Archive of Our Own

The wood of the bar is diggin’ into his back, but he don’t like to sit on the barstools much on nights like this— deep into eleven in the evenin’, full moon’s soft light beguilin’ every man with a particular taste out to get their teeth wet on flesh that ain’t part of their usual hunt. When the doe get sparse, bucks tend to lock antlers and Benson don’t want any part of that. He ain’t here to fight over anythin’, be it a quickie in the bed of his pickup or a night on a stiff-ass, rundown motel bed. 

His ma ain’t raise no goddamn liar though. He didn’t drive six hours down here from Wyoming just to drink, had quite his own collection of bottles back at the ranch in fact, but this bar was full a’ men like him and sometimes, when he was feelin’ particularly keen on rememberin’ he was a person, he often made his way down here to amble along the outskirts, graze a little and feel that confusin’ sense of belongin’ that was missing back north. 

If anyone happened to catch his eye, happened to not piss him off, maybe he’d go around for a roll in the hay, but for now he kept away from the mingling, firmly on the side of the bar where other old, weary men gathered, eyes roaming but hands to themselves, curled around beer bottles and thick, glass cups of amber.

He lit a cigarette, somethin’ cheap that he’d picked up on his way into the state, some side-on shack in the middle of nowhere, the deep tawny-brown skin of the store owner folded underneath itself, wrinkles sun-baked and careworn at the crest of her forehead, crow’s feet size thirteen, and pullin’ well-practiced at her smile. It wasn’t his usual Southern Cut and it certainly wasn’t no American Spirit, but she promised nicotine hefty enough to down a horse and Benson had to pull over and dry heave into a ditch when he’d taken his first hit. 

He’d just about burnt rubber when he’d made a U-turn and went back to buy two cartons. 

Cheap and enough to make his lungs feel lighter despite the tar stickin’ well deep inside— It’s all Benson really needed besides his horses. 

Didn’t mean he didn’t look though, doe prancing around in bootcut jeans huggin’ muscled thighs and tight asses, cowboy boots right out the box, no crease nor scuff on its carefully tanned leather, button down shirts wrinkled suggestively. 

Well, nothin’ better to go alongside his cigarette than the view and a pull of even cheaper beer, hops tangy and bitter at the back of his tongue— suitin’ a man like him just fine. 

Some young thing, lookin’ too wet around the ears, stepped to the bar at his side, bumpin’ shoulders, “Sorry, ‘scuse me.” A slight drawl, somethin’ reined in, bit in mouth curbing the familiar lilt, had Benson’s ears perkin’ up like an old dog. 

He didn’t turn to look, just in case Benson was bein’ eyed as sport, but he took a longer pull of his beer, deeper inhale of his cigarette, gaze unseeing across the crowd in the bar, neon bathing features in blues and reds and oranges as he thinks of Chalmette. Been a good motherfuckin’ minute since he’d heard his town in another person’s mouth— remembers the stink of refinery smoke, pollution in the air something he’d supplemented with the cobweb of nicotine, the first breath out of Louisiana like he’d grown a whole new set of lungs; briney watery rot replaced with open plains and wheatfields, the dust of rodeo rings and the earth of horses and hay. 

He wonders, helped along by the liquor kickin’ at the chair he keeps jammed against the door in his head, about his ma, how she’s doin’, if he shouldn’t have called her after their fight, if anythin’ he mighta said coulda made a difference— snorts a laugh to himself at the thought. Ain’t nothin’ to fix him, he’d argued, he wanted to be a fuckin’ roughstock rider and he wasn’t ever gonna give her them grandkids she had started daydreamin’ about. 

If it made her happy, he was no longer ridin’. Far too many falls and a fateful last sit in the box, bull spittin’ fuckin’ angry, foamin’ at the mouth and bucking him into the metal surrounding them, breakin’ ribs and a knee that aches like a bitch when it rained, when it got too cold, when he stepped wrong— damn near all the time. 

Still liked to fuck men though, so he’d bet his sweet piece of land over in Chugwater that broken bones and almost dyin’ still wouldn’t break his ma’s heart like that would. 

At his side a soft-spoken “Thank ya,” barely heard over the music and the sound of the crowd. A warm body settled in on a barstool, knees at the corner of Benson’s vision, swathed in careworn dark blue denim, leather cowboy boots beat to hell but well taken care of. Not a buckle bunny then. Could spot those without a sight even, all the new clothes, too clean around the edges to chase anything but the medals and the belts, gold in their eyes, in the lights above them in the ring, fingers quick to snatch a belt loop and hang tight, different kinda rider than the ones on the broncos and bulls. 

Maybe it’s the Van Zandt playin’ overhead, or the reminiscin’ he keeps tasting at the bottom of his bottle, but whatever the excuse is, Benson turns to the right all the same, bottle clinking against the one in the man’s hands, “Pardon me.” 

“You’re alright.” 

Benson wonders if the pretty man under the bar lights is old enough to drink. Feels older than his thirty-eight at the thought, somethin’ heady turnin’ his stomach, alcohol tryin’ to run amok in his system. He has to bulldog it, shove it to the ground, arm around its horns. It’s tougher than he remembers— hasn’t felt the urge to find a warm body in a long while. 

Dishwater curls halo red under the sign above the bar, pale skin unmarked but for a single small scar dashed across a cheek. He ain’t the prettiest thing Benson had ever seen, but he’s a sight his sore eyes hadn’t known they’d been lookin’ for— eyes light in color, true hue hidden beneath the lights of the bar, eyelashes curled like a baby deer, lips slender and unused to smilin’, no lines for his eyes to chase, pure as the driven fuckin’ snow, buildin’ up on the I-25 and sending Benson careening into the guardrail, head first.  

He’s built like a ranch hand, muscles from real, honest work and Benson wants to see if he’s bottom heavy like he likes, all ass and thigh firm muscle on his lap. 

Benson needs another drink to tender the point of his teeth, somethin’ this cheap ass beer ain’t workin’ on, catches the eye of the bartender with a nod, “Double shot a’ whiskey.” When it’s burnin’ it’s way down his chest, he addresses the man at his side, stubbin’ his cigarette out into the bottom of the shot glass. 

“Hope I didn’t spill nothin’ on ya.” 

The man looks up from where he’s peeling the wet label to pieces in his lap, blinking those eyes at him before he shakes his head, talkin’ at him from an angle, either uninterested in conversatin’ with an old man like him, or too shy. Benson finds himself charmed by either attitude; piggin’ string between his teeth, ready to tie him down, or to play at pickup man, gentle hand on his flank, guiding him outta the ring, to his side. 

“Not at all!” Eyes bounce from the crowd to the bottle in between his hands to Benson, catching on him and lingerin’. “I’m just about done with it anyway.” 

“Let me buy ya another, since I feel bad for nearly upendin’ you outta your seat.” 

“You don’t hafta.” He shakes his head softly enough that his curls don’t move, a hand coming up to tuck hair behind an ear, pale scars criss -cross his knuckles, tell-tale ropeburn looped around the width of it, bruise a scar as permanent as a tattoo now, “Don’t know if I should drink too much tonight.” 

Benson wants to keep him talkin’, chase after the grains of Chalmette he can feel between his molars, wants to see if it tastes any different than the dirt from the old Laramie ring, his own drawl kicked over with a new soil, softened by wind through the plains. “What do ya like?” 

“I shouldn’t…” 

“And why’s that?” 

The man sets his nearly-empty bottle down on the bar, gathering up his mess and placing it to the side in a neat pile he cups his hands around, toes of his boots kickin’ at the back of Benson’s knees as he turns on the barstool. Benson notices he ain’t got any sorts of rings on any of his fingers. “Sorry, um, no real reason, I suppose. I just wanted to try at the bull later.” 

Benson can see the hoopla from here, heads gathered around the blue lights near the back of the bar, shoutin’ and ooh-in’. If he could be certain about anythin’ in life, it’d be that nicotine was gonna kill him sooner than later, taxes outlasted death, and buckle bunnies flocked to a mechanical bull like it was goin’ out of style. 

It had, at one point in Benson’s shortened tenure at rodeo cowboy, fallen out of use, dancin’ the new flavor to try out, but it looks like the winds were changin’ again. 

He didn’t look like one’a them bunnies and he certainly didn’t act like one, keepin’ to his lonesome at the bar, indulging an old man some of his attention and givin’ none of it to the many big names he could see sprinkled around the bar room. “You ever rode it before?” 

At that, the mild-mannered expression on his face melted away under a roll of pretty eyes, something cocky straightenin’ his spine, like he was in the box. “Maybe once or twice but I’ve rode things with more teeth than a metal bull.” 

Benson thinks he’d like his name to be added to that list. 

“You any good at it?” 

The man sends Benson a look from the corner of his eyes and he feels a bit like he’s been kicked in the chest by his worst stallion; the way his own eyes follow the upward curve of those eyelashes, highlighted red, wants to reach out a finger and trace ‘em, take a knuckle to his chin, angle his head up, wants to see how he’d look with Benson standing above ‘im. 

“I think I do alright.” 

“Oh, ya do, do ya?” Benson moves to lean his side against the bar, elbow resting on the bartop, steps a little closer. The toes of the other man’s boots nudge at the knees of his denim. 

He shrugs, shoulders curlin’ in like a pair of knock knees, expression changin’ as quick as country weather, wait five minutes and all that. Benson wants to chase the storm that sweeps through him, tastes lightning on the wind. 

“What’s your name, anyhow?” 

“Oh!” Pretty eyes flutter as he reaches a hand out to Benson in the little space between them, “My name’s Randy. Nice meetin’ you.” 

Hands meet in a shake Benson lets linger too long to be polite, feels their callus meet and catch, roughstock through and through, sees when the other man notices, shoulders breaking apart like the sun through the storm clouds, face brightening. “You ride too?” 

“Don’t sound so surprised now,” He drawls, letting his hand slip out from between them. He wants to no score, let his palm touch Randy on his flank, his round knee, higher up on his thigh. Instead he shoves it in his back pocket. “I used to.” He kicks out a leg, winces as it turns and bites him for the movement, tries to play it off with a one armed shrug, “The timed shit was never my thing, not enough excitement for me. I liked the roughstock; was a bull rider.” 

Randy leans forward, smile tuggin’ at the corner of his mouth, a hand comin’ up to hide it, shy as can be. “Me too! I mean, I ride the broncs, never the bulls, but still. Wow.” 

Benson feels good under his attention. It mixes well with the alcohol, makes him wanna puff his chest out, act a fool, all for another chance of that smile. “Ain’t gotta go all starry-eyed on me, now. Never made it that big— won a few buckles in my hey-day, money that left quicker than I could touch it,” he shrugs, “the usual.” 

“Still.” Randy insists, “I’ve always loved watchin’ the bull riders.”

“Yeah?” 

He nods, curls bouncing.

“You look ‘bout ten years too young to have ever heard of me.”

“Try me.” Randy looks him up and down, bodies too close to play it as coy as he’d probably like, Benson catchin’ sight of a couple of cowlicks at the crown of his head, turnin’ two curls into horns, thinkin’ about how crazy a mild mannered man like him could really be. “I think you’d be surprised.” 

He raises an eyebrow at him, smooths a hand over his mustache, considering him under half-lidded eyes. There’s no way this colt has ever heard of him. If he proves him wrong, he’ll eat his fuckin’ shoe, leather an’ all. “Name’s Benson Boudreaux.” 

The other man keeps the challenging look on his face for only a few seconds before he sighs, a hand clutchin’ at the back of his neck, reserved and eyes lookin’ at him from beneath his eyelashes, shoulders rounded, “Ah, well, guess you’re right. Sorry.” 

Benson’s pride wasn’t somethin’ so easily wounded— sun-tanned and tough as nails, weathered by summer rainstorms, nothin’ short of an act of God to splinter him to pieces. 

“You ain’t gotta apologize to me. Like I said, I weren’t a big name or nothin’.” 

“So if I ask around about you, nobody would be able to tell me a thing?” Randy’s elbow is resting against the bar top now, forearm slender, shirtsleeve folded up to the curve of his elbow, wrist knobby, hand like it was reaching out to where his own hung lazy over the edge. 

“Now why would ya go around askin’ after me when ya got me right here in front’a ya?” 

Despite the teeth tryin’, a smile still fights its way past ‘em, curlin’ pretty on pale, wind-chafed cheeks. “Maybe I wanna make sure ya ain’t tellin’ me lies, biggin’ yourself up, or somethin’.” 

“I don’t think you’re the type to fall for no bullshit like that.”

The man sends him a look he don’t know how to read, “You’d be surprised.” Before he can try at a rebuttal, curiosity itchin’ at his canines, wantin’ to get to the marrow of who this man was, if he was worth all this time Benson was wantin’ to spend on him, the look in his eyes turns familiar, something Benson’s known how to read since he was twenty-four and a stallion himself, heady, “Comin’ from you? I think I’d believe just about anything.” 

Benson’s two seconds away from latchin’ onto him and never lettin’ go when some two-bit cowboy dressed in his daddy’s clothes pushes in between them, rude as all hell and gets all up in his face, a careless elbow knockin’ Randy’s empty beer bottle over. He can feel his face go mean and it must be this asshole’s speed because when he takes a step back to put some well-needed distance between the buttons of their jeans, he only steps closer. “Been makin’ eyes at you from across the bar for a while now.” Their boots knock and the man looks down, smolderin’ look on his face dissipating to worry— more concerned with the quality of his boots rather than the fist Benson’s clenchin’ at his side. He ain’t gonna hit him or nothin’ but he’s pissed. So incredibly pissed, a sudden buck of the bull sending him reelin’ towards a pair of filed down horns, a feelin’ like when he’s gotta give up the ghost, lose out on a medal and much needed money. An unwanted, unneeded pickup rider who keeps tryin’ to get him off the bull when it’s obvious he’s lost placement already. 

It ain’t kind or polite when he shoves the man to the side but the barstool is empty now, Randy gone, somethin’ in his chest goin’ flat like a blown-out tire. The nail at his side curses him out but Benson doesn’t care to listen, a missed chance makin’ him a lot angrier than he’s been in a while, a younger fire he’d thought he’d kicked dirt over already, smothered and dyin’ out.

He calls for a double shot of somethin’ so low-down it nearly makes him dizzy, 

burning a scar down his chest. 

Maybe he’s gettin’ tired of bein’ alone or maybe it’s just tonight that’s different— that Louisiana lilt, the memories of his mother, the alcohol drownin’ out what little sense was left in his head. The rest of it ground to dust under the trample of hooves in a rodeo ring, stuck in someone else’s lungs. 

But there was somethin’ ‘bout Randy that called to Benson like an old forgotten song, a pretty sky in the morning, the little twitter of birds at dawn. Somethin’ that called out to him to look, to keep his eyes on him, or else.

At his age now, Benson didn’t often throw caution to the wind unless it was a misbehaving horse he’d saved from a slaughterhouse, but he did so now, whiskey in his veins, eyes on the crowd, looking for Randy. 

Even if all it was, was a lil’ kiss, those eyes on him just one more time… 

Followed his gut through the dancing couples, over to the back end of the bar, where a buncha hootin’ and hollerin’ could be heard over the music, where the mechanical bull played unwitting wingman. It was a cheaper lookin’ one, without the big ol’ horns and red-lit eyes, somethin’ almost like a ceramic cow might look, cute and kitschy like ya meemaw’s kitchen decor and not at all intimidating. 

Where Randy perched atop it, settling in with a shift of his legs and adjusting his hold on the rope attached to the foam withers, Benson thought he suited it, a cute lil’ rider on his cute lil’ cow. He shouldered someone out of the way so he could watch at the front row, arms crossed as Randy shook his free hand out and raised it as if he was about to hold onto a felt hat, gave the ol’ cowboy nod and started ridin’. 

It wasn’t as violent as a real bull could get, twistin’ and spinnin’ around a dirt ring, god damn near as unpredictable as country weather, but Randy handled it with muscled thighs and the grace of a motherfuckin’ ballerina or some shit. Benson doesn’t think he’d ever seen anyone do it like him— he’s sure he looks like a damn fool, watchin’ with his jaw to his knees. Wants to see him on a bronc, wants to see him do it for real, kinda wants to see how he’d ride Benson too. 

Randy controls the bull effortlessly, body swingin’ around but keepin’ his stride atop the saddle, curls blue under the neon, mighta seen a few hearts in more than a few spectator’s eyes if he could take his own offa him. Somethin’ ‘bout watchin’ the other man made him feel twenty years younger, like he was a Chalmette-local again, off to Texas for some bullshit party with some bullshit friends, where he’d seen his first bull rider. That adrenaline pumpin’ through his body at the sight of the barrelmen and the bullfighters corralling the bull, angry as can be, the rider thrown clean off, dust plume like he’d fallen straight out the sky, some sorta human meteorite by Benson’s eyes. The beginning of the end, his ma had said. 

Just chasin’ after fallin’ stars, Benson had thought. 

Over the years he’d not seen many of ‘em, once young and dazzled by the naivete vignetting his vision, light scars makin’ him think he’d found what he’d been chasin’ after but there was one here now, glowing like crazy under the same old blue neon Benson’s been seein’ for years, suddenly within his reach.

“Ain’t it a shame he ain’t qualify for the short go?” Someone smacks their teeth behind him, “On some bullshit technicality. I’m tellin’ ya Chris Daroca paid them judges off.” 

“Fuckin’ Daroca,” Another man spits out, mad as an adder, “That motherfucker thinks the sun comes up just to hear ‘im crow.” 

“He’d’ve sooner paid it to set. Damn shame ‘bout Bradley.” He whistles, “He’s a sight, rides like water. I’d’ve paid some good money to see ‘im in the ring.” 

Don’t know where somethin’ like him had been his whole life, prettier than a roadside flower, an angel in ridin’ heels and old denim, but Benson wanted to bring him back to Chugwater and maybe wake up next to him in the morning, ask him how he liked his eggs, how he drank his coffee, have him meet his horses. Kiss an angel good morning, love her like the devil when ya came home. It’s so fuckin’ sentimental and he ain’t even eight sheets to the wind and alone on his porch at sunrise— snapshots of a bunch of lives Benson probably ain’t ever gon’ get passin’ fast in his mind like a trucker on the thirty-five into Houston. He feels stupid, like a kid, wantin’ shit he can’t have. 

But he’s old and he’s tasted loss enough times to not wince at the bitterness it leaves at the back of his throat, still feels the pang of it through his leg, a loser to the fuckin’ bone and still alive despite it— Benson’s just another bull, eyein’ a rider with rollin’ eyes, foamin’ at the mouth, throwin’ his head around like he couldn’t get his attention any other way than with a horn wrenched in his gut. 

Up on the bull, Randy gets swung around in Benson’s direction and they meet eyes. It’s like when he’s up on his mutt of a mustang, kickin’ up dirt as they race to the steer, time slowin’ like he’s movin’ in molasses, lariat swingin’—  Knows when his rope’s aim rings true, gets a hold of those curls when Randy suddenly loses focus, bull buckin’ him forwards, his free hand touchin’ the head of the bull; crowd crowin’ out goodnatured boo’s which only grow sweeter when Randy smiles bashfully, tuckin’ a curl around an ear as he waves them off, signals the operator to stop. 

When he swings himself off, in the blue light above, he looks like a dream. 

He’s got a stockier build beneath the waist, slender but fit up top, enough muscle to keep himself wrangled on a bronc and to short go at that, someone else with less skill and more money keepin’ him down, tale as old as time. 

Almost forgets himself as the other man walks up on him, all in his space, step stuttering as he moves away, remembers where they are as Randy ignores a handsome man tryna catch his eye, keeps his own on Benson as he catches his breath. This close he can see his eyes are blue, brighter under the neon, those thin lips curled up at the edges, that almost-smile he’d been chasin’ earlier. “So? How’d I do, Big Buckle Boudreaux?” 

He says that old nickname with bite, all bronc fighter and a lil’ somethin’ else, just for Benson tucked away in the pout of his lips as they shape his name, teasin’ and eager for it to be reciprocated, can see it in the way he sticks his hands in the back pockets of his Levi’s, pushin’ his chest out like a woman, tryna get closer to him without lookin’ like it. Randy’s lucky he’s pretty enough that it don’t piss Benson clean off, the flirtin’ the younger men do, prefers when they just come at him straight. 

But he likes the spitfire Randy hides behind overlong curls, a hesitant mouth, shy as all hell. It rings true comin’ from him. Ain’t no gimmick to play at, no buckle to chase, and sure as hell no fuckin’ money either. Everyone knows an old cowboy’s ‘bout broke as shit anyhow. Randy knows all of this and still wants to put the moves on him? Well, Benson ain’t no fuckin’ idiot and he ain’t gonna call Randy one neither— There’s somethin’ between the two of them that he can’t put name to, but wants to know just as much as the other man seemed to, a single finger crooked in Benson’s belt loop. 

“Good enough that I’d put my money on you and I ain’t no bettin’ man.”

Randy took a step closer. “Is that right?” 

Benson stepped back, Randy’s finger slidin’ off his belt loop like he was stung. He could barely get this heartbreakin’ wounded look on his face before Benson chucked his chin with a curl of his finger. “Don’t look at me like that, cher.” The endearment felt awkward in his mouth, a language long unspoken and clumsy, Wyoming wind wearin’ sun-baked Louisiana swamp mud to nothin’. 

“I don’t like ta kiss and tell and I ain’t gonna kiss ya in the middle of the bar in front of all these folk.” 

“Sure as hell’ll look at me though.” Randy snipes out of the corner of his mouth, eyes scowlin’ softly off to the side. 

Benson laughs, charmed. “Sure as hell will.” He agrees, “Noticed that, have ya?” 

Randy crosses his arms, rockin’ back onto his ridin’ heels, gives him a shrug, chin lofty as he gazes off to the side. “Hard not to.” He sends Benson a heated look, allowing him to feel the burn of it, like hard liquor down his chest, before he snatches it away, eyes off of Benson again. “Got you some intense eyes. Can feel ‘em on me even across the bar.” 

“Is that right?” He echoes, Randy peeking at him from the corner of his eyes, can almost see his ears pinned at him, would skirt around his mouth if he were a horse, likely to get nipped. He ain’t his mean stallion so he steps close at his side, hand on his flank, gentling him, keepin’ his grin to himself as he feels a warm body press into his palm. 

“Well, see you’ll hafta understand—” He starts, Randy interrupting with a tetchy, “Do I?”

“— that when the prettiest thing I’d ever seen is walkin’ around the bar like he ain’t, then I’m gonna look and maybe wait til’ he looks back.” 

He’s close enough at his back that Benson can hear when Randy’s breath catches in his lungs, body gone stiff under the press of his palm. Feels when Randy’s gonna buck, muscles tensed. He goes with the movement, leaning back to allow the other man to swing around, stay in his space, on his saddle. Randy doesn’t say anythin’, just peers into his eyes like he’s tryna decide if Benson’s just talkin’ to talk or if he means it. 

Too bad for everyone else makin’ eyes at Randy, but Benson fuckin’ means it and then some. There’s a swell of tension between them, bar fallin’ outta sight and leavin’ just the two of ‘em here, somethin’ like romance heavy in the air, Johnny Lee croonin’ above them that Benson’s found what he was lookin’ for. Doesn’t wait for Randy to get a head start, ten-second penalty as he breaks the boundary, surgin’ forward to grip at the soft of his neck, teeth bitin’ as he kisses him. 

Christ alive, Randy’s like a cold glass of water at your bedside after a bender and Benson’s greedy as a newborn calf as he drinks him down, tongue messy in his mouth, other hand pullin’ at the shirt tucked into his denim, wantin’ to feel the heat of his skin on his palm. He’s walkin’ him back into the metal guardrail surrounding the mechanical bull, someone else garnering half-hearted cheers, Randy’s hands in his hair and fuckin’ it all up just the way he likes as he kisses him back with just as much fervor, just as much want. 

Randy’s tongue curls wickedly in Benson’s mouth, hot and wet, and it’s all he can do to not throw the other man over his shoulder and whisk him away, out of the bar and into the sunset. Probably woulda if he had his horse with him. 

As it stands, there’s no real conversation to be had as they leave the bar— stopping every now and then to prolong the journey with handsy kisses, the heft of Randy’s thick muscle of his thigh in Benson’s palm and between his fingers, inside of Randy’s knee pressed into the meat of his side. Randy kicks at the back of his leg with his ridin’ heel, like he was wearin’ spurs and tryin’ to get him to giddy up and get the hell on with it. It makes him bite a smile into the corner of Randy’s mouth, soft and pink turnin’ redder as they spill out the doors, bumpin’ into people and fallin’ against Benson’s ol’ rustbucket pickup truck. The suspension creaks as he leans into the other man, tryna get under his skin like a burr. 

“How far d’ya live?” Randy pulls Benson’s mouth away from his, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, to breathe the question in between them. Benson had just told himself not a few hours ago that he was too old to fuck in the bed of his pickup and he didn’t wanna shell out no money for a motel neither— but the pretty way Randy was lookin’ up at him, like he could wait forever for an answer, made him wanna give it up like some wanton whore right out on the dirt of the parking lot. 

“Over near Chugwater.” Randy may have stopped his mouth from explorin’ him but his hands don’t stop, callused palms catching on the soft worn fabric of his flannel, stickin’ hot rough fingertips underneath the hem of his shirt to touch even hotter skin. The other man’s eyelids flutter, body responding to his heavy-handed handling as he was trying to keep steady, keep his focus on Benson. “That’s not far from here.” 

“No, it ain’t.” He agrees, warring with himself if he should press even closer, but his own body betrays how much he wants Randy, waist pressing belt to belt and catchin’, and it almost makes him mad— how far he lives. He’s gonna have to drive with blue balls. He’d rather get bucked offa his mean sonofabitch of a mare. Maybe if he drove fast enough— 

“I think this is real romantic, starin’ into each other’s eyes and all, but are you gonna take me home or what?” 

Randy’s tone is vinegar, pissy as can be, but the look on his face is all honey, only gettin’ sweeter as Benson gives him the ol’ once-over, somethin’ that used to get him outta trouble and into a bed. Still runs fine because Randy’s fingers tighten in his hair and it sends electricity down Benson’s spine, the other man biting at his lip. 

“Baby, if I take you home, I don’t think I’ll be too happy ‘bout lettin’ ya leave.” 

“You’ll get over it,” He brushes off the comment but Benson feels as serious as a gully-washer— Randy’s a summer thunderstorm he wants to suffer, wants him to sweep away all the rusty detritus that litters his land, leave it the way God had made it, an angel bearing torrential rain and breaking the sky open above him as he stands under his leaking porch, supplicant before a dirty-blond stranger he’d met in a bar. 

Benson doesn’t say this, pulls against the hold Randy’s got on him to kiss him again, close-mouthed and hard, teeth clickin’. “Passenger door’s open for ya.” For Benson, at least, it feels hard to part from him, a few feet to round the car and then they’ll be close again. Randy’s hand slides down from his neck to curve around his shoulder and down his bicep, squeezing absently at the thick of the muscle there, brushes light down his forearm to his wrist and yeah, Benson’ll keep this one or die tryin’.  

He closes the distance they’d painstakingly taken, wrapping an arm around Randy’s waist, belt loop secure in his thumb, to escort him around the car and open the door for him, a southern gentleman as he keeps a hold of Randy’s hand as he seats himself in the passenger side of the bench. When he takes the chance to press a kiss to the back of his hand, Randy turns away, neck red. Benson doesn’t bother hidin’ his grin when he slides in behind the wheel. 

“Don’t you look as happy as a pig in a wallow.” 

“That’s cuz I got a pretty bronc rider sittin’ in my passenger seat.” 

His truck comes to life with a sputter, but that’s just it bein’ a bitch, always actin’ like it was two seconds away from givin’ up entirely. Benson knows better— he built this engine up from nothin’, maintained it as religiously as his horses. He knows it inside and out and it ain’t nowhere near ready to sit and gather rust in the sagebrush.

Randy reaches over to flick the radio on as Benson pulls out of the parking lot, Marty Robbins twangin’ on about God forgivin’ him with love. Stupid ass song. His knee twinges as he presses on the gas, blindly changing the station until Roger Miller calms him down. 

“Not a fan?” 

“I prefer Reba but she goes to bed early.”

They don’t talk much but it’s not awkward like Benson thought it’d be— bringin’ some stranger home, an hour’s drive away to fuck and then wake up to the bed empty and his wallet rifled through. Man like Randy though? Could just hold his hand out, palm up, eyebrows raised expectantly and Benson’d pay him like he was the goddamn bank. 

His lead foot on the gas pedal and the relatively clear roads on the I-25 end up cuttin’ the trip to forty minutes and it’s still not enough to kill off the fire in his blood, windows rolled down to let in cool, breezy country air. Next to him, Randy scoots closer, knee pressin’ against his, a shy hand landing butterfly soft on the muscle above his knee. 

If his turn off the highway is a little sharp, Randy doesn’t say anything but Benson catches the way he turns his face away, other hand up and hidin’ what was sure to be quite the sight, one of those smiles Benson was startin’ to get real fuckin’ greedy for. 

The plains of Chugwater looked like a whole lot of nothin’ at night, barrancas and canyons, small lone mountains and windpumps outlined in differing shades of dark and darker than black, shapes nearly indecipherable but the sky above was alight with stardust— dotted with stars impossible to number, the shit they were all made of and would eventually return to. Benson would like to think the dust of his bones would end up under the hooves of buffalo instead of way out in space. 

Next to him, Randy exhales, something under his breath he can’t hear, radio quiet but still louder than the other man. “What’s that?”

“It’s beautiful.”

Benson can’t disagree, truck coasting at ten miles an hour on the unlit town roads, eyes firmly on the profile of the cowboy in his passenger seat. 

“You’re good enough to nearly qualify for short go. You tellin’ me ya ain’t ever been to Laramie? Seen this before?”

He takes the turn off-road, dirt flattened under his tires and the hooves of his horses for years and years, a natural path to his land ‘bout fifteen minutes drive into the plains. 

Randy scoffs. “Just because I’ve already seen it doesn’t make it any less beautiful.” 

Benson says nothing in response, feelin’ the pull of his words in a way he didn’t expect, hung up on Randy’s rigging, bull rope threatening to drag him behind the heft of the weight of soft blue eyes and a hand on his thigh.

The only thing lighting their way after Benson cuts off his engine is his flickering, yellowed porchlight. Randy had stumbled up the small set of stairs, wood thunking hollow under their boots, and fell into his back in a way that felt purposeful enough to have Benson tuggin’ at him, door swinging open carelessly into the wall behind it, loud and sudden, and it’s like he’s breakin’ into his own home, cringing at the sound. 

It’s somewhat of a blur after they come in, he thinks, still a little buzzed, back bare on his bed and a pretty cowboy ridin’ him, slow and heady. 

Benson had been admiring Randy up on the bull, but it didn’t compare much to how it felt to be under the graceful sways of his hips, keepin’ balance as he rode Benson like he was a bronco he was breakin’, hand clawed into the meat of his chest, the slick sound of his dick slidin’ in and out mixing with their panting breaths. 

He remembered talkin’, at first, when he’d walked Randy into his little ranch house— conversatin’ rusty and strangely vulnerable in the familiar dark of his living room. Benson didn’t take anybody back to his place ever and this stranger movin’ around as he turned the lights on was makin’ him feel off-kilter, a rock in his boot. 

Randy had turned around, interrupting Benson in the middle of some inane fuckin’ comment about the weather of all goddamn things, and with a slip of rough palms around his neck, intertwinin’ as he pulled himself close, shut his fuckin’ mouth with the sweetest fuckin’ kiss he’d ever had. 

After that it was a mess of motion, kickin’ off boots and shruggin’ shirts down arms trapped by the magnet of their hands on each other’s bodies. Benson kept knockin’ them into the walls of the hallway, pictures rattlin’ as he pushed him towards the back of the house, where his bedroom lay, trippin’ over the sleeve of a shirt still tucked into the back of Randy’s Wranglers. 

If Randy was uncomfortable with the silence of his house, wind a soft background sound, horses knickering hundreds of yards away in the barn, owls hootin’, he didn’t show it, kissin’ on him like he was goin’ crazy with it, Benson smoothing over the curls of his cowlick, grinnin’ into his mouth. 

“Are you gonna—” Randy gasps, bitin’ at his lips as he looks down his body, Benson pullin’ at his denim and underwear, peering at Benson, pupils blown wide in the dim lighting of the old, yellow-orange lamp at his bedside. The shadows wrappin’ around him are tinged cool blue, dark at the edges of his room, moon bright and stuck behind the panes of his windows, curtains willowy in the draft, window cracked open and forgotten before he’d left. Randy moans as Benson drags the rough of his denim over his dick, slow and purposeful. 

“Gonna what? Fuck ya?” 

Randy nods, endearingly earnest. 

Benson recalls the way he’d ridden the mechanical bull and feels somethin’ a little mean try and break out on his face. He lifts a hand to brush over his mustache, lookin’ down at the vision on his bedsheets, considering. “Got any rodeos I gotta worry about?” 

Randy returns the look. “Just this one.” And he’d never bought into the love at first sight bullshit— he was a skeptic, he was jaded, and he was sure as hell that he had one foot in the grave at all times— but there was somethin’ about Randy. Somethin’ about the silk gettin’ caught on his shirt, barb clingin’ tight, somethin’ that kept Benson wantin’ ta keep him in the ring, keep him ‘til a ring was somethin’ he didn’t build but bought, complete sentimental horseshit Benson was gladly shovellin’. Especially if it meant Randy. 

He swoops down, fat of his belly pressin’ into the flat of Randy’s, skin damp with sweat and slidin’, hot and soft, as he nips at his lips, lickin’ into his mouth and eatin’ him up, starved. Benson wasn’t much of a kisser. It was foreplay and it was alright if the guy he was swappin’ spit with was good enough at it but, repetition necessary, there was just somethin’ about kissin’ Randy that made him wanna go at it until they were raw and burnin’. Wanted to leave the other man with chafing all over, draw him an oatmeal bath and kiss away the hurt. Shit, he wasn’t makin’ it out alive, was he? 

“Can you—” Randy gasps out, Benson’s hands playin’ with the skin creasing at the fold of his pelvis, sensitive under the rough of his fingers. “Can we not—” 

“Where’s all that talk from before, huh?” Benson teases, sittin’ back to unbutton his Levi’s, let’s Randy get a good look at what’s to come. 

“Shut up.” 

“Can we not what, darlin’?” 

Randy hands whip out to squeeze at Benson’s forearms, blue of his eyes seeking, licking at his lips, suddenly nervous in the way he can’t hold eye contact. Benson briefly wonders if he’s about to be asked to do some strange, kinky shit. It’s not like he don’t know nothin’ but he feels too old for play-pretend. He’s not even breakin’ forty yet but it feels like he’s been livin’ for eons for some reason. Louisiana feels like a lifetime ago, his built-from-scratch, come-from-nothin’ life in Wyoming like a completely different person’s come up instead. 

“Don’t put one on.” Randy asks with his eyes squeezed shut. “A condom.” 

Benson lets himself grin, the one his ma used to hate because it pulled more to his left, just like his damn daddy. She always claimed she was gonna wait by the phone for the inevitable call from jail because he was bound to be up to no good whenever he smiled like that. 

She was right about one thing, turns out. 

Cowlick crazy, his cowboy is. 

“If you’re fine with that, I ain’t got no issue.”

Randy peeks up at him, one eye squinted at him. “And you’re—”

“Clean as a whistle.” 

Benson’s easy agreement seems to get his hackles down and Randy returns to that selfsame confidence, eyein’ him like he was a particularly mean bronc. He moves off of him to take the rest of his clothes off and so he’s taken a little by surprise when Randy’s palms sting hot on his shoulders as he pushes him down to his back, swingin’ legs over his lap and settling just off-center from where Benson really wants him. 

Above him, where Randy sits, he looks like the night sky the other man had been marveling at, just on this side of unbelievable, Benson needing to touch him, rough hands gentled as he sweeps them up muscled thighs, downy hair ticklin’. His fingers dig in, harsh into the plush of the fat and muscle and Randy’s dick twitches. Before he can even say anything, Randy shushes him. 

“I already—” He cuts himself off, “But do you have any more lube? I kinda like it a little—” 

“Wet?” Benson curls his lip at him. He’s already so hard it’s almost painful, tugging heavy at his gut, pre-cum already glitterin’ thick at his head, Randy glancing down at it before looking back at him expectantly, palm out. 

Benson slips a hand underneath the pillow on the other side of the bed and pulls out a small bottle, flickin’ the lid open with a thumb to squirt a hefty amount in Randy’s waiting hand. “And you just had that there for luck or what?” Randy glares down at him, hand reaching back to work at himself. It drips down, messy and warm from his palm, onto Benson’s dick which is pointed ramrod straight at Randy, ready. 

“Or what. I get lonely out here. Me and my left hand don’t get along so well no more.” 

“You’re really funny.” Randy breathes, mouth open on a moan as he starts rockin’ back onto his own fingers, little whines leaving Benson transfixed as he watches from below. It’s a mesmerizing sight, one Benson feels possessive over, wantin’ no one else but him to ever see this again. He wants to shut the window, just in case. Turn off the light. Close the doors. This is for Benson, right here, right now, all for him. 

He slips a loose fist around Randy’s dick as he rocks forwards, keening high and clawing a hand onto Benson’s chest, fingernail sharp across his nipple, a small shock of pleasure kickin’ his hips up, head slipping hot across lube damp skin. 

“Baby, I think you’re fine. C’mon.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

It’s gotta be the next best thing, second only to the sharp hit of nicotine in the brisk of a spring morning, the feeling of his dick pressing into the tight heat of Randy, heavy and thick with muscle, ass with enough meat for Benson’s hands to stretch out, fingers pullin’ and pushin’ down. “Ah, God. Benson, just— Fuck, just give me a second.” Randy whines. 

A second. A minute. An hour. 

Feels all the same to Benson, an eternity as he sweats, staring through half-lidded eyes at the pretty boy with his legs spread around him, body heat heady and skin soft against his own. He can feel the muscles of his thighs shaking as he holds himself still, Randy settling fully onto his lap, bottomed out on the full of Benson’s girth. 

Randy’s got a hand up, elbow out, a reflex that turns into him sweeping overlong curls away from his forehead, breathing deep and steady, knees squeezing at Benson’s hips. He’s about to die. He’s about to fuck the ride up and come too quick. Randy looks down at him and gives him this sweet little thing he’s keepin’ in a locket if it’s the last thing he’ll do. 

Now, he’s sure Randy could ride him all sensual and romantic but Benson wants the cowboy, the adrenaline junkie, the roughstock. 

He slides a hand down his back to the dip of his lower back, heels diggin’ into the bed as he shifts, white-hot electric as it moves them together, a tease of a fuck. “C’mon, Randy. I ain’t no bronc— If I pitch ya off, I can just pick ya back up.” Benson wheedles, wretched with want. 

“Ya think you’re real funny.” Randy bears down, like he’s gettin’ a feel for his saddle and Benson hisses a breath out, meat of Randy’s ass in his hands takin’ some of the edge off. He needs him bad. He needs him now. 

“C’mon, baby, gimme a good ride. You can do that, can’t ya?” 

Randy reaches back to pull Benson’s hands off of him but instead of lettin’ them go, he intertwines them instead, palms kissin’ clammy. “I’ll last more’an eight seconds, that's for sure. You might wanna hold on.”

If he was sick of hearin’ him talk, he sure was shuttin’ him up now. 

Just like in the bar, Randy rode like it was second nature to him, sittin’ on Benson’s dick and milkin’ him dry with every clench, every undulation of his hips, perfect balance allowing him to lift higher and higher off his dick each time, every subsequent thrust downwards longer and slicker, using the hold he had on Benson’s hands to push himself back harder, rougher. “W-Why aren’t you fuckin’ me too?” Randy huffs, tone high and needy, blue eyes dark as he peers down at him through them doe-like eyelashes, curled and pretty. 

“Wanted to let you show off for me.” Benson grunts back, Randy’s dear words allowin’ him free reign, heels pushing hard against the bed, plush of Randy’s ass slapping against Benson’s thighs as he starts really fuckin’ him. 

He snatches his hands out of Randy’s loosening hold, eyes on his flushed face, mouth open like a fool as he pants, brings them to his waist, slowing his thrusts down so he can encourage Randy to keep on ridin’, settin’ a smooth rhythm that has heaven and earth pullin’ at his core, hot heat settling inside Randy, thick band around his gut tuggin’ and tuggin’. 

Randy is hot, wet velvet and Benson thinks he may be in love. 

It makes his thrusts rougher, wantin’ to mark Randy as his, show anyone who comes after him that he was here first, some crude instinct wantin’ to brand him with a double B, right on his flank. 

Above him, Randy’s eyes are bright with tears, each breath is punctuated with a punched out whine, moan barely able to crest, break over the curve of a pink mouth before he’s whining again, Benson pushing at his back so he can lay fully on him, sweat dripping onto him, in his mouth from Randy’s chin, chests touching. Benson takes over, Randy no longer able to ride, a fifty in Benson’s books, clenching his arms around him in a tight hold and fuckin’. 

His ears ring, Randy’s voice loud where his mouth cries out, breath dampening the skin of his neck and it’s sweeter than birdsong at dawn. Benson would flip them over, really go at it, pull those thick thighs up and swing ‘em over his shoulder as he pistons in and out but he can’t bring himself to do anything but hold Randy in his arms and fuck him until they both were spent. 

Benson can feel it, the combination of Randy’s clenching heat and the arms he has trapped between their bodies, hands clawing into his chest, gut spilling heavy into his dick where it pulses like another heartbeat, slick sounds loud in the quiet of the night. His spine starts goin’ a little more rigid, cattle prod sparkin’ down each ridge, “Lemme cum inside ya, darlin’.” He busses a kiss as he asks, tries to sweeten the deal, can’t pull out for the life of him.

“No,” Randy whines, “No, I can’t get pregnant.” 

It’s insane and it don’t make sense, what Randy’s babblin’ about, but it’s hot as fuck and he likes the thought that he could fuck him ‘til their very nature changed, keep him tied down, baby trap him. 

“Even if you do, I’ll take care’a ya, I promise.” He’s interrupted by Randy seeking out his mouth, tongue sloppy as he kisses him, “Okay,” He says in between rough presses of their lips, spit and teeth clicking, “Okay.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Go ahead, c’mon.” Randy’s chasin’ his own orgasm now, hands pushin’ at his chest so he can sit up again, palms below his chest and keepin’ purchase on him where he grinds back onto his dick. 

Benson wants a little more, just a little more to really get there. 

“Tell me. Use your words. Tell me to do it.” He’s breathless, his dick is jumping, it feels like he’s— 

“Please, come inside me, Benson.”  Randy cries out, clenching hard down on him and Benson’s finished— vision whiting out in the dark of the night, burning away Randy’s pretty face, his dick pulsing where he comes inside Randy, over and over and over again. He feels like he’s spilled across the sky, dust again, pulled apart and spread across the universe and then he’s back again, Randy’s flushed face, wet with tears vignetted in his dim room, yellow-orange lamp highlighting the curve of his cheekbone, the blue of his eyes, the sweat-damp darkened curls around his earlobe. Benson doesn’t know this man six ways to Sunday but he’s sure he loves him. 

He’s fadin’, groggy as his lids fall heavier with every blink, feels the pressure lift off of his dick, sees the blurry figure Randy makes as he stumbles off of him, knees weak, tumbling onto the other side of the bed. “Stay, huh? Stay ‘til the morning at least.” He manages before he succumbs to sleep. 

When he wakes up he knows he’s been rode hard and put away wet. Randy’s come is dried and gross on his belly and he’s tacky with old sweat, hair a mess and body achin’ like it’s been through the wringer, a full day of labor condensed into an hour of one of the best nights of Benson’s life. 

He already can tell there’s no one on the other side of the bed but he still looks. 

The bed is cold beneath his palm. 

Love is fleeting, a morning dove or some other bullshit. Benson’ll get over it. 

The shower is hot and welcome, muscles loosening as he bows under the weak spray. When he ambles out into the kitchen to make his coffee, he gets about halfway through the bitter tang of it before he realizes his fuckin’ horses are out. He just about trips over himself gettin’ to the front door, slippin’ bare feet into boots, coffee dripping from his wrist. 

“Hey—!” 

Her dark brown coat shines as she frolics, pale blonde of her hair in the wind, Dear Heart knickering as she turns to Benson, revealing dirty blond curls and a tentative expression, hand gentling his horse’s flank as she whinnies, ears flicking about when Benson doesn’t make any moves to come closer. 

“Um, good morning.” Randy cringes, looking unsure and self-conscious in the bright daylight, “You said to stay but, um, I was thinkin’ we got home real late and that I should just go ahead and feed your horses while you were still resting.” 

When Benson says nothing, Randy rushes to explain himself. “Of course if that’s not what you meant, I can go ahead and get outta your hair. Well, I would need a ride back to town, or you know what, I can walk if I’ve overstayed my welcome—” 

“Thank you.” 

“I can— Wait, what?” 

Benson walks closer, shaking out the coffee on his hand, Dear Heart swingin’ her head at him, nips at his shoulder as he brushes a hand down the broken stripe, lettin’ her smell at the coffee he spilled. She sneezes. He lets himself look at Randy, somethin’ small but real blooming, prairie fire vibrant red. 

“I said, thank you. For that. Real sweet’a you.” 

Randy blushes, cheeks pink and wind-chafed. “It’s nothin’. Your horses are sweethearts.” 

Benson scoffs, leaning on the fence post next to Randy, shoulders brushing. “Dear Heart might be but Cash? Willoughby?” He shakes his head. “Buncha grade-A assholes.” 

Randy lets out a quiet laugh, swaying to nudge Benson with his shoulder. “Which one is which?” 

He points them out, Cash pawin’ at his favorite hole in the ground Benson dutifully fills every morning so the bastard can dig at it and lay in it. Never failed to piss Benson clean off, his coat a striking tawny-pink color he tried keeping untarnished, not that the dirt-lovin’ half-pig bastard appreciated it anyhow.“That’s Cash, he ain’t real mean but he’s plenty stupid.” 

“I can believe that. He wouldn’t move past a pitchfork you’d left on the floor in the barn.” 

“Yeah, he don’t do so great with sticks.” 

“And that’s Willoughby?” Randy points towards the big, American Cream, prancing around the back end of the pasture, huge even from this distance. 

“That’s him. Saved that motherfucker from a slaughterhouse and nearly wiped my bank account clean out and how am I thanked? By him constantly tryna kick my head off my neck. He’s meaner than a two-headed snake.” He shakes his head but he can’t deny he ain’t fond of him. When he turns to Randy, he’s grinning at him, something twinkling in his eyes, blue bright and warm. 

“What?” 

“Nothin’. You love ‘em, don’t ya?”  

Benson coughs, uncomfortable. “Yeah,” He can’t help the way his eyes linger over Randy, who watches him back, “Kinda do.” 

There’s a small pause where Randy reads what he wants from what Benson’s willin’ to hand over, before he steps closer, a finger through and around his belt loop. “So, I’m a pretty good cook…” 

“Oh, you are, are ya?” It’s only the horses around but Benson feels laid bare anyway, neck hot. 

“Are you hungry?” 

Randy’s soft-lookin’ in the sun, less cold than he’d looked in the bar last night, less mysterious in the dim light of his bedroom. He looks like a person Benson might’ve skipped over in a crowd and it makes his heart beat sore. 

“I could eat.” 

The other man brightens, leaving the pen and clickin’ it shut with a firm hand, tuggin’ at him with a grin pullin’ soft at his lips and Benson thinks Oh, right, I think I’m in love with ya. Stay forever, how about it? And it’s too strong of a sentiment for the morning after, Wyoming wind beating at the wood of his house, sagebrush whippin’ at each other, so he tucks it away for later, tries to keep it casual as can be, hidin’ his crazy under a calm demeanor. 

“By the way, I might need a re-ride.” Benson smirks at the way Randy stumbles over the front stoop, “You were definitely no scorin’ the entire time you rode me.” 

Randy flushes, turning around to whack at his chest with a weak hand. “Maybe if you’re good enough.” 

“Shoulda had you freehand.” He murmurs into his ear, steppin’ in his space and crowding him against the kitchen counter, his coffee gone luke-warm, brown ring spilled out onto the tile. 

There’s no other words exchanged, lips preoccupied with gettin’ to know each other without the blue neon playing overhead and there’s somethin’ about the way Randy’s kissin’ on Benson that has him thinkin’ that he ain’t gonna be that hard to keep— somethin’ about his pretty cowboy and the way he looks at him with those baby blues, keen on stickin’ around, lovely as a prairie flower and all his.