopping floors but Benson interrupts him. 

“You could say that.” He whips his head back to him, confusion wrinkling his brow. Randy doesn’t know why Benson says it that way, leadingly. Implying something that even Randy can read, can feel the tension rack up, lungs filling with something more heady than alcohol, more invigorating than oxygen, making Randy choke on a gasp, Benson’s eyes dark blue and all over him. 

It feels like they’re kissing in front of everyone, like Chris and Jess in the middle of the floor at Burgers, like Benson is hands-on, touching him everywhere, holding him against his body, hot and heavy, making out with him without a touch. He feels a little dirty for the way it makes him want it, makes him want Benoit to watch, nice guy like that with a couple of assholes like them. 

“Mighta been nice if ya mentioned you were spoken for.” Benoit’s charm is cut short, back behind his molars, barely gets the sentence out before Benson leans on the wall in between them, bodychecking Benoit out of the way as he leers down at Randy. 

“You spoken for?” Benson drawls, mocking, attention fully on Randy now, pinning him into place at the wall, not looking at Benoit who lingered. 

Randy would like to say that he hesitated, that he considered Benoit and his handsome stature, taller than Benson and sweeter, the promise of a gentleman, how it might’ve felt to be held by a man like that. 

But Randy is probably not a good person. 

He likes putting out candles with his fingertips, cherishes the burn, walking too close to the curb, wind rocking his body as cars fly by, a tantalizing reminder that he’s still here, still alive despite his best efforts at pretending he isn’t, hands to himself and rulers left in his desk drawer. Small liberties he takes with himself, control loose when he’s let off from his mom’s leash, a badly trained dog. 

Always wanting things he shouldn’t in ways he shouldn’t. Liked people rough around the edges who Randy could touch and feel, blood welling to the surface, proof that he’s alive.

Randy would like to say that he turned his nose up at the man who never gave him the time of day until he saw someone else offer their wrist, but he was not a good person, probably not even a bad one, just one who didn’t look at Benoit either— not a glance, an apology offered in a fake grimace, nothing, eyes solely for Benson. 

“I’m not.” 

The other man curses them as he turns away, loud enough to make a big stink, catching eyes as he leaves but it’s not enough to make a dent in the tension between him and Benson, only deepening it when the fuss made something glimmer dark in Benson’s eyes, “Are ya sure?” 

Randy’s fingers are hot over the flame, “Would it matter to you if I was?” 

Benson’s eyes slipped to the left, pretending to think, only for a second, attention back on Randy like he couldn’t help himself, as if someone else might swoop in on his kill and eat all the good parts before he could, selfish and hungry, smirk handsome on his face, sharp curve of his cheekbone lit by the many lamps around the room, just begging for the soft press of Randy’s lips to ‘em. 

“Nah, don’t think it would.” 

He should feel disgusted, maybe morally stung by the admission that Benson is the type to entice people into cheating, but it doesn’t douse the candle Randy burns for him, hot and getting out of control, flames licking up the curtains, smoke making his breaths come short. 

It was easier with Benoit, that perfect stranger, nice and inviting, a fireplace carefully stoked, but it feels different with Benson, like he was doing things he wasn’t supposed to be doing, a wildfire, dry brush catching with the flick of a cigarette butt.

“What’re you doin’ here?” 

Randy doesn’t know if he means here at the party or why he’s still talking to Benson. He may not be all that great at flirting, playing coy and all that, Cosmo magazines read because he was bored and for no other reason at all, but he thinks it's a strange question to ask after he was stolen away from Benoit in such a fashion and it leaves him a little off kilter, can feel the phantom weight of a uniform hat on his head, trying to make him look down.

“Um, my friend invited me.” 

Benson gets comfortable at his side, elbow against the wall now, in Benoit’s place,  bringing them closer together, arm nearly resting on Randy’s shoulder, “Oops. Didn’t realize you and Benoit were friends.” He doesn’t sound very sorry about it, an easy smile on his face instead. 

“Oh, um, a different friend. From high school. I don’t know Benoit.”

“Sure looked like ya did.” 

“No, um, we were just talking. I spilled my drink on him earlier and then, yeah.” Randy says lamely, feeling like he’s the one caught cheating, making excuses, Benson checking his phone messages. 

Benson snorts, derisive. “That’s a classic.” 

“A classic?” 

“Ya know, spill the drink, bump into ‘em, oops, my bad, darlin’” Benson gets interrupted, barrelling into Randy who catches him with hands on his chest, a rowdy trio of people shouldering them as they stumble past, blood on their face and trailing the tang of alcohol after them. Benson caught himself with one hand against the wall but his other is on Randy’s waist, big hand hot through the fabric of his shirt. 

Randy feels a little drunk, half a cup of hooch burnt out of his system, Benson’s eyes on him enough to make him tipsy. His head is spinning, suddenly on Benson’s radar the way he had wanted but now wholly unprepared for the way it feels to be at the end of his gaze, deep blue and beguiling. 

He doesn’t know what the right words to say are or how to say them— doesn’t think he has control of the way he’s looking up at Benson like a loon, eyelashes fluttering, hands spasming on his chest, unsure if he should move them or not. Benson doesn’t seem to find their presence a problem, breathing into them, not stepping away himself.

“Um, you were saying?” Randy sends him a tentatively playful look of sarcasm that he takes off the chin, grinning down at him, shrugging, with a tilt of his head. 

“Thought you needed a demonstration.” 

In the other room, the band starts up another song, heavy on the drums, bassline nearly drowning out the singer. Benson sees Randy’s attention stray that one little second and moves his hand from his waist, knuckle soft under the meat of his chin, guides it back on him. 

“You like this?” 

“What?” Randy asks, meaning lost. Benson’s body is warm under his clammy palms, magnetic and impossible to pull away from. He definitely likes this. The touching, the looking. Being the only one Benson’s paying any sort of mind to. It makes him feel special.

“Acid Bath.” Benson throws a thumb out over his shoulder, “It’s just a shitty cover band but Bugsy’s not too bad. He ain’t ever gonna be Dax though.” 

Randy doesn’t know what he’s talking about, wants to keep him talking, wants to keep the accent curling into his ears and down his throat, molasses thick and sweet. He wants to choke on it, on him. “Never heard of them.” 

“Oh, baby, you’re missin’ out,” He sounds like he’s about to drag him over to the other room, eager to show a loser like Randy some real fuckin’ music. Benson makes a move to step back and it has Randy unfreeze enough for his hands to move, but not away. They slide down, not quite touching, fingertips ghosting the curve of his pecs, the soft of his belly, meeting the waistband of Benson’s jeans, grabs hold of the other man by his belt loops, knuckles hard against the metal studs, steadies himself as he holds on for dear life, Benson his right now. 

He doesn’t want to go to the other room where they won’t talk, where they might get pulled away from each other— Randy with no chance to burn the house down. 

Blue eyes look down at him, pupils darkening them as they dilate, “What? Not your scene?” 

Randy shakes his head, pulling them closer, belt loops his mooring line, doesn’t want to get swept away, lose Benson to the wall of sound and the many-headed crowd in the next room over. Wants to keep him here where they’re close and talking and maybe-flirting. 

Benson’s talking to him about things that aren’t about work and Randy doesn’t want to let this opportunity go. He’s being asked questions and Benson’s attention is solely his when he opens his mouth to answer, eyes lingering over his face but never leaving. The way he’s being smiled at is welcoming and he wants to overstay his welcome, get kicked out in the middle of the night. Randy wants it all, every single expression Benson could make. 

Wants to be wooed out to his car, kissed in the passenger seat, wants to give it up for a guy who probably won’t talk to him come Monday morning. Doesn’t care, wants it anyway— anything Benson could give him. Even if it hurts. 

“You don’t wanna talk to me?” Randy tries. 

“Talk?” Benson cups his elbow, sweeps down the length of his forearm, callus catching, until he’s gripping at his wrist. They’re so close together that it’s almost awkward, no space to maneuver except to break the boundary of their waistlines, which Benson does carelessly, pushes at Randy until his back hits the wall, hand pulled off of his belt loop to interlock their fingers, the action so tender, something Randy wouldn’t have expected out of him, that his knees go weak. 

Their chests push together, Randy breathing heavily, eyes still on Benson’s, holding his weight up, a knee knocking into his own, folding them into each other. He changes his hold, rough but gentlemanly, fingers curving under Randy’s, thumb caressing and up to his mouth, mustache tickling Randy’s knuckles. “I don’t think I wanna talk to you, no.” 

Randy swallows, licks his lips, Benson’s eyes watching, half-lidded and lazy, voice low as he considers, “If ya don’t care for the music, ya wanna do somethin’ else?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What’d Benoit try ta sweet talk you into doin’?” He asks suddenly. 

Randy frowns, “Benoit?” What is he talking about? They hadn’t really talked per se, flirting with every other sentence, but Randy can’t even recall— Benson’s all over him, eyes and body and hands and he wants to be the one to ask to get out of here, Boutte street dark enough to get away with parking the car somewhere behind some trees and gettin’ to it. “He just wanted to show me his car.” 

Benson glowers, leans down as if he’s gonna kiss Randy only to stop right before they could touch lips, breath hot and wet and Randy can almost taste it, nicotine acrid, wonders what it’ll taste like on his tongue, “Don’t think I like hearin’ you say another man’s name.” 

His jealousy might not be real and it’s definitely not warranted but it makes Randy feel a little buckwild anyway, makes him feel a little out of control, collar gone from his neck, free to give Benson a rough tug where he’s got a hold of him, wants them touching. 

“Maybe you should try to make me say yours?” 

At the same time that his jaw is grabbed, firm in the meat of Benson’s palm, index and thumb at his cheeks, his other hand is on the flat of his back, where his spine dips, fingers grabbing at the waist of his jeans as they pull low, promising. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He snaps— Bites.

Benson kisses like he looks, rough and starving, tongue already in his mouth, doesn’t bother with butterfly wings, proprietary and leading, goes all in from the start— licking at him, drinking him in, Randy trying to keep up, arm thrown around the back of Benson’s neck, shirt wrinkling in his fist, hanging on, other hand gripping at Benson’s forearm where his fingers dip below the waistband at his back, fingers slippery with sweat. 

The kiss is so sudden Randy can’t seem to think. 

He’s drunk with it— the taste of his mouth heady alcohol and bitter nicotine that he thinks he would hate in any other instance. The weight of Benson against him, so hard, so heavy it felt like he was trying to push Randy through the wall. He’s being kissed so thoroughly, he can’t even remember to be self-conscious about kissing another guy in the middle of this party he’s supposed to be meeting Lisa and her boyfriend at. 

Benson’s knee slips in between his legs and Randy flinches, reflex squeezing his legs shut, trapping the other man, biting at his lip. 

It doesn’t turn Benson off, the pain, it only makes him moan, or at least Randy thinks it does, can’t hear very well but he can feel the vibration in Benson’s chest where it's pressed up against his. Benson pulls away, has to put a hand to Randy’s throat to prevent him from chasing after him, spit glistening between them for a second before it breaks, sloppy on their chins. Randy reaches up to wipe at Benson’s beard and the man allows it, looking down his nose at him. 

“Ya know Benoit’s not even his name.” 

Randy thought Benson would be asking him to go home with him or at least go out to his car so they can continue, doesn’t understand why Benoit is being brought up again. There’s something about it that feels competitive, in a way, like how some of the men in the restaurant get to talkin’ about their hunting trophies— comparing the sizes of bucks, the gators, what gun they used. Bigger scope, bigger cal. 

He wonders if Benson hunts. How big his gun is. 

“Okay? I don’t really care about his name.” 

Benson raises his eyebrows at him, something like schadenfreude in the mean of his grin, “Mais, didn’t know you were a slut.”

Randy glares up at him, thighs taut where he’s squeezing his knees shut, blood rushing south, “I’m actually not.” 

“Hey, I didn’t say that was a bad thing. I happen to like sluts.”

Randy wants to get back to the kissing and touching, doesn’t want to think about the way the insult doesn’t sound like one, the way it curls around his tongue and slides down to the back of his throat, makes him want more. 

“I think I like you more when you’re not talking.” 

Benson quirks an eyebrow, incredulous. “Where’s all this fire when you’re gettin’ shit on at work?” 

Randy doesn’t like this sort of attention from Benson, a curious dog with teeth on the jugular, playful presses of his canines to his neck, tries to wrench the attention away to something else, a different flesh for his appetite.

“You said Benoit isn’t his real name. What is it?” 

The other man’s expression goes from amused to very flat, Benson rolling his eyes as he lets the subject change, “He thinks his first name is embarrassing— Billy Benoit. Suppose he thinks goin’ by his last name makes up for it.” 

Benson had just had his tongue down Randy’s throat and Randy’s chin was chafing from his facial hair and he wanted to get back to that, like, yesterday. Tries to push it along, compare bucks and all that, play in the bad blood they have between them. 

“Billy Benoit isn’t so bad. It’s kind of cute.” Like a baby animal, Randy doesn’t say aloud, feels molten inside his gut when Benson’s thigh pushes against him, big hands at his waist, gets bullied into the wall again, that mouth at his throat, teeth biting.

“Cute?”

Randy bites down on his own lip, moan stuttering, hand at Benson’s nape, tries to direct him to his mouth, “Y-Yeah. Kinda.” 

“Well, what about me, cher?” Benson asks against the sensitive skin of his throat, mustache prickling. 

“What about you?” Randy gasps, Benson’s big thigh against his hardening dick in his jeans, tongue laving over the bite on his neck, sucking softly, rolling his skin between his teeth, sweet and rough and then back again, the muscle of his thigh stoking him further, feels like he’s being doused with lighter fluid, Benson with a match in hand.

Randy wraps his calf around Benson’s, tries to ride it, gets stopped by Benson pushing his waist against the wall again. Eyes on his, Randy watching his lips. 

“Benson Boudreaux is mines.” He drawls, bouncing thick eyebrows at Randy, “How ya like that?” 

The name is shed velvet, hot as it drips down in the space between them, begs Randy to chase after it, lick it up, wants to gather it in his fingers and press them inside. 

“I like it better.” 

“Do ya?” 

Randy nods. 

“C’mon then, I wanna hear ya say it.” Benson drags them away from the wall and pushes his way out of the house, hand a solid hold around Randy’s, doesn’t care when he makes someone spill their drink, flips off people who curse at him. Randy thinks he hears a wolfwhistle but he’s focused on the sweat on Benson’s back and the way his heart is beating like crazy, doesn’t even know what time it is, if his mom is ten minutes from calling the cops for her missing son. 

Can’t really bring himself to care, so close to the flame now, body taut. 

They spill down the stairs and Randy gets tugged, “My car’s this way,” around the wrap-around porch, to the side of the house and then towards the back where there’s a few other cars, Randy recognizing the big heft of Benson’s Chrysler almost hidden behind a precariously parked Bronco, bumper to the back of the house and wheels nearly at Randy’s shoulders. 

Shoulders that get pushed against the car, ache melting into the kiss Randy’s too eager to swallow, Benson’s stupid muscle shirt white-knuckled in his hands. Benson’s hands swoop down to cup his ass through his jeans and it makes his lungs feel like they’ve dropped into his stomach— he’s excited, he’s fucking nervous, he wants this, doesn’t know if he’ll be any good. 

There’s nothing in his system but the taste of Benson’s spit in his mouth but he thinks he feels drunk enough to not think about it, lucky at the way their hips grind against each other, and brave enough for his hand to reach down behind him and try to find the door handle. 

“Car’s locked, baby.” Benson laughs against his lips, Randy trying not to whine when he pulls away to dig into his back pocket for his keys, “Can you hurry up?” 

“Nah,” Benson drawls, pressing close, keys jangling where he’s unlocking the door, “I got an envie for somethin’ a li’l different.”

“What for?” Randy asks, ushered into the back of the car, seat wide but footspace damn near non-existent, one knee on cigarette burned fabric and his hand creaking into old crackling vinyl, awkwardly trying to get himself further into the car, make space for Benson to follow him in. 

He rests his back against the other door, window fully shut and head knocking into the glass, sees Benson still standing outside of the car, one arm resting against the open car door, neck tilted to the side as he stares. It makes Randy feel like hiding, like curling up into a ball and disappearing but he wants this so much, his knees don’t shake when he spreads them, one dirty shoe on the seat, the other dropping to the meagre space in the footwell. 

“What?” 

“You look real nice in the backseat of my car, is all.” He drawls with a little shrug to his shoulders, a movement of his neck, like he’s releasing some sort of tension in them, tosses his keys into the front seat and slips inside, the door barely shut behind him as he crawls in. 

He looks so much bigger in the backseat like this, crowding Randy into the nicotine stink of the cushion, the heat of his body a wave crashing into him, the weight against his chest making him even more short of breath. Benson’s eyes are dark, real dark, back porch light flickering in and out, the sound of the band muffled twofold, walls and car doors in between them and everything else. Randy hears the trill of a bullfrog, a distant laugh. 

“Don’t know what you like but how ‘boutcha just let me do whatever and if ya hate it, punch me in the face.” 

“I’m not going to punch you in the face, Benson.” Randy breathes, mouths teasing, lips brushing. He wants to kiss him again real bad but the other man moves his head away when he tries. 

“Ah, ah.” Benson sits back, shoulders rounded, car ceiling low, and grabs at Randy’s hips and pulls him away from his recline against the door, his shirt riding up, flattening him fully against the backseat. Randy’s pretty sure he’s just kicked the door open wider with his foot, but then Benson is leaning down, rough hand playing with the sensitive skin on his side, making his stomach twitch as he draws distracting patterns into it, dipping around his bellybutton. 

“What’re you gonna do if I do somethin’ ya hate?” 

“I—” Randy can’t see how Benson’s fingers keep dipping into the waistband of his jeans but the tease of it is enough to have his mind fall into the footwell and under the passenger seat, can’t reach any sort of thought, what the right thing to say is, blood rushing to his dick, “I’ll hit you?” 

“In the face.” 

Randy reaches up, Benson’s eyes squinting in reflex but he doesn’t punch him, just grips the hair at the back of his head, damp with sweat, and pulls him into a kiss, licking into his mouth and as starved as Benson had been earlier, curling his tongue around his teeth, feels the point of a canine and kicks the leg on the seat behind Benson’s thigh, pushes them together with a roll of his hips. “Yeah, that.” Randy breathes. 

“Fuck,” Benson moans, “I shoulda been done this.” 

He can feel how big he is, pressed up against his front, wants to see it, wants to feel the hot of his skin against his own— doesn’t know how to ask for it besides how much more fervently he kisses into the other man, hopes he can hear it in the moans he doesn’t have to keep quiet and muffled against a pillow, hopes he can read in the dark, the way Randy’s body moves against his own. 

His beard chafes at his chin, mustache against his cheeks but it’s the burn Randy chases, flint at his core. Benson’s hands fumble at his crotch, zipper undone and relieving pressure that’s both satisfying but also takes away the friction he was working against, pulling the elastic of his boxers down and chuckling at the way his dick springs free, slightly curved to the right and crying, head wet in the flickering light. 

“Who knew you’d be packin’ heat like this.” Benson’s big palm follows the curve, tucked into the heat of his hand, jumping, making him bite down on a moan. “Too bad ya ain’t ever gone use it.” 

“Mm?” Randy’s lips are between his teeth, trying not to blow his load in one fucking second, ruin it all with his untouched virgin skin, is confused by what’s being said. Not gonna use it? Randy’s hand comes up to grab onto Benson’s wrist where his hand is stroking him, “Wha—?”

“Oh?” Benson pulls back so he can sneer down at him, lip curling. “You thought you were gonna fuck me?” He barks out a laugh, hand squeezing a little too tight as he leans down, bites at the skin of his stomach, the head of Randy’s dick slick against his throat, stubble prickling him, thighs tensing. “Not gonna happen, baby. You sad ‘bout that?” 

Randy shakes his head quickly, left hand up to cover his mouth and the other still attached to Benson’s wrist, a lifeline, a livewire. 

“I think ya kinda are.” His hand twists and it sounds so fucking wet, so gross, his pre-come all over Benson’s hands, the ones he watches at work as they clench around the pole of a wooden mop, knuckles always slightly bruised and sharp where they peak at the backs of his hands. Randy wants to dip his tongue over and between them, wants them on the curve of his cheek, between his teeth. 

Randy likes how they feel on him, rough and slightly gentled, touch hot, how he doesn’t have to be the one to make himself feel good, can leave it to someone else for once, out of his own hands and into someone else’s. 

“I’m not!” He cries out when he feels something wetter, the wide flat of Benson’s tongue as it laves up his dick, punches the air out of his lungs when Benson swallows him down. 

The feel of it is indescribable. 

Randy suddenly understands why every dude in high school couldn’t stop talking about getting head from Laci Barrilleaux. 

It’s hot and the feel of his mouth around him is so wet and so tight, Randy feels stupid with it. The sounds Benson makes as he goes down on him, sucks his dick, are obscene, it makes Randy feel disgusting and feel so, so fucking good. Randy doesn’t want this feeling to go away, wants Benson to keep him in his mouth forever, wants to die here too. 

Is this what it’s gonna be like for Benson? If he fucks Randy? If Randy sucks his dick? 

The band around his gut pulls tight and he accidentally smacks Benson in the forehead when he goes to grab at his hair, pull him off, warn him that he might cum, might fuck everything up, before anything can even get started for real. 

Benson pulls off of him with a sound Randy doesn’t know how to word, come and spit wet and just— “What?” He gripes, throat a little grittier, voice deeper. “I was just gettin’ to the good part.” 

“I— I was about to— I didn’t want to—”

“What? Cum in my mouth? You’re a sweetheart.” He doesn’t sound like it’s a compliment and when Randy shakes his head, he rolls his eyes down at him. “Then what?” 

“I just— I didn’t wanna do it like that.” He says, voice quiet and breath hot against his palm, chin damp with it, hand clammy.  

The annoyance sloughs off of Benson’s face, a grin slowly bleeding across it instead. “Oh,” He breathes, bends down to kiss at his hip, nip at the skin, thumb caressing the root of his dick, skimming lower to caress his sack where it’s still covered by his underwear, dips down to press a knuckle into the soft skin behind it, pressure dulled into a pleasure Randy can barely even begin to feel, knee pressing into Benson’s side, “You’re one of those. Okay, I like that.” 

Randy’s neck hurts where he strains it to see, looking down his nose at where Benson’s got him in hand, still wringing these pathetic sounding moans from his throat through his dick, air heavy with his breaths, with Benson’s talking— the night air muggy, a breeze passing through like a cloud in the summer, not often enough for any relief. It makes Randy feel that much more smothered by Benson, back against the seat of his car and front splayed for the other man to fit himself into, move Randy as he likes. 

The pants Benson’s wearing aren’t jeans which makes it easy to see that he’s very turned on, front tented in a way that makes Randy drool, literally. He’s glad his hand is still in front of his mouth, embarrassment making him flush even warmer. “Wait.” Randy looks up, “One of those?” 

“Yeah,” Benson stretches his neck, rolls his shoulders, reaches back to the foot Randy’s got squeezed on the floor behind the driver’s seat, wiggles his shoe off, palm cupping his heel and tosses it in the front seat somewhere. “The guys who like to get off while being fucked.” He says bluntly. 

“Um, you want to? With me?” Randy doesn’t mean to whisper, but he feels self-conscious all of sudden. 

Sure, Benson’s dick is hard but he’s a guy. 

A particularly violent sneeze could make you pop wood and Randy’s not that great to look at so if all Benson wanted to do was make Randy suck his dick and come in his mouth or something, then he’d take it. It sounded desperate but maybe he was. Finally under Benson’s thumb, even if it was just as a splinter. 

Benson laughs, fingers rough as they pull his waistband lower, “Lift ya ass up a bit, yeah.” Tugs his jeans off, boxers and all, bunches them off to the side as he pulls, where they wrinkle into an uncomfortable pile at his other ankle, shoe still on. Randy tries to help and nearly knees himself in the face. “Do I want to, he asks.” Benson mutters to himself as he undoes his belt buckle, the sound sending butterflies to his gut, goosebumps breaking out across his skin, eyes half-lidded as he sits on his heels, looks at him, gaze a physical touch as it sweeps over his stomach, shirt ridden up, at his dick where it still leans proudly, even lower where he clenches, leg spread as wide as he can in the minimal space.

Benson moans, a little smirk pulling at the edge of his lips, something derisive in his expression, “Yeah, I kinda wanna.” 

He swallows, throat bobbing, up on his elbows now, eyes lasered on the way those hands seem to slow as they realize he’s watching—  button popping open, long bony fingers tease his zipper down, pace turning seconds into minutes. Randy’s transfixed, sees dark curling hair as Benson’s thumb pulls his underwear down, licks his lips as the full girth of Benson is revealed, feels intimidated as it recoils from its bounce. 

It looks hefty. 

They’re actually probably the same size, Randy a little bigger, even. 

But Benson’s thicker all around, his head dark as his fingers encircle himself, starts stroking himself as Randy watches come bead, watches him spread it all over, slip easier to fuck into. “Yeah, ya like what ya see, don'tcha?"

Randy nods absently. 

He’s watched gay porn once he realized he kinda sorta was into Benson. Or at least dudes like Benson. All muscle and stuff. But not those like, really buff, ‘roid-heads. Randy liked the ones who looked bready, soft in the middle, fat over muscle, who could put their arm around Randy’s neck and keep him there— useful muscle. Randy liked fighting out of his weight class, but he wasn’t so confident he could take Benson. 

“You’re, like,” Randy gulps, “really big.” 

Benson grunts, “Biggest you’ll get in Chalmette, baby, best believe that.” His hand sounds wet against his skin, movement slowing to grab at Randy’s thigh, pulling it to the side where it knocks into the back of the front seat bench, “Put’cha foot there.” He hooks his ankle over the edge of it, foot against the headrest of the driver’s seat, wants Benson to think about it when he drives home later. Tries not to get all gay about how many other people Benson might’ve fucked in the backseat, movements practiced, knowing just how far he had to stoop his neck and shoulders so he didn’t brain himself on the ceiling. 

Randy tries to be helpful, falls onto his back again as he reaches down to spread himself open, like the guy did in that one video. Benson’s eyes squeeze shut as he fists his dick for a second, stops jacking off. “That’s so fuckin’ hot. Fuck.” Benson curses, frantically digging around in his pockets. Randy’s still down to fuck even if Benson couldn’t find a condom, one bullet in the chamber and ready to risk it. 

Benson does find one alongside some little packet that looks like the hot sauce you get from Taco Bell. He rips the condom open, slides it on and their fingers knock into each other where Benson grips him, holds him open, palm damp against the back of Randy’s hand. “You ready, cher?” 

“Yeah, you can fuck me. I want it. I really want it.” 

“Me too, baby. C’mon,” He coos, “Hold yaself open fa’ me, yeah?” His drawl deepens, sitting as heavy as the pressure that begins to press at his hole, the slip of the lube promising wet and easy, but Randy’s a virgin and it feels weird, clenching down on the head of Benson’s dick, burn of the stretch sending a muddled mix of pleasure and pain to his gut, dick twitching. 

“Fuuuuck,” The other man breathes out, tone like he’s been kicked in the gut, hand on his hip bruising. “You’re so fucking tight, what the fuck.” 

“I think,” Randy stutters, trying to control his breathing, trying to get his muscles to relax like the forums had said, “I think you’re too big for me.” 

“Nah, don’t say all that, now.” He can feel the ring of Benson’s fingers around his dick as he guides it forward, pressing against the skin under his balls, so fucking slow Randy thinks he might die. From the sting of pain, Benson so fucking thick it feels like he’s shoving his hand alongside his dick, or from how it feels like a punishment, too fucking slow, the slide of him wet and soft.

Randy wants the same pleasure he saw on the other men’s faces, mouth opened on silent screams, eyes rolling to the back of their heads, bodies shaking as they get fucked. 

“Hold on, imma—” Benson doesn’t finish. Randy feels the wide of Benson’s thumb push against his already stuffed hole, crook into the ring of muscle, gentle as he plays with it or something Randy doesn’t know, he’s going crazy, “What— Oh my god.” The stretch feels good. It reminds him of the way his muscles would stay sore after a track meet, ache a mix of pleasure and that brief strike of pain. 

It feels really weird when Benson pulls out, Randy cringing. He hears Benson spit, feels it drip hot down his balls and into his hole where Benson replaces his thumb with two fingers, wet with lube. “Sorry, cher, you’re tight as fuck. Gotta make room fa me in here.” 

“Okay, it’s f-fine.” He stutters, the press of Benson’s fingers make him feel so much hotter than his own had, the way they pull at him, Benson above him breathing hard, eyes focused as he stretches him. Randy moans when Benson moves his fingers, doesn’t know exactly what it is that he does with them but it makes his dick jump, Randy reaching down to wrap a hand around himself. 

“Yeah, go ‘head, baby. I’ll let ya come if ya want.” 

Randy squeezes his eyes shut, feels shy about jacking off in front of his coworker like this, shouldn’t even really be thinking of him like that, it feels risque, like they were in the freezer at work, or something. Fucking in the back of a car at the back of a houseparty just as public. The thought of someone walking out and seeing them makes Randy’s toes curl, gut pulling with every flick of his wrist. His other hand slides up his stomach, caressing himself with light touches, shirt riding up his arm as he plays with his nipple. 

Benson moans at the sight. Randy hopes he’s touching himself too. Thinks it’s okay to ask, “Are you—”

“Hell yeah, you’re so hot.” 

Randy really wants to come. He’s making these noises that he usually muffles in his pillow or chokes down, breath tight and head dizzy as he holds his breath, and Benson’s only encouraging it, telling him to keep going, to just wait until how good it feels when he’s actually fucking him, and it’s almost too much— Benson’s electric gaze, the fingers fucking into him more than stretching, his own hand twisting around himself, fingers slick against his head— Randy comes with a gasp, “Benson—” 

“Yeah, yeah. I see ya. Still here. Fuck.” 

He’s come all over his stomach, spilling over his knuckles, doesn’t know if his eyes are still closed or if it’s just the whiteout of his orgasm, but it feels so much more intense than when he’s alone at home.

Down below, Benson slides his fingers out, “Let’s see if you’ll let me come in now.” Randy’s brain is all over his stomach, can’t put word to mouth, tongue heavy where it sits, can’t vocalize how much he actually wants that. 

This time, Benson’s able to slip inside much easier, though it’s still a tight fit, Benson’s girth no match for a few minutes of fingerfucking. He lets Randy’s muscles suck him inside, slow as Benson leans over Randy, hands fisted at the sides of his neck. 

“Fuck, how long’s it been?” Benson asks through gritted teeth, small aborted movements of his hips, like he was keeping himself from just shoving himself in. “Since you been fucked?” 

“I— It’s my first time.”

Benson makes a sound like he just got kicked in the dick, like he just orgasmed, like he was angry about it all happening at the same time, hips thrusting forward before he could stop himself, Randy crying out, “Sorry, shit. Fuck, you good?” Randy nods, eyes shut as he breathes, head flung out to the side, backseat stale with old smoke. It makes him wrinkle his nose, distracts him a little from the slight pain. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Randy, you’re a fucking virgin?” Benson sounds like he can’t decide if he wants to be happy or upset about it. Randy looks up at him where he’s hovered over him, eyes squinted, lip in a snarl as he pants. 

“Yeah? Is that bad?” 

Benson doesn’t answer, sweeps down to bite into his mouth, tongues sliding wet and sloppy against each other, “It’s bad, yeah.” Benson spits, licks into him again as his hips slide steadily forwards. Randy can’t even kiss him back, mouth open, hands at the soft fat of Benson’s waist, scratching at his back as he keeps going and going, Randy accepting the soft, hard of his dick inside with eager sounds. 

Finally Benson’s all the way inside, the other man groaning into his mouth, nipping at his lips, kissing at his chin, his jaw, his temple. “Ain’t never been with no one but me?” Benson breathes. 

“No. Just you.” 

He swears he could feel the heft of Benson’s dick jump inside of him, their balls pressing hot and heavy against each other where they’re joined at the hip. Benson’s hips stutter, hard, an aborted thrust that makes Randy want. 

“C’mon Boudreaux, I’m not gonna break.” 

“Shut up, Bradley.” 

Randy wants to be fucked, he’s so close. Benson’s obviously feeling a certain way about it, whether or not it’s good, Randy doesn’t know but it’s making him hesitate and if he pulls out now, zips his pants up and tells him to go home, Randy might have to go to jail with just how off the handle he was gonna fly. 

“You think Benoit’s still here?” 

A tension billows out in the muggy air of the backseat, Benson’s wrist creaks as he puts his weight on it, other hand sliding over to press a thumb to the front of Randy’s throat, he doesn’t pull out or flag though. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

Randy licks his lips, toes curling at the mean look on Benson’s face. “Just wondering.” 

“What? You wanna go see if he’ll want my sloppy fucking seconds?” 

My sloppy seconds, Benson said. 

Randy preens at the possessive. Benson’ll be his first and in the post-orgasm haze, the pre-fuck lust, Randy thinks he’ll be the last too. Doesn’t think he’ll want anyone else the way he wants Benson right now, leg damp with sweat and slipping off of the front seat, wrapping around Benson’s waist, foot at the sag of his jeans, drooping them further down to his knees. “Can’t really be seconds if you haven’t fucked me first.” 

“You’re such a bitch,” Benson says with an air of pissed off wonder, sits back, pushing the hair out of his face with a look of determination. “Alright, I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin ya. Ain’t gonna be shit leftover.” He palms Randy’s thighs, “Hold on tight, baby.” 

Randy eats his fuckin’ words, the slow slide out doing nothing to prepare him for the way Benson’s hips crush into him at the next thrust, fucking him in earnest now, none of what was holding him back before present any longer. Randy was getting fucked, truly, little moans punching out of him with each slide of Benson’s thick cock, something inside stroking his own dick back to full mast. 

He was sliding up the seat with the force of Benson’s thrusts, Randy throwing a hand above his head to keep from banging into the door, both of them panting and moaning, air getting thick with sex, suspension of the car squeaking rhythmically. 

“You fuckin’ psycho.” Benson gasps. 

Randy barely hears him, doesn’t feel the stupid grin on his face, tears dripping down his temples, dishwater blond curling in the humidity, as Benson fucks him. It’s better than getting head, it’s better than jacking off. The way he feels so filled is obscene, every time Benson slides out, Randy just clenches him back inside, can’t stop meeting every thrust with a push of his own body back onto him, Benson’s big hands bruising onto his hips as he makes Randy arch his back. 

The slap of their skin is louder than their breaths, but Randy’s moaning like crazy, saying things he forgets in the next second, Benson’s back too far away to claw at, nails gripping down his forearms, where he digs his nails into. 

Benson grunts with the effort, gripping at Randy’s other leg where it’s squished into the seat to swing it around and over his head so he can maneuver Randy into a different position, legs pressed together now, all tangled in his jeans, shoelace loose. “Fuck, c’mon, get up.” 

“Get up?” 

One of those beefy arms curves around his middle, bicep pressing into his side, turning him so that he’s on his knees, Benson’s big dick slipping out. “No, wait—”

“Shut up, this’ll make it better, I promise.” 

Randy’s on his knees, facing the window, Benson hot at his back, arm slipping around his stomach, hand splaying out on his lower stomach, pinky barely whispering a touch against his dick. He shuffles closer, hairy thighs pressing to his, where they’re damp and sweaty, thumb pulling his cheek to the side to slip his dick back inside where he starts fucking him again. 

He thinks he’s crying now, breath hiccuping, hand skidding across the foggy window as he tries to hold himself up, holding onto the arm Benson’s got in an iron grip around him. Randy doesn’t know how he’s alive right now. He can barely see through his tears, sees people in the distance, gut tight and spine tingling white-hot, doesn’t even really feel human. Benson’s saying something behind him but he can’t hear, just feels the sting of his facial hair at the back of his neck, teeth following. 

He falls forwards, whole body weak, hands slipping against the window as Benson starts jacking him off and it’s like he dies— in a fire, struck by lightning, just gone. Randy’s gone, his vision is fucked and he can’t remember what the hell is going on, eyes rolling back. He comes back slumped all the way over, smushed against the car door, head banging into it as Benson’s thrusts start stuttering, as his cock stays in longer each time before Benson’s weight on his back is heavy, can swear he feels the pulse of him inside as he comes, Randy sniffling, wants the condom to break, wants to get scared that Benson just got him pregnant. Doesn’t know what he’s even thinking. 

Randy pants into the upholstery of the car door, vinyl beading with moisture, Benson doing the same to his shoulders, small little jumps of his hips like he still wanted to fuck, dick still softening inside him. Randy likes the feeling of him inside, all his. 

He wants to suspend the coming dawn, wants to keep Monday from coming, wants to take back everything he said earlier about not caring if Benson ignored him— doesn’t think he could handle the scorned-girlfriend thing, another cold shoulder. Wants Benson to put his collar on and leash him to his porch, keep him in the passenger seat with the window rolled down while he makes a pass at the store for another pack of cigarettes, wants to lay at his feet while he watches late-night television. 

Randy wants to be Benson’s. 

Wants his number in his phone, wants the petnames and the sweettalk. Wants to argue about stupid shit and fight about Benson’s drinking habits or something, wants to see him get jealous again so he could soothe it with a kiss, make Benson hold him, caress him where everyone could see. 

At his back, Benson pulls away, Randy moaning weakly as he slides out, “Ngh.” 

“You’re fine.” 

Randy doesn’t know what Benson does with the condom, probably throws it out where it’ll sit in nature for the next three hundred years, pollutes the earth with his cum like he did to Randy. “You good?” 

Randy doesn’t want to talk. Makes a noise instead as Benson tugs at the meat of his thighs where the curve of his ass sits, “You’re good. Didn’t come inside so—” 

He makes a sound of dissent at that, Benson laughing. “For a virgin, you’re awfully slutty.” 

“Not anymore.” Randy mumbles against his arm, careful as he leans up, back away from the car door, sees his cum all over the upholstery. “Oops.” 

Benson’s gentle as he helps Randy get back into his jeans, all twisted up and tangled, shoe halfway up one of the legs, moving slowly as he gets out of the car with a grunt, stretching, hands on his back. Randy forgets his coworker is some vague thirty-something, maybe even forty, older man who smoked as much as he breathed. If his body is feeling it, then Benson’s is probably feeling it ten-fold. How old is he? It would make Randy feel really weird if he turns out to be his mom’s age. He flinches as the door is shut, Benson sliding into the front seat, tosses his shoe back at him, and starts up the car. 

Randy hears the snick of a lighter and smells the heavy perfume of a cigarette, Benson taking a deep pull, “Where’re you parked?” Voice deeper as he holds the nicotine in his lungs, exhales smoke towards Randy, eyes him from the driver’s seat. 

“Oh, uh, down the road a bit. Towards the left.” 

Benson sticks his cigarette in his mouth and puts it in drive, gear clicking, wheels rolling quiet over long grass, car lights bright as they curve around the house. Randy ducks down as people come into view, whistling and howling following the car as they drive away, coasting to a stop when his Mustang comes into view. Randy feels like a mess as he stumbles out, knees weak and coltish, has to hold himself up on Benson’s car as he shuts the door, steps to the side so he can look down at Benson in the driver’s seat. 

“Um, thank you.” 

Benson makes a face, cigarette in the vee of his fingers, “For fuckin’ ya?” At Randy’s nod he purses his lips, mustache quirking. “I guess I’ve been thanked for less. Ya weren’t so bad yourself.” 

Randy wants to ask for his number but Benson makes the decision for him, another puff of his cigarette, leaning precarious in between his lips, “Don’t be a bitch and quit over a lil’ fuck, Bradley. Be seein’ you.” Benson pushes him away from the driver’s side and speeds off, engine growling and headlights fading as he stands there in the dark, crickets chirping and toads trilling, lightning bugs still bobbing between the houses. 

The drive home is fast, traffic nearly non-existent.

When he stumbles his way inside, entirely too loud for the hour of the night, his mom is not waiting in the kitchen, single light by the stove top on and intimidating. The house is dark as he slips his shoes off, hissing when he bends, back aching. 

He thinks when he finally lays down on his bed, clothes gone and in a pile on the floor, he’s not going to be able to sleep but he passes out within seconds, blinking awake to the sound of his alarm, raucous and irritating. It’s ten. He needs to be at work in an hour. 

It feels like any other day, everything around him is the same. Same shower he takes, same uniform he puts on, same breakfast he eats. The house is quiet again— Mom at work and his sister at school. The only thing that feels different is him and he doesn’t know if it’s good or bad. 

Usually it was Chris Randy dreaded seeing at work, wishing his car broke down on the way, an easy excuse, but today he felt nervous at the thought of seeing Benson. On his way, he prayed his engine would stall, that his wheel would come off, go flat, that someone would crash into him. But everyone drove normally and his car was in great condition as it pulled into the parking lot. 

He parked a little further from Benson’s car than he usually did. 

Chris’ truck was absent from the lot, Donnie’s Chevy pickup in its place, mud splattered up the chassis and all over the tires. 

As he walked inside, electronic chiming dully overhead, he hears Donnie giving Benson shit about something, “You fuckin’ kill her or somethin’? Jesus.” 

“Good morning, Bradley.” Carla sings. 

“Yeah, morning.” 

“Nah, just went a little wild. My backseat is fucked.”

“I bet.” 

Randy’s cheeks burn as he steps in the back, Hardy hollering out a greeting, watches the way Benson perks up, face still that expressionless glower as he turns to curl a lip at him, looking down at his arms, covered in reddened welts, scratches looking crazy down his arms and at the backs of his hands. Shrugs, blue eyes blazing. 

“I don’t know, I kinda like it.” 

Randy doesn’t think he needs Benson’s number— they both clock out at eight tonight.