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In the days and weeks after Benson leaves him standing there empty handed in the diner, Randy’s life kind of turns into a nightmare. It’s all police questioning and awkward therapy sessions his mom forces him to attend and long awkward looks from everyone who knew him before. Stitches and physical therapy and late nights where he awakens gasping and sweating and trembling with the weight of his memories of that fateful day. It’s unbearable. He tries to carry what Benson taught him with him: fucking own your shit and fuck anyone who looks at you funny. Stay in control. Hypocritical bullshit, probably. Randy remembers the wet and desperate look in Benson’s eyes after he’d beaten that old man, Sheppard, to death in the parking lot. It wasn’t the look of a man in control of his own life.
Time goes by. Randy watches the news more now than he ever did, as local reports taper off from manhunt to bulletin to dull reminder. In a dying town where nothing ever happens, everybody is happy to forget the local atrocity, outside of quickly decaying memorials haphazardly set up over the bloodstains Benson had splattered across town. It’s just him and Miss Beard who remember, even if they don’t talk about it. Miss Beard, who never told anyone that Randy told Benson to run, that Randy stood in the doorway and watched him speed off into the distance, eyes glistening, bullet wound throbbing and bleeding all over the place. Benson’s last gift to him: a scar that aches when the weather changes and three months getting mobility in his shoulder back.
That’s what he has left: half-remembered rambling screeds, blood soaked memories, a jacket that makes him look like he’s next on the list to shoot up a local eatery, two stupid plushies, the stained remains of a shirt cut off in the hospital and then amateurishly stitched back together, and a scar he can’t stop touching. The scar fades, the plushies go to Miss Beard’s kid, the memories turn into nightmares. Benson’s shirt goes in a cigar box under Randy’s bed. He can’t exactly wear it around.
Months pass. Randy holds his chin higher. He tries dating, but of course everyone in town looks at him and sees a stack of dead bodies and the silhouette of a criminal at large behind his eyes. They don’t say anything, but he knows. It never gets far. He does start talking to Lisa again, but that was never really anything. Two kids playacting at love. What did he know, then?
One morning, almost eight months since that day, he wakes up to a message on his phone from an unknown number. Out of sheer obligation, he clicks play, and a familiar voice rings out.
“Pick up the phone the next time I call, dumbass. Delete this message.”
Benson. Randy is overcome with a potent mixture of nausea and excitement. Cold and hot all over at once, he plays the message five more times and then deletes it. What the hell is he doing? He should call the police, but if he was going to do that, he would have told them everything eight months ago, instead of the vague statement he’d actually given. No. He gets Benson’s shirt out of its box and buries his face in it. God help him, he’s going to wait for Benson to call again.
He wakes up hard and soaked in sweat the next morning after a fitful sleep. Christ, something is really wired wrong in his head. He takes a cold shower and tries to clear his head, but scraps of his dreams chase him all the way through his hour-long drive to community college two towns over. Benson, Benson, Benson. The memory of the man won’t leave him alone. His cell burns a hole in his pocket all through class. Why did he call? What does he want? Randy’s thoughts chase each other around his skull.
The three days that pass before Benson calls again are longer than the eight months that preceded them. Every night Randy tosses and turns before being beset by strange dreams. During class he’s fidgety and distracted. He turns on the ringer on his phone just in case and interrupts class multiple times declining spam callers. Miss Beard doesn’t say anything when Randy is over at her place babysitting, but she does give him several odd looks. By the third day, Randy is half-convinced he dreamed the message entirely. Of course, that’s when the call finally comes.
The first thing Benson says when Randy answers, heart in his throat, is, “Are you alone, Randy?” His voice is rough, like he’s been chain smoking nonstop since they parted ways.
“I am,” Randy says. He’s in his bedroom, but the rest of the family is all out doing their own thing. They tend to leave him to his own devices these days.
“Good. That’s smart.”
A pause. Randy fidgets. “Why are you calling, Benson?”
The line crackles with silence before Benson responds. “I missed you.” Frank. Direct. Benson cuts right to Randy’s core with one phrase.
“You did?” Randy’s voice quavers.
“Well, you know.” Benson has an odd tone in his voice. “It’s just not the same.”
“Yeah,” Randy agrees. Everything is different, in a post-Benson world. Maybe… Randy’s face heats up. Maybe Benson feels the same about a post-Randy world.
“So,” he goes on, realizing neither of them has spoken in a minute, “how are you? Are you, are you working, or…”
“Oh, yeah,” Benson says in that old familiar dismissive tone. “New life, new identity, new dead end job working me to the bone. All small towns are the same, you know. At least this one doesn’t have any of the assholes I’ve known all my life in it.”
“That sounds nice,” Randy blurts out. Benson laughs, and Randy almost mumbles an apology before stopping short. What does he have to apologize for, other than being accessory to several crimes that nobody has enough information to prosecute him for?
“You should’ve come with me, then,” Benson replies, a predatory faux-easiness to his tone.
Randy sighs. “Benson, you shot me,” he says.
“Oh, get over yourself,” Benson says. “I didn’t kill your stupid ass, did I?”
“No, but…” Randy gathers himself. “Frankly, I don’t have any interest in going down all Thelma and Louise with a guy who put a bullet in me. What were you gonna do, perform surgery on me in the back seat of your beater?” The assertion takes a lot out of him. It always does. It’s far easier just to roll over and take it, but he can’t do that for Benson. He can’t do that because of Benson.
Benson takes a staticky beat, and then says, “You know they kiss in that movie, right?”
“Huh?” Randy blinks, not quite following Benson’s logic.
“Thelma and Louise. They totally kiss at the end.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the movie, Benson, that’s not the point I’m making,” Randy snaps impatiently.
“Did you want to kiss me, Randy?” Benson’s tone is halfway between mean jeering and flirtation, a potent combination Randy doesn’t quite know what to do with.
“Did you call me for a reason, or did you do it to be an asshole?” Randy shoots back, face hot.
“You’re avoiding the question,” Benson says. “Maybe you really are gay.” Randy flushes hard, his heart speeding up.
“I don’t have to put up with this anymore,” he says. “You don’t have me at gunpoint, I don’t have to let you push me around.” He sighs sharply. “I have to go.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Benson says quickly. “I did have something. I didn’t just call to be an asshole.” He pauses for a long moment. Not for the first time, Randy wishes he could see Benson’s face, emotions swirling in his big, long-lashed eyes. “I’m going to be making a delivery for work in your area in the next couple days. Can I see you?”
“Um.” Randy works his jaw, at a loss for words.
“Or are you too busy with your fancy college boy life?” Benson sneers, his emotional shutters slamming shut.
“How do you know about that?” Randy asks. His mind dances with images of Benson watching him, stalking him, perhaps in a baseball cap pulled low or over the top of a big pair of sunglasses. Benson lurking on corners, Benson ducking behind trees, Benson losing himself in the anonymity of the crowd. Has he been here this whole time? Has he been at the edges of Randy’s life, watching and waiting, this whole eight long months?
“It’s a yes or no question, Randy, are you in or aren’t you?” Benson sounds annoyed, which might mean his feelings are bruised by Randy not jumping into his arms, so to speak, but it might also mean he’s feeling homicidal. It’s hard to tell.
Randy shudders, a physical convulsion, half excitement, half horror. His mouth is dry as he says, “Yes. I’m in.”
It turns out, ‘in your area’ means a town even further away than community college. He plugs the address into MapQuest and memorizes the directions to a dinky little motel on the outskirts of town. Room eight, Benson tells him. Come alone. Don’t tell anyone, now. Like he would tell a soul, like he’s that stupid. Who would understand why he’s doing this dangerous thing, truly?
On the day in question, he skips class and gets into town early, parking three blocks from the motel. He walks, taking big gulps of the crisp morning air. Some nasty fretful voice in the back of his head is suggesting over and over that this might be his last morning, that maybe Benson came back to silence the main witness to his spree so he can move on with his new life. It might be true. It might not be. Randy sits on a curb stop in the motel parking lot and waits for his answers to arrive.
Close to an hour later, a boxy old truck pulls into the lot, and a man gets out. He’s a nondescript man. Short, stocky, white. A cap pulled down low obscures his hair and face. He moves with the careful precision of a man used to fearing scrutiny. If Randy wasn’t sure it was Benson already, the way he makes a beeline for room eight would have clued him in. Randy watches from the edge of the lot as Benson smokes a cigarette, blowing big puffs of smoke into the gray sky. Should he go up to him now? Should he wait? Even at a distance, he can see Benson’s twitchy fingers twiddling with his disposable lighter and a loose string at the cuff of his hoodie. He smokes until there’s nothing left to smoke and then grinds the butt under his heel, before turning and letting himself into the motel room. Randy’s knuckles are pink from the cold as he pushes himself to his feet.
He stumbles across the asphalt, joints stiff, skin taut. He should have worn a coat. Why didn’t he wear a coat? The jacket Benson gave him enshrouds him, but it’s too thin to keep out the chilly morning air. He should’ve worn a hat, at least, or some gloves. He rubs his hands together as he approaches the door to room eight. What an idiot he is. He considers for a moment whether he should just turn the knob and walk in, but what if Benson still owns a gun? The cops had never found the handgun Benson had retrieved from his mom’s place, the one he’d shot Randy with. Benson would have to be awfully stupid to have kept it, and still be toting it around. That being said, he is pretty damn stupid for asking Randy to meet him, too. They both are. Randy curls his hand into a fist and knocks.
The door swings open immediately, and Randy has just enough time to process Benson was probably watching him through the peephole before they’re face to face for the first time in eight months. Randy’s breath catches in his throat. Benson looks different. He’s been crystallized in the last moment Randy saw him, glancing over his shoulder as he fled the diner, scruffy and bloody with fear written across his face. The Benson that stands before him is clean cut, no scruffy facial hair, mullet chopped off. He looks younger, somehow, but also more tired. If you put this Benson next to the wanted notices, he would barely warrant a comparison.
“Hi,” Randy manages.
Benson glances over Randy’s shoulder and then rolls his eyes. “Yeah, hi yourself. Get in here before someone sees.”
He hustles Randy into the motel room, his hand on Randy’s spine giving him goosebumps. Once the door is shut and locked, Randy stands awkwardly in one corner of the room between the bed and the sliding closet door, while Benson throws himself down on the couch.
“It’s good to see you,” Randy says.
“Is it?” Benson arches an eyebrow at him.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Randy shrugs. How being around Benson again is making him feel isn’t easy to put into words. His guts are tight. He’s sweating more than usual. His face feels hot. Is any of that good? “Was there really a delivery you needed to do, or…?”
“Trust me, Randy, I wouldn’t be this close to home unless I had to be.” Benson ran a hand over his close-cropped hair.
Randy looks down at his shoes, and then back up at Benson. “Why did you call me, really?” He wants to see Benson’s face when he answers this time.
Benson exhales hard through his nose. “Why did I call you?” He tilts his head, squinting, clearly calculating his words. “I saw you, Randy. I was making a delivery, like this one, about two months ago. You were coming out of your little college class with a big heavy backpack, all alone. And I thought to myself…” He looks down at his hands. “I thought to myself, I missed that kid. Is that stupid?” He shrugs. “Maybe.”
“I missed you too, Benson,” Randy says, the words stumbling out all at once. “I barely even knew you before that day. I still don’t really know you. But… I’m living my life in the space you left behind. People look at me, and they see you.”
Benson looks at him for a long time. From across the room, his long lashed eyes are impenetrable. Finally, he says, “Shit, Randy. I’m sorry.”
Randy stiffens. “Don’t apologize.”
“No, I…” Benson pushes himself to his feet and walks across the room, into Randy’s personal space. “I put blood on your hands. I made you an accomplice to my dumb shit.”
“I’m not angry,” Randy says. “I mean, I am, but I’m not. I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
Benson huffs out a little chuckle, the corner of his mouth curling up. “Complicated.” Benson says the word like he’s savoring it. He looks deep into Randy’s eyes, and Randy fights the urge to break his gaze. “Why did you even answer my call, Randy?”
Randy doesn’t have an answer, not one he can put into words. Benson’s breath is hot on his face, and he can’t focus. “I…” he tries. “I…” Benson’s eyes. His mouth. Randy can’t think. Moving on instinct alone, he leans in, grabbing Benson’s arm, and kisses him, chaste and clumsy. Just before their lips meet, Benson makes a noise. Shock? Protest? Disgust? Whatever it is, Randy’s lips swallow it up.
It’s nothing like he imagined it might be, when he allowed himself to imagine it. Benson’s lips are chapped, and there’s no mustache to scratch at him. Randy’s never kissed a boy before, but, he finds, it’s a lot like kissing a girl, if that girl smelled like cigarettes and men’s deodorant. Benson blinks, and his eyelids flutter against Randy’s closed lids. Benson is holding very still and breathing through his nose, and every puff of hot air hits Randy’s cheeks like a gust of wind. He doesn’t move to push Randy away, but he doesn’t kiss back, either, which means Randy is mostly just standing there with his face smushed against Benson’s. He pulls back after a moment, eyes opening. Benson is just looking at him, eyes murky.
“Sorry,” Randy says, shrinking back into what comes naturally. “That was stupid, I don’t, I don’t know—”
“Yeah, it was a little fucking stupid.” Benson chuckles drily, inches from Randy’s face. “I mean, shit, Randy, I shot you. You shouldn’t be… You shouldn’t.”
“Sorry,” Randy repeats, his face heating up with embarrassment, his eyes burning.
“And I don’t, I mean, I haven’t, not in years,” Benson goes on, like Randy hadn’t spoken. “And you, you’re just so…”
“You’re not into men,” Randy finishes dully, before Benson can drive the knife in. To be fair, he’s not really into men, either. At least, not in his experience. Not that he has much experience with women, either.
Benson blinks. “What? No.” He makes a weird face, like he’s trying not to laugh. “No, shit, I’m saying this all wrong.”
“Not into me, then. It’s fine, Benson, I get it. It’s okay. I got my wires crossed somewhere along, along the way, after everything that happened, and, and that’s not your fault. I shouldn’t put that on you.” He’s still holding onto Benson’s arm, like it’s a lifeline.
“Would you shut up for a second?” Benson snaps, the loudest he’s been since Randy got here. Randy’s jaw snaps shut, and Benson sighs. Voice softer, like he’s talking to a wounded animal, he says, “I don’t know where you got all these ideas in your head about me, but it’s not… It’s not any of that. I just don’t do any of…” He gestures between them. “Any of this with people I actually care about, or intend to see ever again. And I certainly haven’t been kissed since…” He makes a face. “I don’t even know how long. So you’ve got me on my back foot here, a little bit.” The words come out of him like he’s pulling teeth, like being honest with Randy about this part of himself takes some physical toll.
“Okay,” Randy says, blinking away the wetness at the edges of his eyes. “I… thank you for telling me?”
“Don’t mention it.” Benson grimaces. “I wasn’t really planning on it.”
“Really? Because… late night phone calls, inviting me to a seedy motel out of town… it’s got kind of a sexual vibe to it, Benson.”
Benson blinks a few times, and then bursts into laughter, stumbling backwards and practically doubling over. After a moment, Randy starts smiling too. Benson wheezes hard and collapses down onto the bed, his face lit up.
“You’re funny, Randy, you know that?”
“Nobody’s ever told me that, no,” Randy says, deadpan. It’s true, but it doesn’t make it any less funny. Benson wheezes again.
“Oh, god, and the worst part is, you’re right! Fuck, I’m an idiot.” Benson exhales, a wild smile on his face. He pauses, and then looks up at Randy, a knowing glint in his eyes. “The Thelma and Louise thing, you were flirting! Oh, man.”
Randy flushes harder. “Actually, not really, I just. Couldn’t think of another movie where people run away together, so to speak.”
“Fuck, that’s even better.” Benson scrubs tears of laughter from the corner of his eye. Randy just stands there, bemused and apprehensive in equal measure.
“Thanks, I guess.” He’s not sure what to do with his hands, so he shoves them in his pockets, and then takes them out again.
“Fuck. Okay.” Benson takes a deep breath, calming down. “Okay. Come sit here.” He pats the bed next to him. Randy goes to obey, but then Benson adds, “Take off the jacket first. I can’t believe you kept that, by the way.”
“I like it,” Randy replies with a shrug, but he sheds it and leaves it on the floor, sitting next to Benson on the quilted bedspread.
“I always hated that thing,” Benson says. “You can keep it.”
“I wasn’t planning on giving it back, Benson,” Randy says, and Benson wheezes again.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “Whatever you want.” Then, without warning, he leans in and kisses Randy on the mouth, soft and open and a little clumsy.
“Oh,” Randy says into the kiss. Abruptly, Benson sticks his tongue in his mouth, and Randy lets him. This isn’t super familiar territory Benson has pulled them both into, but Randy does his best to keep up, although sticking his tongue into Benson’s mouth feels odd, like he’s invading some uncharted land. Benson’s mouth tastes like cigarettes and something salty, and the edges of his teeth are bumpy. It’s weird, being inside somebody else’s mouth. You get used to the feeling of your tongue inside your own mouth, unless you think about it too much, but someone else’s mouth feels totally novel. Randy puts his hand on Benson’s waist, leaning into it, trying and failing to find some kind of rhythm in this kiss. Benson goes stiff.
As suddenly as he kissed Randy, Benson pulls away again. His lips wet with saliva, he says, uncharacteristically awkwardly, “I’m probably not going to fuck you.”
Randy blinks, his whole mouth tingling. “Okay.”
“I like you a lot, Randy, so I just don’t want you to get your hopes up that I’m gonna pop your cherry.” Benson’s faux-casual air is so easy to spot when Randy is inches away from his face and can see his eyes are wet and shifty.
“This is fine,” Randy says. He plants a quick kiss next to Benson’s open mouth, right where his mustache used to end. “Whatever you want is just fine with me.” Randy never thought it’d get this far in his wildest wet dreams. Kissing Benson alone is uncharted waters.
“Don’t be such a pushover, Randy,” Benson grumbles, impossible to please. He leans in again, pressing his mouth to Randy’s. This time, he brings a hand up to cup at Randy’s cheek, calluses rough against the soft skin there. He licks his way into Randy’s mouth, messy and open. Kissing Benson is nothing like Randy imagined because he had nothing to compare it to, no frame of reference in his limited experience. Benson is the only solid thing in the room, and Randy clings to his body, hands pressed hard to his torso, never daring to dip below the waist.
“C’mere,” Benson huffs against Randy’s mouth, tugging him closer, into his lap. Randy allows himself to be led, kneeling over one of Benson’s thighs, kissing at the corner of his mouth. Benson’s body is so warm, so solid. He’s right here. It’s like a horrible miracle. Randy lurches forward and wraps Benson in a hug, his free hand coming up to touch Benson’s strangely smooth face. Benson’s face nestles in the crook of Randy’s neck, his hand on the small of Randy’s back.
“I’m glad you didn’t die,” Randy tells the hair at the back of Benson’s neck. Benson stiffens, his nose pressed into Randy’s neck. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his fingers pressed into Randy’s spine. His eyelashes brush wetly against Randy’s skin. Randy shivers.
“Enough of that sappy shit,” Benson says into the neckline of Randy’s shirt, his voice rough. When he kisses Randy again, his cheeks are damp. What a frustrating man, Randy thinks, opening his mouth to him anyway. Benson pulls them down to the bed, kissing him wetly. He fists his hands in Randy’s shirt, seemingly determined to get Randy half naked without taking his hoodie off himself. Benson certainly is dedicated to sending mixed signals. Randy can feel his boner through his jeans, one that matches Randy’s own growing arousal he’s trying desperately to ignore.
They lie there on the bedspread, tongues in each other’s mouths, Benson’s hands crawling up Randy’s shirt as Randy tries to keep himself under control, clutching at Benson’s hoodie, his face, his short hair. Benson is like a wild animal, cautious and decisive in equal measure. If Randy moves too quickly, he might scare him off. Maybe forever. Still, as Benson kisses his way down Randy’s neck, Randy finds his self control slipping as his erection strains against his jeans. For a moment, mind flurried, he considers grinding against Benson’s thigh, just for an instant of relief. Just to chase his release. Then, Benson knocks the thought out of his head, by surging forward and rolling Randy onto his back, propping himself up over top of him.
“Jesus, Benson,” Randy gasps, looking up at him. Benson smiles weirdly, his cheeks still a bit shiny, redness at the corners of his eyes.
“You know, Randy, you’re so obvious,” he says, running his hand down Randy’s body to hover over his crotch. “So desperate for a piece of this.” Feather-soft, he runs his hand over Randy’s clothed erection.
“Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Randy mumbles.
“What’d you just say to me?” Benson’s tone walks the line between pissed and playful.
“I said,” Randy replies, louder now, “pot, meet kettle.” And he drives his hips upward, meeting Benson’s own.
“Oh, shit,” Benson laughs, eyes flashing. “He’s got gumption after all.” With that, he crashes back down atop Randy, kissing him messily, fumbling one-handed with the zipper of his jeans. Randy, emboldened, runs a hand up under Benson’s hoodie, pressing his palm against that deliciously warm skin. It’s like crossing police tape, tossing the shreds aside to flutter to the ground. He takes the first cautious steps into forbidden territory, his hands exploring the muscles of Benson’s back as he finally gets Randy’s pants open. Then, his hand is behind Randy’s underwear and grasping at his cock, half-freeing it from its clothed prison. Randy gasps into Benson’s mouth, his nails digging in. Nobody has ever touched him like this before.
Benson pulls away, spitting into his palm before jerking off Randy fast and rough. “See,” he says, “this is the kind of thing you do in seedy motels. Like you were saying, before.” He jerks his head to the side, as if to indicate where they were standing before. “Though, my venue of choice has always been bar bathrooms. It’s cheaper, and you can just leave if the guy pisses you off. No key to return.” Randy can feel all the calluses on Benson’s palm, years of hard work with little reward rubbing themselves against Randy’s pulsing cock.
“God,” he says, out of breath. “Does everything always have to be a, uh, a lesson with you?”
“So you don’t want me to help you out?” Benson doesn’t slow down. He knows Randy isn’t going to turn this down. Randy can see it in his eyes, a bright and dangerous spark.
“I didn’t s-say that,” Randy manages, his hips bucking up into Benson’s grasp. “I just. I’m not gonna use this information, I don’t. Oh god. I don’t have any interest in, um, ah, anonymous sex. I just want you.”
Benson’s hand stills, his smile fading. “That’s a lot to put on a guy, Randy,” he says.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Randy looks up at him, every nerve in his body alive with sensation.
Benson hesitates, the wheels in his head clearly turning. “This is such a bad idea,” he mumbles, running the hand that’s not still resting on Randy’s cock down his face.
“What’s—” Randy starts, but Benson is already moving, pushing himself up and away from the bed, before hurrying out the door. Randy calls after him. “What’s a bad idea? Benson?” He doesn’t dare say his name again, doesn’t dare call it any louder.
Alone in the motel room, propped up on his elbows with his erection hot and throbbing against his stomach, Randy starts to panic. Is Benson just leaving? He wouldn’t just leave, right? Randy scrambles out of the bed, uncomfortably shoving his boner back inside his underwear. He’s fighting with the zipper on his jeans, frantically picturing Benson flooring it out of the parking lot, when the door bursts back open. Randy looks up, flushed and sweaty.
“Where you off to in such a hurry?” Benson asks him, kicking the door shut and then locking it.
“Uh. I wasn’t. I thought.” Randy stumbles over his words, his brain mostly still in his cock.
“I really don’t care. Get your clothes off,” Benson says, tossing something onto the bed. He pulls his hoodie and shirt off in one smooth motion, and suddenly Randy is seeing more of Benson than he’s ever seen before. His sparsely-haired body is muscular, but wonderfully soft around the edges. It’s the body of a man who has to work every day of his life to get by. Randy struggles out of his shirt, twisting the fabric in his hurry such that it almost gets stuck on his head. He kicks his jeans off, and then looks up at Benson, who’s stepping out of his own jeans, black denim so worn it’s turning gray.
“Should I,” Randy starts, thumbing at the waistband of his underwear.
Benson nods. He watches with bright eyes as Randy strips down, hands shaking. Benson had his hand on his cock not a few minutes ago, and yet this still feels obscene. Randy shivers, goosebumps dotting his skin. The way Benson’s looking at him, Randy might as well not have skin at all.
“Y-your turn,” Randy says.
“Come take ‘em off me,” Benson shoots back, taunting.
“That’s not fair.” Randy’s cheeks get hotter.
“I’m not putting on a show for you, Randy,” Benson says, affecting a bored drawl.
“Then…” Randy decides, hesitantly, to fight fire with fire. “Then you’re not getting any of this.” He gestures to his gangly body. Why fight the inherent ridiculousness of this whole scenario? Standing there under Benson’s penetrating gaze, naked except for his socks, erection flagging but still present and accounted for, Randy feels terribly alive, more alive than he’s felt in months. Benson snorts, but he does begin to wiggle out of his boxer briefs.
“Whatever you say, Randy,” Benson says, pushing the offending article of clothing down his legs. There’s nothing flashy about the way that he takes them off. Just one swift motion, and he’s as naked as Randy. “There,” he says, stepping out of his underwear and toward Randy, his half-hard cock swaying with every movement. “This is what you wanted, right?”
Randy swallows, his face hot. “Uh.”
“You just want me. Right? Well, here I am.” Benson gestures broadly. Randy stares at his body, all the soft lines and broad muscle, all the scattered freckles and thin scars and delicate hairs. His whole history is written on his body, a whole life story Randy can’t begin to comprehend. He takes a step forward, and then another. They meet in the middle of the room, mouths coming together, bare bodies bumping against each other, hot and sensitive. Randy wraps his arms around Benson, who seems to go stiff for a moment every time Randy makes a sudden move. Every time Randy moves his hands to explore more of the broad expanse of his back, Benson shudders almost imperceptibly. Randy wants to ask why, but he’s afraid: afraid asking will make Benson leave or shut down, afraid he won’t like the answer, afraid he’ll puncture some invisible bubble holding them in this moment. So, he just kisses Benson desperately, the heat of their bodies blending together, their hearts thudding dangerously.
“I like your hair,” Benson tells him between kisses. “You grew it out a little bit, it’s nice.” He slides a hand up Randy’s cheek and over his ear, thrusting his fingers through Randy’s hair.
“Well,” Randy manages, “uh, thank you?” All the blood in his body is rushing southward with every kiss Benson trails down his jaw. His head is spectacularly fuzzy. “Um. I miss your mullet?” Idiot.
Benson laughs, his breath hot on Randy’s throat. “Look, when you’re on the run, you gotta make sacrifices.”
“That makes sense.” Anything Benson could tell him would make sense right now. There is no world, no truth, only heat and friction and Benson’s wet mouth on his neck and Benson’s erection bumping against his own.
A kiss at a time, Benson backs him up until he’s against the bed. Randy allows his knees to buckle, sagging onto the mattress and dragging Benson down with him. The feeling of Benson’s densely muscled body pressing down on his own makes him brave.
“You said earlier you’re not going to fuck me?” Randy’s voice lilts up at the end, turning the statement into a question. “This feels an awful lot like you’re trying to fuck me, Benson.”
“Maybe I changed my mind,” Benson says, mouth hovering over the scar on Randy’s shoulder, and a cold thrill shivers its way through Randy’s body.
“Maybe?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Benson cocks his head, looking up at him, a mixture of anxiety and arousal written across his face. “What d’you think about that, Randy?” He savors the letters of Randy’s name, rolling them over in his mouth as he draws out each syllable. Every time he says his name, it’s like he’s saying it for the very first time and he’s discovering how much he likes the feel of it on his tongue.
“I think you know what I think,” Randy replies, barely holding it together.
“Do I?” Okay, now he’s just being mean, in a playful way, like an animal playing with its food.
“I mean, I think it’s pretty clear, Benson.” Randy’s hands wander over Benson’s cropped hair. “I want what you want.”
“Yeah?” Benson ducks away, fumbling across the covers for the something he tossed on the bed. He comes back up with a travel-sized bottle of lube. Randy’s eyebrows go up, and Benson shrugs. “Never hurts to be prepared,” he says, squirting some across his fingers. “That’s the real lesson here.”
“Did you bring that here for me?” Randy goggles at Benson moving his slick fingers downward.
“Nah,” Benson replies. He puts one cold, slick finger against Randy’s asshole, and Randy shudders, clenching at the sensation alone. “I never thought in a million years you’d be this hard up for me.” He leans in close, whispering now. “I kind of thought I’d walk out of here in cuffs.”
Before Randy can say anything, or even fully process that, Benson plunges a finger inside him, and all the words are knocked out of his head. This isn’t something he’d ever done to himself, not even in his most curious moments. It feels supremely weird, Benson pumping one finger inside of him like an angular worm, his other hand spread out flat and calming against his stomach.
Randy isn’t sure how long this part is supposed to take, or what he’s supposed to do with his hands, or if he’s supposed to just be watching Benson stare down at his work as though it’s some sort of grim and life-threatening mission. He has no frame of reference, no visual to compare it against. Lying there, on top of the shitty motel room quilt, he lets out little ohs and oh fucks and whimpers Benson’s name as he gradually progresses from cautious probing to a multi-fingered approach. Randy’s stomach squirms with weird arousal, his hips twitching and jerking at Benson’s ministrations.
“Benson,” he says, soft and desperate. “Benson. Are you… Are you gonna…”
“Yeah, I’m gonna. Don’t get your panties in a wad.” Benson grimaces, knuckle deep, and the way his face scrunches up inspires in Randy an unspeakable feeling of fondness, horrible and warm. A year ago, he’d been guaranteed to see that face contort itself into dead-eyed disgust at least four times a week. Now, it’s a rare treat.
All at once, Benson extracts his fingers, and Randy shudders. The intrusion felt weird, but the lack feels even weirder, his insides clenching, empty, lonely. Down at the end of the bed, Benson fumbles with something. He can’t, won’t, look up at Randy, his hands and groin below the edge of the bed, out of sight. Randy wants to see, wants to watch Benson slick himself up, but when he props himself up Benson seemingly reflexively twists and angles his body away, his eyes shrouded by lashes and heavy lids, his cheeks flushed. Then, as quickly as he’d withdrawn, Benson surges forward, clambering over Randy’s body until they’re nearly flush against each other, Benson’s face buried in Randy’s shoulder. He hitches Randy’s legs up around his waist, a subtle shake in his hands, and then guides himself, inch by excruciating inch, inside Randy.
If getting fingered felt weird, this feels downright bizarre. Randy’s head tips back, his whole body going tight, Benson’s name escaping his lips in a choked gasp.
“Relax,” Benson says into his shoulder, slightly muffled, slightly wet. “You’re gonna snap my damn cock off.”
Randy tries. He really tries. He breathes deeply, a count of seven in, a count of seven out, over and over, digging his nails into Benson’s back. Slowly, it gets easier. Slowly, Benson finds his way home inside Randy.
“Oh, god,” Randy says, when Benson finally stops moving. “Holy shit, Benson.”
Benson looks up and laughs. “You should see your face.”
“Does it feel like this every time?” Randy feels split open. The visual that comes to mind is a log with an axe wedged halfway through, its pale insides seeing the outside for the first time ever.
“I guess it depends,” Benson says, bracing himself over Randy. Even that slight repositioning sends a jolt through Randy, from his asshole to his heart. “Me, I never got a taste for it. Maybe you will.”
“Why don’t we find out,” Randy says, something huge and hot and frightening in his chest.
Benson snorts. “Whatever you say,” he says. Agonizingly, he begins to move. He braces himself on his elbow, one hand on Randy’s hip, and thrusts. With every movement, he punches a little grunt out of Randy, wave after wave of pleasure-pain-pleasure rolling through his body. His balls tight, his heart thudding in his cock, he throws one arm over his face and holds onto the bed with the other hand. His skin is hot and hyper-sensitive, sweat beading on his nose.
With every thrust, Benson’s precarious position leaning on his elbow slips further and further, until he’s once again draped over top of Randy, their flushed bodies pressed against each other, Benson’s hips hard at work humping him into the mattress. His balls slap against Randy’s ass with every movement, his thrusts starting out cautious but rhythmic but then devolving into a jerkier, more desperate kind of movement.
Fucking into him, wet and hard, Benson clutches at Randy, his face buried in the crook of Randy’s neck. His breath is hot and damp, and his every movement sends a sizzling pleasure through Randy’s body. He’s never been harder in his life, split open, his sensitive cock trapped under Benson’s stomach.
He never imagined that this is what it would be like to lose his virginity. To lie here under Benson’s shuddering body, clinging to him for dear life, pleasure unfurling uncomfortably in his gut while he gasps like a fish drowning on air, it sort of blows his mind. It wasn’t even something he considered that fateful day, under Benson’s heavy guiding hand, blood under his nails, gore burned into his retinas. There was only the lesson. Now, this is a kind of new lesson Benson has to impart: how to give a part of yourself away, permanently. How to hold on for dear life and take it. It’s overwhelming, the sensation, the monumental weight of significance, the pressure and friction of Benson’s stomach against his cock, shifting with every messy thrust. It’s too much. Without meaning to, Randy comes, too quickly, trembling and wailing out something incoherent. His nails bite deep into Benson’s back.
“God damn, Randy,” Benson huffs, still moving, as though if he stops he’ll die. “It’s not a race.” When he speaks, his lips brush against Randy’s neck, and Randy shivers at the touch.
“Like you did any better your first time,” he shoots back, hypersensitive, every thrust now almost too much, his cum quickly growing tacky and weird between their bellies. Benson stiffens. He gives one, two, three more jerky thrusts, and then pulls out and away, rolling over on the bed next to Randy, still hard but with a strange expression on his face, his eyes shiny.
Randy pushes himself up on his elbows, his concern almost able to distract him from the sudden weird empty sensation. “Benson?”
“Shut up.” Benson won’t meet his eyes. He adjusts his flushed cock with the heel of his hand, but makes no other move to get himself off.
Gently, Randy asks, “Do you want me to help you, Benson?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Benson drawls, and it almost sounds like a dismissal, but he doesn’t shy away when Randy crawls over to him.
“If I said something wrong, I’m sorry,” Randy says. “Let me make it up to you.”
Benson doesn’t say anything, but he meets Randy’s eyes and slowly, deliberately, he lets his legs fall apart.
His eyes locked on Benson’s, Randy spits into his palm and reaches forward, his hand gleaming in the lamplight. Before he even makes contact, Benson stiffens, his hips canting upward. His cock, still shiny with lube, meets Randy’s wet palm with a smack.
As he strokes Benson’s cock, he says, “I want you to know that was really good, for me. And I want to thank you for that. For making it good.”
Benson works his jaw for a moment, breathing heavily, eyes bright and odd, before saying, “You don’t have to thank me.” His face is a tapestry of inscrutable emotions. His pulse beats a tattoo in his cock against Randy’s palm.
“I do,” Randy insists. Languid and clear-headed, he presses on, even as he strokes Benson lazily. “I want you to know you didn’t ruin my life. You saved it.”
“Oh yeah, how’s that?” Benson manages, breathing heavily, his hips jerking with every stroke, chasing more pressure, more friction.
“I needed a kick in the ass, or I was gonna die working at Burgers Burgers Burgers. I’ve got a bit of purpose, now, and you gave that to me.”
“Yeah?” Benson’s voice catches in his throat, his eyes all watery. He’s breathing fast, a blotchy flush dappling his chest.
“Yeah.” Randy smiles. “I’m gonna make it out of there. Like you did.”
With a choked sob, Benson comes over Randy’s fist. He collapses onto Randy’s shoulder, his blunt nose bumping against Randy’s bullet scar. For a long moment, they stay like that, Benson’s cheeks wet against Randy’s skin. He doesn’t say anything, he just waits. This close, Benson must be able to hear Randy’s heart thudding away. Finally, Benson takes a hard breath in through his nose and pushes himself away and off the bed.
“I’m gonna go get myself cleaned up,” he tells Randy, clearly trying to arrange his face into an expression resembling normalcy.
“Sure. Go ahead,” Randy says, his jizz cooling uncomfortably in his stomach hair now having been joined by Benson’s slightly warmer jizz sticking to his knuckle hair. Benson’s emotional state seems more pressing than all that at the moment. Trying to hold onto the feeling that’s slipping away for just a moment longer, he adds, “Promise me we’ll do this again? Whenever it’s safe?”
Benson lets out a wet, derisive chuckle. “It’s never gonna be safe, so put that out of your head.” He pauses, turning a thought over in his head, and then says, “If you get yourself a burner phone, though, maybe we can aim for inconspicuous.”
“I can live with inconspicuous,” Randy says.
As Benson leaves to clean himself up, uncertainty hangs in the air, tainting the afterglow. Randy flops back on the bed, staring at a water stain on the ceiling tiles. This kind of relationship has a limited shelf life, he knows. He’s not stupid enough to believe otherwise. He’s going to do it anyway, though. Of this, Randy is sure. There’s been a Benson-shaped hole in his life for eight months, and he’s going to fill it with Benson, or die trying.