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Somewhere along a rural highway, mid-afternoon. The Chrysler rumbles down a nearly empty road, sun beating down through the cracked windshield. The interior is stifling, saturated with the scents of gasoline, sweat, and Benson’s cigarette smoke.
Randy slouched deeper into the passenger seat, legs pulled up. His cheek pressed against the warm window, watching the trees blur past. His shirt stuck to his back. The AC had long since given up trying to keep up. His throat was dry, and the soda Benson bought him at the last gas station was flat and warm in the cup holder. Still, he sipped at it. Slowly.
The car rattled when it went over bumps. Benson’s knuckles were tight around the steering wheel, one hand drifting occasionally to the cigarette between his lips, or to slide in another cassette.
They hadn’t spoken in a while, not since breakfast, which was gas station donuts eaten in silence while leaning against the car. Benson didn’t press. Never did. Sometimes he’d hum to whatever was playing in the car. Sometimes he’d shoot Randy a glance when he thought he wasn’t looking. Not the kind of look Randy expected from someone who’d kidnapped him. Not anymore.
Was he even kidnapped? That line had blurred a while back. He’d had chances. Opportunities. Rest stops, motels with broken locks. That bus station in Abilene. But he’d stayed. Not because he trusted Benson. Not exactly. But because he wanted to.
Randy’s eyes drifted to Benson’s profile. The dark stubble, jaw tense, a smudge of ash near the collar of his shirt. He smelled like burnt tobacco, engine oil, like cedar or leather, something rough. He’d grown used to it, inhaled his scent sometimes when he was asleep.
He looked away quickly when Benson flicked his cigarette out the window and glanced over.
“You alright?”
Randy nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“We’ll find a place tonight,” Benson cleared his throat, rubbing his jaw. “Somewhere with a shower.”
Randy didn’t answer. He just looked out the window again, chewing the inside of his cheek. A part of him craved those nights in motels, shitty as they were. The stained sheets and humming ice machines. But also the way Benson would sleep close, never touching, never overstepping, but always near enough that Randy could hear him breathing in the dark.
Sometimes Randy watched him, just barely, in the dim glow of TV static or parking lot lights bleeding through the curtains. Watched how the hard lines of his face softened in sleep. Sometimes, though he didn’t understand why, he liked how safe that made him feel. Safe with the man who’d once killed three, or. Wait, no. It was four. Four people in cold blood.
Instead, he leaned in closer and spoke softly, “You always smell like gas and smoke.”
Benson glanced over, one brow raised. “That a complaint?”
Randy shook his head slowly. “No. I think I like it.”
Benson didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest smile. Then he turned his eyes back to the road, and the Chrysler rumbled on.
-
A cracked lot off Route 19. The Chrysler idles crookedly at the front office. Benson stands at the counter with his wallet. Randy lingers behind, arms crossed tight.
The woman behind the desk barely looked up from her soap opera playing on a tiny TV perched on a shelf. She slid a key across the counter with chipped red nails and a bored expression.
“Only one room left,” She muttered. “Double bed. No smoking.”
Benson snorted under his breath, pocketed the key.
They didn’t say anything as they walked back to the car. Benson flicked the stub of a cigarette into a puddle. The sun was dipping low now, a thick orange haze settling over everything. Randy trailed a few paces behind, staring at the faded numbers on the room doors.
Room 12. The door stuck a little when Benson shoved it open.
The room was small. Stale-smelling. The kind of motel that looked like it had seen a hundred lovers, a few drug deals, and at least one or two really bad nights. The bedspread was patterned with some faded floral print, the kind that probably hadn’t been updated since the '80s. One double bed. No couch. One chair with a broken leg.
Randy stepped inside and stood in place.
Benson dropped their bag on the floor with a grunt. “I’ll sleep on top of the covers. You can take under.”
Randy shrugged, pulling off his jacket. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
Benson was already pulling off his boots. He did it like this wasn’t strange, like they hadn’t spent the last three weeks sleeping in separate corners of shitty motels. or worse, curled up on opposite ends of the Chrysler, pretending not to notice how close they got when it got cold.
Randy sat on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked under his weight. He didn’t lie down yet. Just leaned forward.
“You ever do this before?” He asked without looking up.
Benson, halfway through lighting another cigarette by the cracked bathroom mirror, raised an eyebrow. “Share a bed?”
“No, I mean, a road trip.” Randy clarified. “With your family...Or,” He wanted to say friends, but in all honesty, he didn't know if Benson had any.
A pause. Then Benson exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke, flicked ash into the sink. “No.”
Randy nodded. He still wasn’t sure what they were. Prisoner and captor didn’t feel right anymore. Not when Benson always gave him the chance to walk away. Not when he didn’t.
Benson sat on his side of the bed, keeping his weight close to the edge. The gap between them wasn’t much, but Randy was aware of every inch. He slid under the blanket, worn and scratchy against his skin, and tried not to think about how much of Benson’s scent lingered in the room already, tobacco, leather, the faint sharpness of sweat. He didn’t want to like it.
“You know you snore?” Randy asked, trying to sound casual.
Benson chuckled, low and rough. “Only when I’m drunk.”
Randy glanced over. “I always told my sister I'd take her to Niagara Falls.”
Benson took a drag from his cigarette.
Later, when the lights were out and Benson’s breathing evened beside him, steady, heavy. Randy turned toward the wall and let himself breathe deeply. He could feel Benson’s heat, even without touching.
-
Randy dreams in fragments. Heat. Skin. Breath in his ear.
In the dream, Benson is on top of him. Not violent. Not gentle either. Heavy. His hands brace beside Randy’s head, rough palms pressed into the mattress. Their mouths meet, open, eager. Benson tastes like smoke and sweat.
“Tell me what you want,” Benson growls into his gasping mouth.
Randy moans in reply. He arches into the weight of him. He says Benson’s name, soft at first, then again, louder, begging.
Benson kisses down his neck, his chest, slow and hungry. Everything burns.
There’s pressure. Friction. His hips buck. He’s gasping. Benson’s hand, God, his hand, wrapped around his cock.
Whispering things Randy can’t fully understand but feels deep in his gut. Mine. You’re mine.
Randy wakes with a jolt.
His breath is shallow, ragged. Sweat clings to his skin. The room is still, except for the hum of the A/C and Benson’s slow breathing beside him. The sheets are damp beneath his thighs. A wet patch darkens the front of his boxers.
Fuck.
His whole body tenses with shame.
He lies there, frozen, pulse pounding in his ears. Embarrassment hits first, hot and dizzying. Then guilt, fast on its heels.
He curls away from Benson instinctively, even though he's still asleep, oblivious.
You dreamed about him.
You came in your sleep.
Because of him.
He covers his face with one hand, squeezing his eyes shut like that’ll erase it.
He glances over.
Benson’s still out cold, his arm draped lazily across the bed. His mouth slightly open. Peaceful.
Randy swallows hard and shifts to the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him. He grabs the motel’s scratchy towel from the chair and tiptoes to the bathroom, locking the door behind him with a shaky hand.
Under the harsh light, he stares at himself in the mirror.
His cheeks are flushed. Eyes glassy. There’s a faint mark where the pillow creased his cheek, and his hair sticks up at all angles. He looks young. Messy.
He wipes himself off with the towel, quickly. But the ache doesn’t go away. It stays, low in his stomach, heavier now that it’s been named.
He presses his palms against the sink, leans into the cold porcelain, and whispers.
“Fuck.”
When he finally emerges, Benson is still asleep. Randy crawls back into bed, slow and quiet, body tense and cold now.
He doesn’t sleep again.
But he keeps listening to Benson breathe, telling himself this is just a dream. And trying not to imagine what it would feel like if it wasn’t a dream.
-
A dusty diner off Highway 83. Booth by the window. The Chrysler is parked just outside, sun glinting off the windshield.
Inside, the smell of eggs and burnt coffee. Randy picks at a stack of pancakes. Benson watches him over a cigarette, a steaming mug cupped in his hands.
Randy hadn’t looked him in the eye all morning.
He sat hunched over his plate, shoulders drawn tight, eyes fixed on the food. He was eating, but slow, mechanical bites.
Benson watched him.
Randy had been off since the motel. Jumpier. Quieter. Like every time their shoulders brushed in the car, it startled something loose inside him. Like Benson’s voice suddenly hit him too hard, too close. And it wasn’t fear.
Benson knew fear. This was different.
It felt almost like shame.
"You sleep at all last night?"
Randy flinched. Covered it by cutting a piece of pancake that didn’t need cutting. “Yeah. Fine.”
Benson raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. He took a long drag from his cigarette, let the smoke coil between them.
"You keep acting like I’m about to hit you,” He tilted his head, “I’m not.”
Randy stiffened.
"I know."
"Then what is it?"
Randy's knife scraped against the plate, too hard. His hands went to his lap. His jaw was tight. He still wouldn’t look up.
“It’s nothing, I'm just tired.”
Benson leaned back in the booth, eyes narrowing. He tapped ash into the tray. “Tired of me?”
That made Randy glance up, just for a second.
“No,” He shook his head quickly. “It’s not, it’s not like that.”
Benson didn’t answer right away. He looked out the window, jaw flexing slightly, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
“You had a dream,”
Randy went still.
It was like a freeze-frame. Like someone had hit pause on his whole body.
Benson didn’t press. Didn’t say what kind of dream. But the blush that instantly spread across Randy's face made it obvious.
“I heard you say my name,” He sipped his coffee, “Didn’t mean to listen. Just, heard it. And you were shaking.”
Randy's face turned redder. He looked down, hands clutching at the fabric of his jeans.
“I didn’t mean,” He began, voice tight. “It wasn’t-”
“It’s alright.”
“You don’t gotta be weird about it,” Benson shrugged softly. “We’ve been around each other a lot. Shit gets messy up here.” He tapped his temple.
“I liked it,” Randy whispered, ashamed.
Benson didn’t blink. Didn’t look surprised. If anything, his voice softened more.
“Yeah. I figured.”
Randy looked down again. Benson didn't seem mad.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m not gonna hold it over you.”
He stubbed out his cigarette, slid the ashtray away.
Benson leaned forward, elbows on the table, “We don't have to talk about it. ”
Randy looked at him again, his posture eased. Just slightly.
He didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t flinch when Benson brushed the back of his hand against his knuckles on the table.
-
A neon-lit strip motel in the middle of nowhere. Room 9. One queen bed again. The air smells faintly of mildew and Lysol. Randy sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, face in his hands. Benson stood at the mini-fridge with two bottles of warm beer, watching him in silence.
Benson had said nothing all day after breakfast.
Randy had been waiting for it to drop, the comment, the smirk, the jab he was sure would come. But Benson had been quiet behind the wheel. Casual. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t woken up the night before to Randy’s sharp breathing, his body trembling under the sheets, a dark stain spreading at his crotch.
Like he hadn’t heard him whisper his name. Beg for him in sleep.
Randy’s shame had bloomed like a bruise, wide and deep.
Now he sat frozen in the dim motel room, face hot, stomach twisted.
“I’m serious. Just… please forget about it.”
Benson didn’t answer right away. He cracked the bottle, took a sip, leaned against the chipped dresser.
“I didn’t say anything,”
“But you want to,” Randy muttered.
Benson’s mouth curved into a slow, teasing smile.
“Well, yeah. You were squirming and moaning my name.” He took another sip, then added with a smirk, “Kinda flattering, not gonna lie.”
Randy groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Fuck, stop.”
Benson chuckled softly. Walked over. Sat down beside him, close but not touching.
“I’m messing with you.”
Randy didn’t move. “It’s humiliating.”
“It’s human, Randy, Jesus…” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “I’ve had dreams, too. Maybe not as vocal.” He grinned. “But you’re not the only one with a dirty subconscious, if anything. I was starting to think you were fuckin' impotent or somethin'”
Randy peeked at him through his fingers. “Can you please not talk about this again?”
The grin faded into something softer. “Yeah. I won’t.”
“Like ever.”
“Alright,” Benson nodded, holding up one hand like a vow. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
"How do you fuckin' know?"
Randy studied him warily for a second, still flushed. “You’re really not gonna bring it up again?”
“Not unless you do.”
Randy sat back slowly, letting out a long, shaky breath. His hands dropped to his lap. “Thanks,”
Benson leaned back beside him, their shoulders barely brushing now.
“Can’t help what happens in your sleep, Randy,” His voice dropped a notch. “Could’ve been a lot weirder.”
Randy turned and shot him a look, deadpan. “Benson-”
“I’m done, I’m done!” Benson raised both hands, laughing. “Promise.”
Randy turned away again, embarrassed but smiling a little despite himself. A tense little knot in his chest eased just a bit.
Benson got up, stretched, his back popping, and started kicking off his boots.
“I’ll take the floor tonight,”
Randy hesitated. “You don’t have to.”
Benson shrugged.
Randy pulled the covers over himself, turning toward the wall. “Night.”
Benson’s voice came from the other side of the room, warm and low.
“Night, Randy.”
Randy closed his eyes. His cheeks still burned. But he wasn’t shaking anymore.
-
The room is dark, faint blue glow from a neon vacancy sign outside. The hum of the air conditioner drones steadily.
Randy asleep soundly, curled beneath the thin blanket, one hand near his face. Benson lies on his back, on the spare thicker sheet, a single pillow nestled under his head, shirtless, one arm slung over his stomach. He shifts in his sleep, brow creased, breath quickening.
In the dream, they’re not running. They’re still.
It’s a weird kind of silence, warm, domestic. They’re in some nameless house that doesn’t exist, where everything is golden and slow. A breeze carries the smell of laundry and coffee, maybe, or Randy’s skin.
Benson is sitting on a couch, half-asleep, and Randy crawls into his lap without asking. It’s natural. Familiar. His thighs straddle Benson’s hips, eyes sleepy and soft. There’s no fear in him. No hesitation.
“Is this okay?” Randy whispers, forehead pressing to Benson’s.
“Yeah,” Benson breathes, hands sliding up under the hem of Randy’s shirt. “More than okay.”
Randy leans in and kisses him. His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of spearmint. His fingers slide into Benson’s hair, and Benson groans into the kiss like, like it's easy.
They fuck like they’ve done it a thousand times, hips rolling lazily, hands gripping tight. Randy sighs against him, breath hot in his ear, “You can touch me... I want you to.”
Benson palms the back of Randy’s thigh, slides his hand up—
He jolts awake.
Chest heaving. Jaw clenched. His skin is damp, his boxers wet. A deep, aching pressure throbs in his groin, and shame tightens across his chest.
He rubs his eyes hard.
Jesus.
He glances sideways.
Randy is still asleep, facing away from him, tucked small into the blankets. His breathing is slow. Peaceful. Innocent.
Fucking asshole, his stupid-ass fault.
Benson presses a fist to his mouth, teeth threatening to split knuckle.
It was the closeness that shook him. The trust. The warmth of being wanted by someone so careful and unsure and brave.
Benson sits up slowly, careful not to disturb the mattress. He grabs the towel from the bathroom door, wipes himself off with a tight jaw, and pulls on a shirt.
He doesn't look at Randy again. Can’t.
He just steps out onto the motel walkway, lights a cigarette.
-
The bathroom door is cracked open, letting in soft light. Steam lingers faintly in the air. Randy rubs sleep from his eyes, yawns, and steps inside barefoot, shirt hanging loose around his frame. He reaches for the sink, then, stops.
There, draped over the shower rod, is a familiar pair of black boxers, damp, freshly washed, hanging to dry.
His eyes linger on them for a second. There’s no mistaking the reason why they were cleaned. They usually stopped by a laundromat once or twice a week, depending on where they were and how hot it was.
A slow, sly smile creeps across his face.
He glances back toward the other room, where Benson is sprawled face-down on the floor, still asleep, mouth slightly open, blanket half-kicked off.
Randy turns back to the sink, suppressing a laugh. He brushes his teeth, eyes flicking to the boxers again and again.
By the time Benson stirs, Randy’s already at the small table by the window, sipping coffee from a plastic cup, legs tucked under him.
Benson grunts as he sits up, rubbing his face. “What time is it?”
“Early,” Randy says, without looking up. “Coffee’s shit.”
Benson drags himself toward the bathroom, still half-asleep, scratching his ribs. He disappears inside, and then. A pause. Silence.
“Something you wanna say?” Benson calls dryly from behind the door.
Randy sips his coffee. “Nope.”
“You sure?”
“I mean…You left your underwear in the bathroom, it's kind of obvious."
There’s a loud thud, the unmistakable sound of Benson hitting his head lightly against the bathroom door in frustration.
“Christ.”
Randy leans back in the chair, grinning into his cup. “I mean, if you wanted me to see them, you could’ve just laid them on my pillow.”
The door swings open and Benson appears, shirtless, towel slung around his neck.
“You're a real fuckin' brat, you know that?” He mutters, grabbing a fresh shirt from the duffel bag.
Randy grinned into his mug.
Benson freezes for half a second, eyes flicking up to Randy’s. There’s a heat in them now—not angry. Just charged.
“You dreaming about me again?” Benson grins, “That what’s got you so bold this morning?”
Randy just shrugs. “Nope. Slept like a baby.”
He waits a beat. Then adds, deadpan, “You, on the other hand, were probably breathing real heavy.”
Benson narrows his eyes. “You want me to take those boxers and wring them out over your head?”
Randy lifts his coffee cup like a toast. “I’m just saying… now we’re even.”
For once, it’s Benson who looks away first, biting back a reluctant grin as he pulls the towel from his neck and tosses it at Randy.
Randy catches it, still smirking, cheeks pink.
They don’t say anything more about it. For now.
-
The room smells faintly of Benson’s cigarettes and motel soap. Randy is stretched out on the bed, flipping through the channels on the old TV with lazy disinterest.
“Y’know,” Benson drawled, “You’ve got a hell of an imagination. All that about me dreaming…”
Randy didn’t even look up from the TV. “Wasn’t imagining anything. Evidence was pretty clear.”
“Oh yeah?” Benson stepped away from the dresser. He wandered toward the foot of the bed. “And you just assumed I was dreaming about you?”
Randy finally looked at him, blinking once. His grin faltered just a little. “...Weren’t you?”
Benson smirked, cocking his head slightly. “Who said I was dreaming about you?”
That hit like a jab, not cruel, just sharp. Randy’s expression flickered for a half-second. He looked away, back to the TV, suddenly very focused on a commercial for car insurance.
“Oh.”
Benson watched the way Randy’s shoulders stiffened, how the spark of smugness drained out like air from a balloon.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed beside him, teasing but gentler as he spoke.
“Relax, I’m fucking with you.”
Randy shot him a half-hearted glare.
They sat side by side. Then Benson leaned back on his palms, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“And, yeah.” He added after a beat, “Goes without saying, but, yeah, I dreamt about you.”
Randy turned toward him slightly, cautious. “Was it...bad?”
Benson looked at him, dead serious now.
“No. It was weirdly...normal.”
That silence came again. Randy swallowed, throat dry.
“O-Oh.”
Benson looked back at the TV, clearing his throat.
“Channel two’s got cartoons,” He muttered. “Better than that daytime court bullshit.”
Randy didn’t respond. He was still staring at Benson, cheeks slightly pink.
But he changed the channel.
And left it there.
-
A still lake about twenty minutes off the highway. Pine trees ring the shore, and dragonflies dart over the glassy surface.
The Chrysler is parked just off the gravel trail. Clothes tossed haphazardly in the back seat. Benson and Randy sit near the water’s edge, barefoot and shirtless, jeans rolled to their knees, sun painting their skin gold. Two warm beers sit in the dirt beside them. The heat buzzes around them.
The sun was beginning its long slide down, casting lazy reflections off the water. Randy’s legs were stretched out, toes barely brushing the edge of the lake. Sweat rolled slowly down the curve of his back, and his hair clung damp to his forehead.
Benson sat beside him, arms resting on his knees, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He hadn’t said much for a while, just watched the water and drank.
Randy took a sip of beer, grimaced at the warmth. “You ever had a boyfriend?”
Benson didn’t react right away. He kept looking at the lake. Then he raised the cigarette to his lips, took a long drag, exhaled.
“No,”
Randy glanced at him. “Girlfriend?”
Benson shrugged. “Once or twice.”
It sounded like the truth. The tone was flat, firm. But something in the way he said it… too fast, too smooth. The way his jaw flexed, the way he wouldn’t quite meet Randy’s eyes.
He was lying.
Randy didn’t call him on it. Not directly. He just nodded slowly, looked back out at the lake, and let the silence stretch.
“I figured you must’ve. You seem like someone who...”
Benson huffed a small laugh. “Like someone who?”
Randy’s voice was quieter now. “I don't know. You talk like you have, like you've...had sex.”
Benson didn’t answer. His beer sat untouched by his foot. He dropped the cigarette into the dirt, crushed it out with a twist of his heel.
“I'm not your boyfriend, Randy.”
Randy turned toward him, eyes narrowing. “That’s not what I meant.”
Benson didn’t reply.
Another breeze passed over the lake, rippling the surface. A bird called from the trees. The sky was turning amber, and the beer had grown even warmer in the sun, but neither of them moved.
Randy picked up his bottle and tilted it toward Benson.
“Have you… ever been with a guy before?”
Benson shrugged, shoulders loose. He gazed out over the water, lips pressed together. After a moment, he nodded, “Yeah. A few times.”
Randy’s heart thumped. He waited, hopeful. “What was it like?”
Benson took a slow breath and looked at him. “Fine.”
“Just… fine?” Randy echoed, leaning forward. “You don’t-”
“Nothing to it,” Benson cut in, eyes drifting back to the lake. He picked at a knot of driftwood beside him. “You want more details? Ask someone else.”
Randy swallowed. He tried again, “I’m just… curious. Was it different from… y'know.” He shrugged, “Was it, nice?”
Benson let out a short laugh, but it wasn’t amused. He flexed his fingers around the wood. “Yeah. Nice.” He paused. “But like I said, doesn’t matter now. I don’t talk about it.”
Randy’s fingers itched to brush against Benson’s arm. “Why not?”
“Because,” Benson's face twisted, like the memories of long forgotten nights were suddenly back, “It’s old shit. Doesn’t help you or me.”
Randy looked away, staring at the dark water lapping the shore. “Sorry, I asked.”
Benson shook his head once. “Don’t be. Just… don’t push.” He reached out and tapped Randy’s knee. “Some things I keep to myself.”
Randy nodded, mouth tight. He took a breath, let it out. The crickets filled the silence again.
After a moment, Benson stood, brushing sand from his jeans. “Let’s head back before it gets dark,” He offered out a hand. “I’ll drive.”
Randy took the hand without thinking, letting Benson pull him up.
"Like you'd ever let me drive."
Benson snorted.
-
The Chrysler was parked at an overlook. The sky is bruised purple; headlights of distant cars trace the highway below.
Randy sat in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched against the chill, Benson behind the wheel, face half‑lit by the dash glow.
Randy cleared his throat, heart thumping in the quiet. “You ever think about home?”
Benson’s hand froze on the steering wheel. He didn’t look at Randy. Just flicked the lighter open and shut. “Not much point,” he said.
Randy’s pulse sped. “Why not?”
Benson took a slow drag from his cigarette, staring straight ahead. “Nothing there for me anymore.”
“Your ma.”
Benson’s jaw clenched. He exhaled smoke in one short, sharp plume.
Randy stared at him, frustration rising. “I told you everything, anything you asked, Lisa, my mom. Miss Beard.”
Benson’s gaze flicked to Randy for a second, cold. Then back to the windshield. “I didn’t leave family I miss.”
Randy swallowed. “So you don’t miss her?”
Silence. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the distant rush of cars.
Finally, Benson ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, eyes tightening. “Stop asking.”
Randy’s chest ached. He leaned forward. “You have to tell me something.”
Benson’s hand gripped the wheel, knuckles white. “I said stop.”
Randy exhaled, head thudding back against his seat. “I just, I'm curious.”
Benson’s shoulders rose in a shrug so slight Randy almost missed it. “I’m not that interesting, Randy.”
Randy’s vision blurred with frustration. He shook his head. “I think you're interesting.”
Benson’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Only by force.”
Randy sat back, heart pounding. The silence stretched, stubborn and heavy. He watched Benson’s profile in the dim light, hard lines, closed‑off eyes.
After a long moment, Randy whispered, “Fine.”
Benson didn’t respond. He reached over and switched off the engine.
They sat in darkness.
-
Outside, the neon vacancy sign flickers. The rest of the room is shadowed and still. Randy lies on his side facing away from Benson, tangled in the scratchy sheets.
In his sleep, Randy is pressed against Benson’s back. He can feel the heat of Benson’s shoulders in the dream in a sunlit bedroom, one with wide windows. Benson’s arm curves around him, fingers brushing light along his ribs, palm warm across his stomach. Randy leans into the touch, closes his eyes, whispers Benson’s name.
Then he wakes.
Randy’s eyes open to darkness and emptiness. The bed beside him is cool; Benson lies on his back, arms folded across his chest, face turned toward the ceiling. The lamp’s yellow glow reveals the tension in Benson’s jaw and the steady rise and fall of his breathing, but there’s no hand on Randy’s hip. No weight of warmth beside him.
Randy’s chest tightens. He shifts closer, heart pounding, but stops himself just short of touching. His hand hovers above the sheet for a second, then drops.
Across the room, Benson’s voice breaks the quiet.
“Another dream?”
Randy swallows. His voice comes out hoarse.
“I can't remember.”
Benson turns his head slightly, eyes half‑open in the dim light. A faint smile lifts one corner of his mouth, teasing, gentle.
“You were mumbling again.”
Randy chews his lip, heat flickering in his cheeks. He looks down at his hands.
“I… must’ve been dreaming.” His voice cracks. “Sorry.”
“Dreams happen.”
Randy’s pulse hammers. He swallows again, wishing Benson would roll over, pull him close. Wishing Benson’s fingertip would brush his arm, even just once. But Benson lies still, arms tight across his chest.
Randy turns onto his back, gazing at the ceiling. His thumb traces a line on the blanket. He forces his voice casual.
“Think you’re gonna sleep?”
Benson sighs softly, silence stretching before he answers.
“Maybe in a bit.”
Randy’s shoulders slump. He shifts under the covers, careful not to make a sound.
“I’ll… try to sleep.”
Benson doesn’t reach out. Randy closes his eyes, jaw clenched, longing to feel the weight of Benson’s hand on his hip.
In the half‑light, Randy curls inward, hugging his knees to his chest, wishing he’d said something.
-
The hum of the air conditioner drones softly.
Randy lay on his side, pillow pulled up beneath his arm, staring at the faint glow beneath the bathroom door. He’d woken again.
He tried to roll back onto his back, to will sleep back into those soft edges of unconsciousness. Instead, he froze as he heard it.
First, the mattress creaking under weight, then the quiet click of the bathroom latch. Randy’s pulse hitched.
A muted rustle of denim, the soft scrape of fabric sliding, something private being revealed behind that thin wooden barrier. Then Benson’s breath, low and quick, not tears but something rushed, controlled.
Randy’s hand drifted to the bedspread, fingers twisting the sheet. He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe too deeply. He just listened.
The tell-tale of Benson grunting, not loud, not even enough mistake it as anything more than a simple cough, a clear of the throat. But, the exhale afterward, the slow, harsh breath he blew from his lungs.
Randy forced his face further into the rough fabric of the pillow. Notice on the catch against his dry skin. Not Benson's hand wrapped around himself.
Another quiet shuffle. The water tap squeaked as it opened and closed, perhaps rinsing away come and tension. Then the slow drip of the faucet, each drop a tiny echo.
He could almost feel Benson’s back turned toward him, the curve of his spine outlined by the lamplight slipping through the crack.
A stifled exhale.
Randy swallowed.
The faucet clicked again. Fabric rustled one last time. Then the bathroom light flicked off, and the latch turned quietly.
Randy stayed motionless as the door swung open an inch.
He waited, breath shallow. A soft exhale from Benson, the sound of someone gathering themselves.
Then the door clicked shut again.
Silence settled. The shower hummed on. Randy lay back against his pillow, chest tight, and closed his eyes.
-
The smell of bacon and syrup hangs in the air. Benson and Randy sit side by side, menus discarded, untouched coffee cooling in front of them.
Benson pushed his hash browns around his plate with the tip of his fork, eyes on the window where a couple of bikes rumbled past. Randy stared at the swirl in his coffee, spoon resting on the saucer.
A waitress slid pancakes and bacon between them without a word. Benson nodded “thanks” but didn’t look up. Randy’s fingers tapped a lazy rhythm on the table-top.
They’d both woken early, dressed in silence, made their way here without glances. Neither mentioned the motel. Neither asked if the other had slept well.
Randy cleared his throat. “You want more coffee?”
Benson’s fork paused, then he shrugged. “Maybe later.”
Silence settled again. Randy buttered a pancake, breathed in the sweet steam. He almost said something like, “About last night…”, but stopped. Instead, he took a bite.
Benson watched him chew, then dipped his fork into the bacon grease. “This place still does good syrup,”
“Yeah,” Randy nodded, swallowing. He picked at a scrambled egg with a fork. “I like the jukebox here.”
Benson snorted softly, head tilting as he listened to an old blues tune crackle through the speakers. “Who picks blues at nine in the morning?”
Randy smiled.
They ate another few bites without speaking of the night’s events. Randy’s pulse fluttered every time his knee brushed Benson’s under the table, but Benson didn’t flinch.
“Ready to go?” He stood, tossed a few bills on the table.
Randy nodded and stood too, turning back once to look at their half‑finished plates.
Randy’s gaze flicked to Benson’s jaw, relaxed now, not clenched.
He swallowed, slipped on his jacket, and followed Benson out the door.
Outside, the morning sun felt sharp on their faces. They climbed into the Chrysler without speaking. The engine rumbled to life, and the diner receded in the rearview mirror.
-
In his dream, they’re no longer cramped in a motel but stretched out on a wide, plush rug before a stone hearth. The cabin’s single window frames a clear night sky, stars glinting.
Randy lies on his back, head pillowed against Benson’s upper arm. Benson’s chest rises and falls above him, steady and warm. In the velvet hush, Randy slides one hand beneath his own boxers, slow, indulgent, fingertips brushing damp against denim until the fabric bunches with every roll of his hips.
The pressure of the rug beneath him feels soft and cozy, like he’s floating on it.
Benson’s free hand drifts down, brushing along Randy’s ribcage, fingertips tracing the curve of his waist before slipping beneath Randy’s hand to meet skin. The sudden contact startles Randy into a sharp inhale, but he relaxes as Benson’s palm settles around his cock. His fingers curling lightly, thumb stroking a lazy figure‑eight at the tip, smearing pre-come. Randy’s breath stops, back arching as raw heat blooms low in his belly.
Above them, the moon glints off Benson’s collarbone and the fine hairs at the base of his throat. The cabin's walls slowly melting around them. Randy turns his head to catch his breath and finds Benson watching him.
Randy shifts, curling one leg around Benson’s hip, pressing the mound of his thigh against Benson’s dick. The slide of skin-on-skin, bare and slick, sends a tremor through them both. Benson’s strokes deepen, speeding up in time with Randy’s grinding, until the cabin air feels light and hot.
Randy’s hand touches Benson’s cock, tugging him toward climax even as Benson’s grip tightens around his base. Benson’s lips part in a silent exhale that vibrates through Randy’s spine.
Randy’s muscles coil tight, a low groan building in his throat. Benson’s hand tugs over him one last perfect time, then releases in the swell of Randy’s cry. The rug shifts as their hips jerk in shared release. Randy’s shudder echoed in a soft gasp from Benson, both ripples of pleasure tumbling into the quiet of the cabin.
Randy’s eyes snap open to the motel’s dim lamp glow. He lies tangled in the coarse sheets, blanket pooled at his hips, he’s leaking through his boxers, still hard, his hips still grinding.
Still half-asleep, body lucid and warm, he chases after the need for release in his blood, cheeks hot, skin pulsing.
It isn’t until he hears Benson exhale, that he even remembers he’s in bed with him. The breath is rushed, through his nose. Trembling.
The puff startles Randy to still his thumping hips.
As he does, Benson exhales once more, louder, harder. Randy can feel the overwhelming heat of his body, just ever so slightly pressed against him, arm to arm, skin to skin.
The silence is unbearably thick, stuffy, and warm. He swallows, the gulp is dry and audible.
He knows Benson is right there. Watching him. Looking over him.
He must’ve kicked off the blanket more than he thought, he feels Benson’s breath blow over his back.
Benson’s either gauging if Randy is still asleep, or if he just doesn’t care and is deciding on to just keep going. Or, he wants to…like Randy wants to.
His eyelashes catch on the rough pillow cover as they flutter shut. He arcs his hips once, slightly. Shyly.
He can feel the weight of Benson watching him. But, he can also feel when Benson’s hand goes back working itself over his cock.
He can hear it, the quiet tug of skin. The soft brush of blankets shifting. Another, relieved sigh of air passing through Benson’s open mouth.
He can see it so clearly in his mind, Benson's slack mouth like when he's asleep. Big, half-lidded eyes suddenly dark and creased. The soft curve of his stomach rising and falling in time with the strokes on his cock.
God, his cock. The thought of it is enough to pull whines from Randy as he grinds. His own hard dick pulsating in his underwear, no need for a spit-slick hand. He's always preferred it like this.
It's over quickly for both of them. Randy's mastered the art of coming in almost complete silence, he pushes his forehead into his pillow, squeezes every inch of his face, and shudders. Coming with nothing more than a croaky gasp.
He can hear Benson holding back his sounds, nothing but harsh breath and hiss of air through teeth.
When Benson comes, the bed shakes. The sound built inside his throat sounds painful.
He shifts, careful not to touch, and shifts away to look out the window at the pre-dawn sky.
Randy swallows, chest still shimmering with aftershocks, still facing the wall, cheeks warm.
-
The Chrysler crawls along a two‑lane highway. The windows are cracked, but the air inside is hot. Benson grips the wheel so tightly his knuckles are stark white; Randy sits rigid beside him.
Randy’s throat felt raw. He tried again, voice hollow above the roar of the engine. “Benson.”
Benson didn’t answer. He kept his gaze locked on the road ahead, jaw set, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. The radio hummed static under a twangy country tune, but Benson never turned the dial.
Randy’s palm itched against the door. He opened his mouth, then forced the words out. “Last night… I need to know you’re okay with it.”
Silence, thick and heavy, pressed in all around them. The engine droned. The tires whispered over the asphalt. Benson’s foot tapped a slow, angry rhythm on the brake.
Randy leaned forward, “I’m not angry. I’m not upset. But you’ve barely said two words to me since we left the motel.”
Benson’s head snapped toward him, eyes blazing. For a moment, Randy thought he’d explode. Then Benson turned back to the road, voice cold.
“Some things don’t need explaining.”
Randy’s heart lurched. He inhaled, “Then, what you're going to say that last night was normal, too? What'd you call it? Human?”
The car fishtailed slightly as Benson swerved around a slow‑moving truck. Randy grabbed the dash to steady himself.
“They're just dreams,” Benson spat over his shoulder.
Randy’s chest burned. “Last night wasn't a dream.”
Benson slammed his heel on the accelerator, launching them forward with a jolt. Randy was pressed back into his seat, breath knocked out of him. Benson’s eyes were hard, detached.
“You say anything else and I’ll pull over,” Benson said through clenched teeth. “I swear I will.”
Randy’s throat closed. The heat in the car felt asphyxiating. He swallowed, “Is that a threat?”
Benson’s grip on the wheel eased just a fraction. He exhaled slowly, flicked ash out the window. The cigarette tip glowed bright in the gloom.
“Yes.”
Randy’s fingers twitched at his side. He bowed his head, lips pressed tight.
"Y'know, your threats don't really work on me anymore."
They drove on in silence.
-
The sun hammered through the cracked windshield, turning the Chrysler’s interior into a rolling furnace. Randy sat rigid in the passenger seat, jaw working as he chewed his lower lip, the salty taste of sweat on his tongue. His fingers danced nervously over the edge of his thumb, picking at a ragged cuticle until it bled faintly. He sucked his teeth, glanced away, then back at Benson’s unflinching profile.
He needed to break the silence. His chest tightened. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “Benson.” Firmer, this time.
“What, Randy?”
Randy’s heart hammered. He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat. “We need to talk about last night.”
Another stretch of highway, another minute of silence. Randy chewed his lip again, then ripped at the same cuticle until a drop of blood welled. He could feel the sting, the small incision in his fingers.
Benson’s foot lifted slightly off the gas pedal. The Chrysler slowed, lurching against the heat. At last, Benson released a breath so deep it rattled through the dashboard. He glanced at Randy.
“Fine,”
Randy’s chest unclenched. He dropped his hand, letting the door handle rest beneath his trembling fingers. Words pooled behind his teeth, desperate to pour out. He took a shaky breath.
He swallowed again, caught by the memory of that hush between breaths. “I just needed to know you were okay with it. With me.”
The Chrysler coasted on empty asphalt. Benson’s jaw worked. He tapped ash from his cigarette out the driver’s window. Then he turned toward Randy.
“I am,” Benson nodded. “I’m more than okay.”
Randy’s throat contracted with relief. He felt warmth bloom in his chest, easing the ache that had knotted there since dawn. He dared a small smile.
“Good,” He whispered, voice almost lost under the hum of the engine.
Benson reached across, brushing his knuckles against Randy’s knee. The touch was gentle, almost shy.
Randy closed his eyes briefly, leaning into the contact.
-
He shifted in his seat, fingers brushing the torn seam of the vinyl. He swallowed, voice small, “Hey… next time, when you… you know… do it, can I watch?”
For the first time in hours, Benson’s attention snapped back to him. His grip on the wheel tightened so suddenly the car wobbled in its lane. He turned, eyes wide, horror flashing across his face.
“Jesus, no,”
Randy’s shoulders slumped, the question more foolish aloud than it had seemed inside his head. He dropped his gaze to the crack in the door panel, heat blooming in his cheeks.
Randy drew in a shaky breath, pushing past the sting of rejection. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Well… can we kiss?”
He glanced at Benson’s profile. The rigid line of his jaw.
Benson exhaled. He didn’t answer at once. Instead, he let the car drift along the shoulder, turn signal blinking.
Randy pressed his hands together in his lap, waiting. The scent of gasoline and sweat between them.
Finally, Benson’s hand fell from the wheel. He turned fully in his seat, eyes searching Randy’s. For a moment, Randy thought he’d say no again.
But instead, Benson’s mouth softened. He reached out, thumb brushing across Randy’s knuckles, drawing a slow line across the ridges.
“Yeah,” His voice a whisper. “Yeah, we can do that.”
Randy’s breath caught. He turned in his seat until his knee pressed gently against Benson’s thigh. Then, heart pounding, he leaned in.
Their lips met slowly, as though either of them might pull back at the last second. But they didn’t. Randy leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.
Benson’s mouth was warm, a little chapped, the press of it firmer than Randy expected but gentle, too. The rough grain of his facial hair grazed Randy’s chin, scratchy and soft all at once, leaving a subtle burn in its wake that made Randy’s stomach tighten. The stubble tickled the edge of his nose, prickling his skin each time Benson tilted his head slightly.
Randy inhaled, Benson smelled like gas station soap and cigarette smoke, faint sweat and sun-warmed cotton, and the leather of the driver’s seat where he always slouched, legs spread.
And he tasted like smoke. Bitter at first, like the tip of a still-burning cigarette on the back of the tongue. Almost like honey left too long in the heat, from how fast it spilled down his throat. Randy chased it, parting his lips to let Benson in, breath catching as Benson kissed him.
Their noses brushed. Benson’s stubble scratched again along Randy’s cheek. It made him want to laugh, or sigh, or just bury his face in the space between Benson’s neck and shoulder and stay there forever.
By the time they pulled apart, Randy’s heart was thudding in his throat. Benson didn’t move right away. Just lingered, eyes still half-lidded, thumb brushing absently across Randy’s wrist.
Randy swallowed, dazed. His lips tingled, his jaw felt hot where Benson had touched it. He reached up to rub at the spot, but didn’t want to erase it either.
“…You always taste like that?” Randy asked, breathless.
Benson huffed a soft, crooked laugh and leaned back in his seat, a little dazed himself.