Archive of Our Own

The ring had fit on Jason’s pinky. James tries the same, but it doesn’t fit, not at all. It makes it to the second knuckle before it stops, pulling and twisting his skin like an Indian burn. He takes it off his finger and allows it to sit in his palm.

He was wearing other things James could have taken: a simple watch with a thin black strap, a braided leather bracelet, a thin silver neck chain. What he ended up pulling off of him, though, was this ring. It stood out the most.

The band is silver. It’s bright, and it shines under the lamplight. James is certain it’s real. He’s been handling it for so long, he knows his skin would’ve turned green by now if it was fake.

What he’s not sure is real is the pearl, caressed by an overarching silver skeleton hand that pins it there. It has a nice luster, a champagne color. He remembers being told that if he rubs it against his teeth, and it’s smooth, then it’s fake. If it’s gritty, then it’s real.

So he presses it to his right front tooth, feeling the surface, the way it grinds against the enamel, the sandpaper feeling. With that, he places the pearl between his teeth, not biting down, but simply to hold, and starts thinking of Jason again, that kid, that fucking kid, and what James did to him. Or perhaps, more aptly, what Jason did to James.

James drives for close to seven hours after leaving Albuquerque. The mountains and the cacti and the red dirt and the houses out in the middle of nowhere rush by him, a foreign kind of monotony. Even though he knows he’s heading the right direction on the I-40, it feels like he’s passed by the same landmarks over and over. More than he’s looking forward to getting back home, he’s looking forward to not having to drive past this vast lonely emptiness.

Eventually, his boredom, restlessness, and the growl of his stomach takes the wheel and yanks it to an exit that welcomes him to Kingman, Arizona. He’s low on gas and energy, him and his car running on fumes. His main concern is finding somewhere to eat first. He can fuel up in a bit, then decide whether he can push another couple of hours or whether this will be the place to bed down for the night.

The main strip of the town never left the 50’s, illuminated in neon and gleaming in chrome, hand-painted in dull pastels that don’t quite fit in against the backdrop of the desert sunset. Almost like they were trying to make this place happen, but it never quite got there. There doesn’t seem to be much of a population. James imagines that the people who made the foundations died off and their children left in search of greener pastures. The cars that are parked outside of the pharmacy, the grocer, and the photo developing shop are all older, worn down. The folk that pass by on the sidewalk are, too. When James reaches the end of the street and pulls in front of Inferno Diner in his old, sunbleached red truck, he supposes that he’s not so out of place.

When the bell above the door rings, the young, pretty waitress leaning over the counter looks up from her magazine and turns her attention up towards him. The five other people sitting around throw James a passing glance, but he doesn’t remain in their thoughts for long as they turn back to their food, their coffee, their books.

A light smile brightens the woman’s face, a tired effort, probably sharing James’ weariness at the end of a long day. She straightens up, already pulling a menu from under the counter, and has it in front of him before he even takes a seat at the bar.

“Welcome to Inferno’s. I’m Nicole, I’ll be your waitress today. Take all the time you need and give me a holler when you’re ready.” She doesn’t linger too long. After she pours him a glass of water and places it in front of him, she moves off to tend to the other patron at the end of the bar.

James opens the plastic flaps to scan his options. In the background, he hears the waitress ask the other man if he wants more coffee. By the time James hears the sound of a mug being refilled, he’s made his decision.

Looking down the way, he patiently waits for the waitress to notice he’s ready. As he does so, his eyes come to rest on who she’s with.

The kid has bright auburn curls that curl around his face and over his shoulders, with a wide smile that creases his cheeks, and two rows of square white teeth. Bright eyes that crinkle in the corners as he laughs at something she says to him. It’s something that hits James square in the chest, and he has to look away, down towards his folded hands, the way his fingers twine together. He tightens his grip on himself.

Who knew that flowers could bloom in the desert?

He’s not thinking of that now.

The waitress turns her head and sees him looking. “You ready, sweets?”

“Uh, yeah,” and after she takes out her notepad, “Chicken fried steak with fries and broccoli, and, uh, a Coke, please.”

Her hand moves fast as she scribbles it down, and she smiles again, nodding. It bothers him sometimes, that false kindness that service workers put on for patrons. What would it be like if workers—like this waitress, for example—were genuine about what they thought? Nobody gets to be honest with themselves anymore. It seems that way, anyway. James isn’t entirely sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. It could go either way. For him, nobody seems to like it when he’s himself. Not that it matters either.

Nicole ducks into the kitchen to relay his order, then pours him a glass of Coke and slides it across the counter. James takes a sip, idly observing as she pushes her magazine a few inches over to give him more room. Before she stoops down to read though, she looks at James, somewhat meaningfully, like she wants to say something. He crosses his arms on the table and stares back.

“So, just passing through?” she asks, kindly, softly.

James hums. “Yep. Left Albuquerque this morning.” He appreciates being able to talk to someone after being alone all day. It gives him something to do. It’s an added bonus that the company is warm and beautiful the way she is.

“Where’re you headed?” she asks, leaning over the counter, looking genuinely interested.

In a place like this, James imagines that anybody would want to leave, even if it’s just to be carried off in the words of passing strangers.

“Back up to San Francisco. I live there.”

Her wide blue eyes light up, and for the first time in the night she smiles, and it’s genuine. “Oh wow! I have family up there, it’s such a beautiful place. What were you doing in Albuquerque, if I may ask?”

“Oh. Funeral. My brother.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

“It’s alright.”

It’s not, but when we make strangers uncomfortable with our pain, it’s a small concession on our parts to ease their discomfort.

There’s an uncomfortable silence that passes between them for a moment. Maybe the waitress has something she wants to talk about, but James doesn’t have any ideas himself. While he draws a blank on what to say next, she must see something out of the corner of her eye, because she abruptly turns to look, back over in the direction of the curly-haired kid at the end of the bar. James follows her gaze, and yep, he’s got his book face down on the table, sipping his coffee, trying and failing not to look over in their direction.

“Oh God, you said ‘California’,” she mumbles, turning away. She gives a good-natured laugh and bows her head. Looking back at James, she places the edge of her hand to the side of her face, like she’s trying to block the kid out, and speaks in a low tone. “He’s trying to hitchhike to Los Angeles. He’s been here all day, and every time someone mentions they’re going to Cali, he bugs them. So, get ready.”

The bell in the back dings, and the waitress leaves the counter with an amused, knowing smirk, presumably to get his plate.

Seems she’s right. As soon as she’s gone, he sees the motion out of the corner of his eye as the kid stands and raises his arms over his head to stretch. James can hear a couple of pops as his bones shift back into the right places. His Black Sabbath shirt rides up, just a sliver of pale flesh peeking out.

James swallows hard.

Nonchalantly, with a quiet type of confidence, the kid meanders down to where James is, James watching him every step of the way, and grabs the seat next to him.

“So,” he starts, a grin curling the edges of his lips. “I heard you mention you were going to California.”

It almost makes James laugh. Almost. That feeling he felt before, the one that wrapped itself around his heart, returns a little bit. “The waitress was right. You have the hearing of a goddamned eagle or something.”

“Well, I heard a little bit of what she said. Not a lot, but enough. I figured she was talking about me. She wasn’t too subtle.”

“To be fair, neither are you,” James barbs, good-natured. His guest smirks a little bit, in a way that says you got me.

The door to the kitchen swings open, and the waitress closes the short distance and sets his hot steaming plate in front of him with a ‘bon appetit!’ and the placement of napkin wrapped utensils as an afterthought. She pushes her magazine ever further down the bar, and for the first time since James came in, starts reading again, done with being bothered for now.

The kid has manners enough to allow James to unwrap his fork and knife, and bear down to take a couple bites of everything. The broccoli is undercooked, but the meat and the fries are perfect. Exactly what he needs after driving for the last century. It perks him up instantly.

While James is focused down on his plate, the kid orders another cup of coffee. If he’s been here all day, how many has he had? Good God. James can only imagine.

After a new mug is set down in front of him, James watches as he reaches for the creamer and sugar, pouring it in. The kid delicately twirls a spoon around in the mug, accented with the slight raise of his pinky, adorned with a silver ring that briefly catches James’ eye.

Before the first sip, he must determine this is the best time to speak again, guessing that the man he wants to request a favor from may be more amiable now that he’s starting to be fed. James knows a hustle when he sees one. He respects it.

“I’m Jason,” the kid says simply.

James finishes chewing a hunk of the steak. “Nice to meet you. I’m James.” Neither of them reach out to shake hands. This isn’t a business transaction and it doesn’t require the formality of one.

“I’m trying to get to Los Angeles,” Jason says plainly. “Have some friends waiting on me. If you were passing through, I was going to ask if I could ride with you. I have cash to give you for gas, too, so I wouldn’t be freeloading.”

When James walked in and first saw Jason, the kid stirred something in him. Something that James felt, but something he was going to ignore. But Jason’s right in front of him now, with his pretty narrowed eyes and those thin lips like a scarlet thread curling up, pleading. Someone who wants to be taken. It gets under James’ skin, and he feels that familiar itch pulling at the corners of his mind, refusing to be dismissed. James wants him, he decides, and if Jason is offering himself up, then James won’t be one to refuse.

Shifting in his seat, James turns his body toward Jason. His grin is disingenuous, but nobody ever notices. “Well alright,” he says. “I’ve been really lonely driving, it would be nice to have some company.”

Each word is measured, chosen carefully. He’s said them, variations of them, to different people before. That slight pitiful edge that breaks down defenses.

“And I’ve been lonely waiting around this diner for someone to save me,” Jason says, beaming behind his coffee mug. Smooth, smart-talking kid. James thinks he might have chosen well; if Jason’s looks weren’t enough, his personality would’ve made up for it. James already likes him, just a bit.

“Let me finish up, then we can move.”

Jason pumps his fist a little a gives a small ‘yes!’ “Hear that Nicole?” he says, triumphant and smug. “I finally got someone to give me a ride!”

“Hallelujah,” the waitress deadpans, though with an edge of a tease. “Now I can finally have some peace.”

“Ouch! And here I thought you liked me.”

“I got over it on hour five. Sorry.”

Jason presses a hand to his chest, reaching to clutch the pearls that aren’t there. The waitress smirks and waves a dismissive hand at him before looking back down to her reading. Jason turns back to James, interrupting the end of his meal to ask which car outside is his so he can start dragging his stuff out.

As Jason grabs his duffel from underneath his old seat and ducks out into the parking lot, James scrapes up the last morsels from his plate and then pushes it away. He pulls out his wallet, tucks a twenty under the edge. The waitress doesn’t look up.

He gets up and turns tail out of there.

Jason’s leaning against the bed hatch when James emerges, looking out toward the last remnants of sunlight. His bag is already thrown into the bed of the truck. When he hears the bells above the door tinkle with James’ exit, he turns to look towards James, raising his brows.

“All ready?” James asks.

“Yep! Can’t get out of here fast enough”.

Jason rounds the truck and to start tugging on the passenger door handle, confused when it doesn’t yield for him, James murmurs for him to wait just a second.

James gets into the driver’s seat first, then reaches over to let Jason. The passenger door doesn’t open from the outside, only the inside.

That bloodstain is still there on the passenger’s seat. It’s impossible to miss, smeared on the side close to the console. It’s darkened to the color of rust, soaked into the beige upholstery. There was no cleaning it after it happened. There was so much of it, soaked in so deep, he figured it didn’t matter. James stares at it for a second. A second too long.

If Jason’s like any other normal person, he’s not going to assume the worst. He probably won’t even ask about it, if or when he notices it. It risks coming across as rude if he does. James has an excuse prepared regardless.

The door opens and Jason jumps in, smiling, bright and wide and excited. Lighting up seeing James. It almost makes James’ heart stop a second. He swears nobody’s ever looked at him like that — not family or friends or anybody else he’s invited into his truck before. An ache settles into him, right next to the itch.

James comes back to himself when he hears the sound of Jason buckling himself in.

“Okay,” James says. “First, gas. Then I’ll tell you my plan for the night.”

“So, I think I’m gonna go for another two, maybe three hours. Then, hotel. In the morning, I’ll take you to LA. Cool?”

Half of that is a lie. The other half is what he was going to do anyway, if Jason hadn’t tagged along.

“Fine by me,” Jason says. He’s been nothing but agreements and pleasantries since James met him. He might have a smart mouth, but he’s easy to work with. Jason has all the promise of being good company for as long as James will have him. Though James knows that nothing gold can stay. He knows that.

Silence falls between them as James focuses on getting back on the interstate, heading due West, with California not far ahead. Kingman disappears in the background as the desert rushes up to greet them —not that it made much of an impression, anyway. Five minutes on the road, James realizes how quiet it is. Giving a quick glance to his passenger, he opens the center console between them. When Jason looks over, James gestures for him to help himself.

“Put in whatever you’d like, I’m not picky.”

“I’d hope you aren’t, they’re your tapes,” Jason quips back. James smirks.

Jason digs in the center console, taking his time to look, like it’s a life or death decision what music plays on the stereo for the next hour. Out of the corner of his eye, James sees Jason pick up some of the tapes, squinting in the sparse light of the outside streetlights as he reads the titles, then puts them back. It takes him a while, enough for James to drive five miles, past an abandoned grain silo and a rest stop.

Until he finds one, and he makes an excited noise and hurriedly shoves it into the deck. James wonders which tape it is that stood out to him after it seemed like nothing was going to please him. He furrows his brow, listening intently as he waits for the tape to kick in. Shortly after the opening chords and the frantic pace of the drums, Danny Kirwan starts his croon: “I’ve got things to do, I move everyday, I hope you don’t mind, ‘cause I’m goin’ your way. . .”

That’s… well. James’ hands tighten around the wheel, knuckles whitening. That’s goddamned fucking scary right there. The last time it was played…

He has to clear his throat before he asks. “Fleetwood Mac is what does it for you?” James asks.

“The old stuff does,” Jason replies. “I always liked this album especially. It has ‘Rattlesnake Shake’ which is one of my favorites.”

“Excellent taste,” James tells him. It is a great album. Funnily enough, his brother introduced it to him, when he was fifteen or so. Dad was already gone by that point, and Mom had definitely been out of the house for the day, maybe running errands or something; she didn’t like hearing that stuff being played around her. Anything that had a guitar that went faster or deeper than the Beatles belonged to the devil. The turntable was in the living room, so when they could, they took advantage.

James’ last passenger had put it in the tape deck too, singing the words he knew and humming what he didn’t. Said he played guitar. Mentioned offhandedly that ‘Green Manalishi’ was one of the first songs he learned.

That watch James took is still ticking in the glovebox.

The knife that he used is sitting in the glovebox right next to it.

Coincidences. It doesn’t make James feel any less weird about it.

“What other music do you like?” James asks, just to say something, to say anything.

“I like a lot of stuff. Judas Priest, Kiss, Black Sabbath. Misfits, Venom.”

James hums an agreement. “You got good taste, then. But I figured as much. Your shirt and all.”

Jason looks down at himself briefly, like he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. The album cover for Paranoid is printed on his front, faded from what James guesses are years in and out of the washing machine, well-loved and well-used.

“Oh, well,” Jason murmurs. “Your black tanktop didn’t give me much to work with. But you looked like that type of guy. Long hair, silver jewelry, y’know, the rings and necklaces. Definitely didn’t think that you’d be into, like. Talking Heads or Beach Boys or anything.”

That gets a genuine laugh out of James, the first in awhile, coming from his belly. Jason laughs, too. The tension that he felt shortly before dissipates a little bit, and something else fills its place. Connection. Familiarity. James looks away from the road towards his passenger, and he sees the radiance of his joy, and Jason really is so beautiful, and how lucky is James, to have him for himself. Even if it’s just for now.

When the laughter trails off, there’s nothing but the sound of the music, the precise sounds of the guitar and the focused words that follow. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s a very natural thing.

James glances over at Jason again, who’s looking out the window to get a glimpse of anything the streetlamps and headlights will illuminate. Whether that be the dead animals crushed on the side of the road, the dry grass and weeds that edge the asphalt, or the occasional abandoned structures left by people long gone; he watches keenly, his gaze following something if he finds it interesting enough, head snapping forward once it passes to begin the search anew.

It’s like this every time he has someone new in his car. Where he lets himself indulge in this. He lets himself have these moments where he gets to play pretend. James aches for him. Aches for this, what this is. He likes the shape of this man in the passenger’s seat. He likes the space he occupies – his energy, his being, his presence, his movements. He likes the way he is sitting cross legged, his fingers drumming on his knee with each syllable of the lyrics. He likes the way he mouths the words. It makes James sick to his stomach. How much he wants this, wants to keep this.

He’ll make the best use of this time.

“So, Jason,” he starts. “Are you from Arizona?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jason says. In James’ periphery, he sees his passenger turn to look at the side of his face. “I live in Scottsdale. Me and a couple roommates. Since, uh, ’83. So that makes almost five years.”

“And before that?”

“This little town called Battle Creek, Michigan. It’s tiny, nothing happens there. Me and my friends booked it out of there as soon as we could. One of them had family in Phoenix, and we heard that Arizona was growing, so we thought ‘why not’, y’know?” Jason says, earnest yet concise. He’s probably told this to the people he’s hitchhiked with before. Either he’s tired of iterating the same thing, or he doesn’t want to bore James.

James wants to know more. He wants to know everything.

Before he can ask, though, Jason continues — “What about you? Didn’t you tell the waitress you were from… San Francisco?”

“Yep,” James says, “Born and raised. With any luck I’ll stay around and die there. Don’t think I’d want to go anywhere else. It’s what I know and it’s all I want to know.” Truthfully, he doesn't think he could belong anywhere else. He knows the area, has his whole life, and it’s the one constant that never changes. That’s the way he likes to keep it. He likes knowing that he can leave and come back and it’ll always be there for him.

“That’s nice,” Jason says, enthused, but his tone then takes on a sour note. “I don’t really always feel like I have a home. I’m home wherever I’m with people I love.”

James furrows his brow, the sudden shift in mood momentarily catching him off guard.

“Are there people in LA?”

He straightens up in the seat, and some of that warmth in his voice returns. “Yeah. I’m going to see an old friend. Or, well. We dated. For a long time. Actually, we moved from Michigan to Arizona together, and then we split a little over a year ago and ended up in different states. But we ended on good terms.”

James presses his lips together, and he can feel the discomfort of his jealousy sit low in his belly.

He doesn’t date; not from lack of trying. It just tends to never go well. He can never get comfortable with whoever he’s seeing. His last real boyfriend told him that he’s too cold, too distant, too anxious. It ended when James thought he was seeing someone else and fed him his teeth. Aside from that, he doesn’t like it when people have pieces of himself that he can’t get back. People aren’t trustworthy enough to be trusted with such fragile things. People die, people leave, and they take you with them. Sometimes it’s not personal, sometimes it is. James decided a long time ago that if anyone was going to be doing the leaving, it was going to be on his terms.

James wants to know more. What people are like when they’re able to let people in. “What’s she like?”

“I dunno. Um. They’re smart. Creative. Great sense of humor. They're a good person, and those are hard to find.”

The pronoun differential is not subtle enough to be lost on James. He doesn't say anything about it. He'll play along.

“They are,” James says, feeling a little ironic. “Are you gonna get back together then?”

There’s a pause, and it carries on a little too long. James glances over to make sure Jason’s still there. He’s looking straight through the windshield, counting the dashed lines that rush towards them on the asphalt. Must be a sensitive topic, then. Odd, for a guy who seemed to be so open about everything else.

“Complicated?” James prompts.

Jason nods, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he breathes. James wants to ask more, but he knows better.

Keen to change the subject, Jason moves on. “Hey, um, if I can ask... I didn’t mean to hear so much but.” James thinks he knows what’s coming. They’ve been talking about destinations and departures, and it’s only fair for it to be his turn. He’s ready for it when Jason asks. “You’re coming back from a funeral?”

James nods slowly. “Yep. My brother. Car accident.” That’s the truth. Crushed and mangled in a tangle of steel. Drunk driver. They died, too.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jason tells him. “I can’t imagine.”

All the words of condolences James has heard, over the phone, at the wake, at the funeral, from the well-meaning extended family and friends he never knew about before all blur together; they’re nice to hear, but they don’t matter. It’s just something to fill the empty space the dead leave behind. That’s how people are.

“It’s… well.” James pauses. He hasn’t really talked about his feelings about this since he found out it happened. He doesn’t usually talk about them at all to anyone. Jason won’t be around by the end of the night to judge him or tell anyone anyways. He cracks, just a little. James gives himself a consolation, just voicing one thing out loud to himself, for his own sake, because goddamn it, if he doesn’t say something, speak it into existence, it’s gonna eat him alive. He heaves a heavy, shaky breath, trying desperately to not let this overwhelm him, and he just says it. As straightforward and unaffected as he can say it, he says it. “It’s not okay. This is just… another person I loved that I lost. I lose people all the time and I’m tired of it.”

“I get what you mean,” Jason says. “You just want people to stick around for you, right? But they never seem like they can. Whether it’s because they don’t want to or… y’know, like your brother. And then you just have nobody to lean on or trust ‘cause you don’t know when you’ll lose that. It fucking sucks.”

It’s an astute assessment. James never would’ve thought that he would hear someone else be able to articulate that so well. Almost like Jason might know what he’s talking about. He’s not ready to go more in depth with his upsets, he’s already given so much, so he looks into Jason’s. “You too?”

“Oh God,” Jason groans, and it sounds like genuine pain underneath his scorn and annoyance at the topic. “My parents kicked me out and don’t talk to me anymore. My roommates in Scottsdale are people I thought were good, but they’re just shitty friends,” he articulates, and he sounds disgusted. “They’re never available if I need them, but they’re there for each other. And then my ex just up and left one day because they got tired of Scottsdale, said they couldn’t stay for me.” It all comes rushing out, like these words have always been begging to be said, years of disappointment on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” James says, because he is. It’s a terribly lonely existence. James would know. Jason’s candid honesty breaks him down, just a little.

He offers Jason a little bit in return. “I’m sorry. I… I know.” He hesitates, all of this catching in his throat, and then casts a glance to his passenger who is looking at him attentively, listening. Caring. A kindred spirit in his passenger’s seat. He’s still nervous, tentative, as he presses on. “My parents are gone. Mom died, Dad left and nobody knows where he is. I lived with my sister and then she split to have a family. Then I moved in with David. He’s the one I went to the funeral for.” Jason nods keenly. It gives James what he needs to keep going. “David waited until I was ready to go out on my own before he moved. I owe him for that. But then I moved in with a friend I had since high school, this guy named Cliff. Really the only friend I had. We lived together a couple years and then two years after we got on our own, he died. Car accident, like David. And aside from the odd relationship, I’ve been pretty much alone since.”

Jason doesn’t say anything for a long time. He flips the tape when the A side ends and Fleetwood Mac does the talking for awhile. A new track starts, a soft and thoughtful lament. “Found she was gone… I woke up last night… Found she was gone… I’m so lonely babe…

“I’m sorry that these things have happened to us,” Jason says, when he finally speaks. “Especially to you. You seem really nice. It always seems the best people get dealt the shittiest hand.”

James can’t agree; he’s never been nice. He can hardly remember a time where he was. He can be sweet, but he’s not nice. There’s a true anger, wrath and malice that exists in him. Maybe it’s something intangible, something you can see but you can’t touch, like the shadows that the sun casts as it disappears over the horizon. Something that he became but not something he couldn’t change. Maybe it’s something real, something that would take an autopsy to see. A marble sized growth amongst all his gray matter that manifested itself into his fear of and inability to form attachments, and left a trail of corpses its wake. He’d like to think it’s the latter, something that cannot be helped. But he’s certain it’s the former. Cruelty is his nature and he supposes he doesn’t care to know anything else.

“I’m sorry, too,” James says, and he guesses he means it. Nobody gets through this life intact, and everyone’s fucked up in different ways with the different ways they deal with it. With that, his mind returns to something, something Jason said before. “If you don’t mind me asking about your ex again,” he ventures, “If she hurt you, why are you going to see her again?”

“That’s a fair question,” Jason says, no hesitation this time. “I’ve been going back and forth on it, actually. I shouldn’t want to see or be around a person that hurt me, right?”

James nods.

“But that’s the thing,” Jason explains, “Even after they broke up with me and moved away without looking back, I missed them. I still do.” The soft guitar tones of My Dream carry his words as though they were the intended monologue on top of the tune. The melancholia matches well enough.

The profile in James’ mind of the difference between them stands out to him; James’ tendency to project his hurt outward onto others, versus Jason’s inclination to take and hold onto his pain.

“Why?” James questions “After all this time?”

“Finding people to love me has never been easy. My ex loved me before. And we didn’t break up because of something wrong with me, I think, it was… It was a lot of things. We’re friends now, and we love each other in the way that friends do, but they were in love with me, once.” Jason pauses. “I think maybe, as naïve as it is, that I can get them to love me in the way I want them to again.”

The pang of jealousy James felt before returns in his gut. He isn’t quite sure why, this time. Maybe it’s because Jason has the option to run towards that possibility, whereas James has always been up to his chest in loneliness. Maybe it’s the realization that with every minute that passes, James is taking Jason closer and closer to something that James can never have. Imagining Jason in some vague apartment with a faceless body, laughing with them, kissing them, fucking them, being happy with them.

James wasn’t going to let him leave in the first place. He knew how this night was going to go the moment the kid climbed into his truck. It makes no sense, but it hurts. It fucking hurts.

He wants to hurt him.

This kid won’t get to win.

For the next twenty minutes, they don’t talk. The thoughts coil up in the base of James’ throat, and twist his guts. He starts to grind his back molars grind together, so hard he imagines the enamel turning into dust on his tongue, his fear, his anger, his grief crawling over his skin—

He imagines his brother, an unrecognizable tangle of flesh and bone in a closed wood casket, and the pastor conducting the funeral giving that typical speech about God leading his flock home to the kingdom of heaven.

—like ants, and the air in the car is thinning and he can feel his heart race as he thinks of all of these feelings and he wants to fucking hurt this kid, now, hurt him because they’re the same, but Jason is better than him, and it fucking kills James, pull that knife that’s been waiting for him in the glovebox next to the ticking of that fucking watch—

“Dear Cynthia, by the time you read this I will be gone, but it’s not because of you or the kids—”

—and put an end to this and if he doesn’t pull over right now—

“James? This is Ray, Cliff’s dad.”

—he’s going to jerk the wheel and roll this truck—

And he thinks about his mom, in her bed, and why isn’t she waking up? She’s not warm in the way James would expect her to be. He calls out to her, over and over again as he shakes her shoulder, but she doesn’t move, she never moves.

—and with any luck—

The dull sound as blood spatters onto the concrete, dirt, carpet, and the fear that overcomes them as they look up into the eyes of the man who is killing them and the pleas that cross their lips cease and James loves the way that they cry, the way that they beg, he loves it because he is the last thought on their minds, his forever to have and to hold, and he takes a necklace, a bracelet, a ring –

—kill them both.

James looks over to the kid in his passenger seat, and it’s enough.

He presses his foot on the brake.

James slows the truck down and pulls it off the road. The gravel crunches under the tires until they slow to a stop. They’re in the absolute middle of nowhere, all flat plains of dry, dead grassland that reach out to far, distant mountains. Unseen and lost in the pitch, except for the faint shine of the moon and the stars, like the watchful eyes of God and all His angels.

World in Harmony twangs softly over the speakers in the stark silence now that the din of the car moving has disappeared. The headlights blare, catching the particles of dust that linger and hang in the air. Jason turns his head to look at James, brow furrowed and lips parted like he’s about to ask what he’s doing.

“I was gonna walk around a bit and stretch, get some air. Dunno when the next town is,” James says, as cool and leveled as he can manage, which is very well. Many years of hunting, stalking, preying, as natural as breathing.

His anticipation builds in a sweltering heat that starts in his belly and rides along his spine and prods at his heart. Jason’s eyes meet his for a moment, and there’s nothing in him and his posture to suggest that he’s on guard. He’s open and willing and unsuspecting of all of James’ intentions.

His passenger mumbles a nonchalant ‘oh, ok’ with a relaxed grin, and signals his acceptance when he goes to unbuckle his seatbelt. By the time James has undone his own and is pulling the key out of the ignition, Jason has slinked out of the car and shut the door behind him, putting his hands on his hips as he begins to stroll out towards the expanse of the desert.

Now alone, he sits in the car and just takes a minute to catch his breath. James hits the stop on the stereo. Runs his hands through his hair, imagines himself ripping it all out, before allowing them to drop back into his lap. Then after a moment, he ejects the tape, and puts it back into the center console.

After another beat of silence, he’s reaching into the glovebox, and he’s taking out the butterfly knife.

It’s cool in his hands, the stainless-steel glinting in whatever light it gets from the headlights. He unlatches the closure bar and flicks the handles around his fingers until they snap together and the blade is exposed. Blood stains the silver with a marbled crimson sheen, and is congealed in the hinge. James runs a fingernail into the seams where it easily flakes off. Touches the edge of the blade to the top of his thumb nail, and he can feel how sharp it still is, after all of its use.

He looks up to find Jason, who isn’t far off, staring out into the empty distance.

He flicks the knife closed, and opens the car door to get out, sliding it in his back pocket as he stands.

When he rounds the front of the truck, through the striking blare of the headlights, Jason turns at the sound of the grinding of dirt under James’ sneakers. A wide smile splits across his face, and that’s just something James thinks he’ll never get used to. He studies the way he looks right now, standing out here by himself, unknowing and carefree in these last moments.

“It’s beautiful out. And the air is so clean,” Jason sighs, sounding a tad dreamy.

There’s something that sits on the end of James’ tongue. ’You’re beautiful,’ he wants to say. The knife burns in his back pocket. Why else do we pluck flowers, cage animals, if not for love of their beauty? We take the things we want, even if we know they don’t belong to us. Roses deserve open country sides, and birds deserve the top perches of the trees. And yet we keep them.

Jason deserves to live. But James will not leave without him in the way that he can have him.

James silently closes the distance between them step by step. Jason’s expression is soft, if not a little weary. He looks a bit tired, and after a boring day of waiting and a boring night of driving, he would expect as much. Though James feels like a live wire, and nothing else but this makes him feel more alive than he is now. He’s done this countless times, and there’s nothing like it. A build up, and a release. The way the stomach rolls before a fall down a steep hill, the gasping breath after breaching the water’s surface.

Exaltation, purification.

For this is our body, for this is our blood.

James reaches out to grab Jason by the throat.

It’s so sudden, and in all the surprise and shock, all Jason can cough out around the hand clamping around his neck is “James?”

Leveraging his body weight against him, James clenches his hand tighter around Jason’s throat, while he pushes himself forward against the other man until Jason trips and collapses onto his back. James instantly falls to straddle him, managing to land a knee on Jason’s right arm. He moves his hand off of his throat to snatch his free wrist and hold it above his head, pinning him down firmly into the dirt. Jason turns his head and lets out a sharp cough.

With James’ free hand, he reaches into his back pocket, and quickly flicks open the butterfly knife. The headlights cast out far and bright enough so that Jason can see the outline of the object before it is pressed just beneath Jason’s ear, against his pounding vein.

“If you let me do what I want, dying won’t have to be painful,” James growls, narrowing his eyes into the face of his victim. He trails the knife away in the lightest of touches, with the sensuality of a lover, over the expanse of both of his cheeks, over his nose, over his lips. Jason’s eyes are wide, quickened breathing passing through a dry mouth, chest moving rapidly with each one as the blade runs over his flesh, though he does not move, does not struggle, as though paralyzed. He wants to heighten the fear. He wants Jason to beg.

James presses the knife back up against his neck.

He figures that he has enough control to let Jason’s hand go. When he does, Jason still doesn’t move, his arm laying slack in the dirt. His eyes are still wide and searching, but his breathing is slower, and more even. Well, James plans to fix that. He wants the panic. He wants the terror.

He moves to Jason’s waist, and begins unbuckling the belt. Undoing the button. Unzipping the fly. Jason should know what this means. And yet.

Yet.

Yet.

Jason looked afraid at first, but not anymore. It seems to have dissipated, slowly, imperceptibly, and then all at once; now, he’s calm, his eyes closed, his breathing evenly paced, as though measured, his features bearing no tension.

It pisses James off. Doesn’t he get it? Doesn’t he understand that this isn’t a fucking joke? That James is going to fuck him and slit his throat and leave him here in this desert to rot? Doesn’t he get that he’s not getting out of this alive? Why isn’t he fighting, struggling, saying anything? What is this, trying to pretend to be tough? He’s got nothing to prove to anyone. It’s a strange time for dignity.

It gets the better of James. “What, don’t have anything to fucking say?” he snarls. He presses the knife firmer against Jason’s throat; he sees the shine of a small bit of blood welling up around the blade. “Don’t you know what I’m going to do to you? Do you care?”

His victim opens his eyes to look up at James. Jason’s free hand reaches up slowly, carefully, to wrap around James’ threatening wrist in a loose grip. It feels electric on his flesh, this caress, and it makes him recoil. “James,” Jason murmurs with the quality of a lullaby, and his voice and his softened eyes are not putting up a fight. “You don’t think I knew what you wanted to do to me this whole time?”

James doesn’t say anything to that. His brow furrows, and he searches this man’s face. It’s not a challenge, it’s not defiance. It’s something else.

“When I asked you for the ride, I didn’t know. I knew the risks but I was always willing to take them. But when I got in your car, the way you looked at me, I knew what I had walked into. I just knew. And I was going to let it happen. I’m letting it happen.”

This is certainly not the way he was expecting this to go. This isn’t real. James feels like he can’t breathe. The shock catches the air in his throat.

“I think… you want my death more than I want my life. And that’s okay. You can take it. End both of our pain here tonight.” Jason subtly shakes his head while he sharply exhales on the last words in a sigh.

James has been doing this for a long time. The last one James took cried and whimpered about his family, and how he’d never say a word if he was let go. A couple before that was a fiery ginger who spit in James’ eye and told him to go fuck himself, and still died with his teeth grit together, defiant to the end. His favorite one was a strange foreign kid who screamed and kicked and scratched and landed a bitemark on James’ arm that got slightly infected before healing into the faint outlines of two half moons.

Everybody reacts a bit differently when they know they are about to die. But never like this.

People have left without James having any say in it. People have died struggling to get away from him and James got to keep them where they were, a small collection of the times he had control. The times he set the terms and got to see it through.

Now, this kid is here for the taking. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants James in this fucked up way. Asking for it. He’s gotten so used to being disregarded and rejected and abandoned and now here's this fucking kid underneath him begging for James to do what he wants in any way he wants it.

James feels powerless.

He fucking hates it.

Pulling the knife away from Jason’s throat, he holds it vaguely in front of his chest. This is not how this was supposed to happen. And now he doesn’t know what to do. That part of him, the one that acts out in wrath and malice, the one that urges him to carve up this kid and leave him for dead, that sits heavy in his chest, feels lightened as something else enters into him. The one of doubt. Of fear. Of an bizarre hesitation he’s never felt before. And the overwhelming feeling that he may not be able to bring himself to kill Jason.

Jason, who still looks up at him, waiting, patient, for his fate to befall him. Jason, who offered James kindness and understanding, and hasn’t put up a hint of a fight. He sees James, knows him, knew him, and knew his intention and still did not run. He’s not running. He never was. He never wanted to.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” The words come out sounding confused, lost, like a child. He hates how fucking vulnerable he sounds.

“Everything has hurt for too long,” Jason says, and it sounds so level-headed and clear and articulate. “You can’t hurt me in a way that will matter.”

This makes no fucking sense. Everybody leaves. Jason faces death and welcomes it. He knows the end. And he walks bravely towards it without a glance back.

“What would you do if I let you go, right now?” James leers. “What would you do?”

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

Nothing.

Jason deserves some consequences, some punishment, for not knowing what’s good for him. For fucking confounding him in this way. For not being what he expected. For being too good for James.

He’s not going to kill him.

He’ll just hurt him, then.

“Give me some jewelry,” James abruptly demands. “I don’t fucking care what it is, just.” His eyes dart back and forth, to the neck, the wrists, the hands, and there, Jason raises his hand, showing James the ring on his pinky that he allows James to work off and take. He doesn’t look at it, simply snatching it off the kid's hand and shoving it into his front pocket. To join the rest of the collection. To remember this. Though he has a feeling he won’t forget.

James will at least give him something to keep, too.

He brings the knife to Jason’s face, starting at his left temple, and he presses down and drags it diagonally, slow and hard, to end with a flourish at the chin. The blood rushes up and spills forth, running rapid over the pale expanse of his cheek. For the first time in the night, Jason screams, that delightfully gut-wrenching sound, his hand flying up to press at the wound; he squirms underneath James. It all seeps out along the seams of his palm and through the spaces of his fingers. It will need stitches. And when it heals, it’ll stay, and Jason will look in the mirror every morning to see it, to touch it, and remember, James’ name on his lips.

There are no innocent bystanders. No good act goes unpunished. James snaps the butterfly knife closed and puts it away into his back pocket where it started.

James leans over, and Jason stills in anticipation of what’s coming next, and that’s the fear, if it is fear, that James wanted all along, but he supposes it doesn’t matter now. James leans in to press their lips together. It doesn’t overstep, doesn’t demand. It's not out of love, or admiration. It’s the one way of saying the things that he doesn’t know how to say, expresses the things he doesn’t know how to feel. A release, a catharsis? The final kiss of Judas who sent the Son of Man to his death?

He feels empty. He feels confused.

He thinks he could feel sorry.

Jason’s lips push back.

He pulls away, and then stands, stepping over and away from Jason, who still lies on the ground, writhing and gasping and wincing in his pain. Jason’s eyes bear his agony, and they look up at James. Almost confused. Questioning. Pleading. Maybe this is not how he expected all this to go either.

James feels he should say something.

There’s nothing to say.

Silently, he leaves, crossing the empty field, back towards his truck. He has enough of a presence of mind before he gets back in the cab to dump the kid’s duffel bag. It lands in the dirt, a small dust cloud rising around it.

As he climbs in, he takes the knife out of his pocket and tosses it into the passenger’s seat. He takes the ring out as well; he doesn’t look at it, he can’t, not yet, but just encloses his fist around it, liking the way it feels in his hand.

He buckles himself in and starts it up, the engine roaring to life.

Looking through the passenger side window, he tries to look out, to see if he can see where he left Jason. Though he’s so far out in the dark, that James can’t make anything out. But he knows he’s out there, and he will be until he plucks up enough strength to crawl to the edge of the highway and thumb a ride out, a lonely kid with a cut up face.

James pulls back onto the highway, and drives off. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t look to his now empty passenger’s seat, and opens his console to take out the cassette tape and throw it out the window.

He thinks of nothing and everything, his heart beating out of his chest as he vanishes into the darkness of the California desert, twisting the ring in his grasp as he chases his way home.