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Stan used to think that hitting rock bottom was a one-time-only deal, like chickenpox or losing your virginity. It didn’t always happen to everyone, but if it did, it only happened once.
That was three rock bottoms ago.
You learn not to call it too soon. Things can always get worse, and they usually do. Stan wouldn’t officially call this a fourth touchdown just yet, but he’s been driving for five hours and he still hasn’t made it out of the state yet and he wasn’t able to get to the safe so there goes the last four months of work up in smoke— so yeah, if this isn’t Rock Bottom #4, then it’s only by a matter of inches.
He hits the state line somewhere around midnight. That’s when the knot in his chest finally uncoils and his eyes stop darting constantly to the rearview mirror to check for sirens. Now he can relax, and priority number one is finding somewhere he can get a drink. He sticks to the interstate until he reaches a town of decent size, then peels off and starts trawling the outskirts, looking for the type of dive bar that he’s found in a dozen outskirts before.
This time it’s called Tequila Mockingbird.
Even at this hour there’s still a decent scattering of cars in the parking lot, plus a handful of motorcycles. Perfect. Stan wants to drink somewhere out of the way and not alone. He slides the El Diablo into a space towards the middle of the lot, not too far from the exit but not close enough to draw attention. Then he marches in the front door of the place and plows straight to the bar, hell-bent on pounding shots until he forgets about all that money he had to leave behind. Shit. Might as well be square one.
He’s three tequila shots deep before he lets himself really look around the place. As expected, it’s populated by rough-around-the-edges types like himself, mostly in packs of two or three, shrouded in cigarette smoke and looming over scattered graveyards of empty glasses. The air is thick and stale. Smells like rock bottom. Stan raps his knuckles against the bar and gestures for another tequila. Don’t even think about the next scheme. Just take a night to forget.
Funny how he doesn’t even notice the music until it stops. There’s a general murmur through the whole place at the sudden silence, but most guys just go right back to mumbling amongst themselves, unfazed by the new development. Stan has no such distraction, and he glances around the bar until he spots the guy fiddling with the jukebox.
Skinny punk type, ripped jeans and combat boots— he’s pried open a side panel and is picking expertly at the circuits and wires within, quick and efficient. Before anyone has time to come and intercept him, he snaps the panel back in place and punches the keypad, cuing up a new song. When the music starts playing again, it’s at least twenty percent louder than before. The skinny guy seems pleased with the result of his handiwork.
The bartender slides Stan his next shot. Stan lays down the cash. No tip. He can’t afford it. He ignores the dirty look. His attention is elsewhere, anyway; he’s watching the guy at the jukebox. This isn’t the kind of bar where people get up and dance, but there he is, rocking his hips to the beat, one hand holding a glass of what looks like whiskey while the other hand taps the rhythm against his thigh. His eyes are closed. He doesn’t give a damn who’s watching.
Maybe it’s the tequila kicking in, but Stan finds himself wondering what that feels like.
He’s felt eyes on his back ever since he left hom— the pawn shop. The fear of failure nagging at his heels. The sense that everyone looks at him and sees a screw-up. Half the time he wants to be the center of attention and half the time he wants to be invisible, which means that all the time he’s worried about whether people are looking at him or not. This guy dancing at the jukebox doesn’t give a fuck one way or the other. Watching him nod and sway is like standing in front of Stanford’s wall of trophies; the ache of admiration coupled with the bitter sting of jealousy.
And just like with the trophies, Stan’s first instinct is to reach out and claim.
The music reads his mind. He hasn’t really been paying attention to the lyrics, but then all of a sudden it hits him loud and clear: Do you wanna touch? Stan’s hand tightens reflexively on his shot glass. At the same time, the skinny guy slams his drink down on top of the jukebox so he has both hands free.
Do you wanna touch? and he slaps his thighs, dragging his hands up along the length of his body, his hips rolling with the steady throb of the music. Do you wanna touch me there? Yeah? His fingertips catch at the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up just enough to expose a sliver of skin, a glimpse of his belly and the small of his back before he lets it fall again. Do you wanna touch? When he raises his arms overhead, his cut-off sleeves reveal that the hair in his pits is the same striking silver as the hair on his head. Stan can’t help but wonder about the hair behind the zipper of those ripped jeans.
Do you wanna touch? and Stan does, he really does. He’s never experienced an attraction like this before; something sudden and raw and magnetic, something that grabbed at him like a tractor beam, yanking him out of orbit. This guy doesn’t go around begging for attention. He demands it, and yet he doesn’t give a fuck about it, and Stan can’t figure out if he actually wants him or if he just want to be him. Whatever it is he can’t stop staring, his drink clenched in his fist, still full to the brim. Do you wanna touch me there? Where? There?
At the climax of the first chorus, the skinny guy drops his arms and throws back his head in a delighted whoop. Then, as the music relaxes into a bridge before the next verse, he grabs his drink off the jukebox and belts it back in one go. Swiping his wrist against his mouth, he glances idly around the bar. He notices Stan looking at him and winks, then keeps right on scanning the space, maybe thinking it was just a chance moment of eye contact. It isn’t until he looks back again that he realizes Stan is staring at him.
Stan doesn’t flinch. He’s three tequilas deep and back at square one. If there was ever going to be a night where he didn’t give a fuck, it would be tonight. So he stares back, defiant, nothing left to lose. The skinny guy cocks his head, equal parts intrigued and impressed by the challenge. It’s immediately obvious that, while he might not need one, he really loves to have an audience. And when the next verse kicks in, he takes his performance in Stan’s direction.
Radiating intent, he advances across the bar at the tempo set by the music, the sway of his hips steady and deliberate, his mouth curled in a provocative smirk. He’s got Stan’s undivided attention and now he’s reveling in it, lip-synching to the song overhead: all you do is sit and stare. That’s really all Stan can do at this point. He’s riveted to the spot, strapped in for the ride, the abandoned safe and forfeited cash a million miles away. Rock bottom never looked so good.
When the song says begging on my knees, Stan doesn’t really think he’ll do it— but down the guy goes, right to the dirty bar floor, unabashed. Darling, won’t you please / run your fingers through my hair? He demonstrates for Stan’s benefit, raking his hands through that shock of silver, tousling it into a mess that Stan itches to grab by the fistful. He almost steps forward to do just that, but then the guy is back on his feet, determined to close the distance on his own terms.
Besides, he’s not done showing off yet. Rolling with the motion of his hips, he takes his sweet time turning a full circle, proudly displaying every last lanky inch of himself— he’s lean as whip and probably just as tough, the kind of guy who wins a fistfight through sheer, stubborn endurance. He can’t even weigh one-fifty soaking wet. Stan would bet that he could lift him with one arm. Could pin him down with one, too.
Right or wrong, don’t it turn you on? Boy, has this song got Stan’s number. He’s past the point of caring whether this makes him queer or crazy or anything else. All he cares about is the fact that this living breathing incarnation of shamelessness has seen fit to grant him a taste of that freedom. Stan is getting a contact high just from watching him move.
Do you wanna touch? and there’s only a matter of inches left between them, close enough now to see the chipped black polish on the guy’s fingernails, the pack of cigarettes sticking out of one hip pocket. Do you wanna touch? and he demonstrates again, tracing his hands over his chest and downwards, fingers splaying over the crotch of his jeans. Do you wanna touch me there? Where? This time he pulls the t-shirt back up even higher, exposing his taut belly, the scalloped edges of his ribcage, and there, a curve of metal— holy shit, was that a pierced nipple? They’re so close that Stan can smell his sweat, along with the whiskey on his breath.
Do you wanna touch? Stan licks his lips, helpless. The guy sees it and grins, biting down on his own bottom lip in a suggestive leer. Do you wanna touch? and he turns around, waggling his ass in Stan’s direction, his thumbs teasing at the waistband of his jeans. Do you wanna touch me there? Where? There? Yeah! And as the chorus comes to an end, he turns back around so they’re finally standing face to face.
“Hey,” he pants, grinning. “I’m Rick.”
The reply tumbles out on reflex alone. “Stan.”
In lieu of a handshake, Rick reaches out and casually hooks his index fingers in Stan’s front belt loops.
“So, Stan,” he says. “Are you gonna punch me in the face, o-o-or are you gonna buy me a drink?”
That’s an easy one. “What’re you drinking?”
Rick looks down, sees the undrunk tequila shot still clutched in Stan’s grip, and plucks it away from him in a flash. Stan doesn’t even have time to protest before Rick knocks it back, then leans over to slam the empty glass down on the bar. When he leans in again, he calmly grabs Stan by the face and yanks him into an abrupt, forceful kiss.
Stan’s mouth pops open in surprise. The involuntary gesture allows Rick to pour half the tequila shot straight down his throat.
It might be one of the sexiest things Stan has ever experienced. He actually goes weak at the knees, too stupefied to even remember to put his arms around Rick in return. Rick holds the kiss just long enough to deliver the liquor, then pulls back to let Stan catch his breath. The music is still pounding overhead. Somehow it seems louder than ever.
“Well?” Rick teases. “Do you wanna touch?”
Stan answers, his voice hoarse with desire. “You’re goddamn right I do.”
Still smiling, Rick takes him by the wrists and guides Stan’s hands down to his hips. Then, just like before, he starts to sway to the rhythm. The movement travels back up through Stan’s arms like a shockwave, rippling out through his system until he’s swaying too, the pair of them rocking back and forth together like they’ve done it a thousand times. Rick slips his hands under Stan’s jacket, fingers curling over his shoulders. Stan uses his grip on his hips to pull him closer, closer, until he can feel Rick’s erection pressing against his own through the two pairs of jeans between them.
Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah, the song keeps repeating, insistent and exultant, as Rick’s fingers slide up along Stan’s neck and into his hair, his nails scratching at the scalp. Stan’s hands move, too— right down into the back pockets of Rick’s jeans, squeezing his ass through the denim. Just about everyone in the bar is staring at them by now. Rick doesn’t give a fuck. And because of that, neither does Stan. Just for tonight, he’s free.
By the time the song finally ends, they’re crawling all over each other and making a goddamn spectacle of themselves. Maybe another song starts up after it. If it does, Stan doesn’t hear it. All he hears is Rick’s voice right up against his ear, intimate and obscene.
“Take me home,” he breathes, half-offer, half-demand.
“Heh,” Stan smirks, rueful. “Ain’t got one.”
“E-even better. Motel?”
“I’m broke.”
“Shit, me too.”
But they’ve come too far to turn back now. Rick looks like he’s on the verge of suggesting that they lock themselves in the bathroom, or maybe even just go out back and fuck by the dumpster. Fortunately Stan is able to summon enough of his sense to remember one very important fact.
“I have a car,” he blurts out.
The suggestion hooks Rick immediately. “Backseat?”
Stan nods. “Big one.”
Rick bumps his hips forward for a tantalizing burst of friction. “Let’s roll, stud.”
They leave the bar together. Just before they make it out of the building, Rick spins in a quick circle, tongue out and both middle fingers in the air for the benefit of anyone who happens to be staring. That actually happens to be a lot of people. As they hit the parking lot, Rick laughs, “I hope you’ve got gas in the tank.” It’s time to go.
They’re on the road before anybody has a chance to follow them. Stan clings to the speed limit, desperate not to get pulled over; not when he’s got tequila on his breath and Rick’s hand in his lap, rubbing his dick through the front of his pants.
“Y-y-you ever get road head before?” Rick leers from the passenger seat.
“It’s on my to-do list,” Stan mumbles, sweating.
He yanks them off the road at the first dark parking lot he can find— some rinky-dink roadside diner, too small and too shitty to be open twenty-four hours. Stan swings the El Diablo around back, parks right in front of the service entrance, and kills the engine.
Rick’s mouth is on his before he even has a chance to speak.
Stan grabs him on instinct, hands in his hair, letting go of everything else except this warm body in front of him right here, right now. Rick’s practically crawling over the stick shift to get to him, frantic with want, with want, Rick wants him and Stan can’t get enough of it.
“Backseat,” he manages to gasp. “Now.”
Rick doesn’t have to be told twice. He practically swan dives over the center console, twisting his body so that his ass lands on the bench seat and he can draw his long legs all the way over and back. It’s a bit more awkward for Stan to climb back there, but he’s still buzzed enough that he just sort of clambers and fumbles until he finally manages to haul himself over the center console and into Rick’s waiting arms.
Somehow Rick is able to kiss him and strip him out of his jacket at the same time. He then immediately rucks up Stan’s grubby white t-shirt, pressing his hands against the thick, warm belly underneath. For a split-second Stan subconsciously sucks in his gut, but he’s too worked up to hold out for long. He sags, fat and pathetic, a failure even here, in his own body. Then Rick digs in his fingernails.
“Ffffffuckin’ hot,” he hisses, clutching at Stan’s belly. “Ugh, you’re so hairy, I love it.”
Stan moans and shudders, nearly undone by the praise. It’s easy for Rick to steer him around in the cramped space, turning Stan so that his back is propped up against the side door and his legs are stretched out on the bench seat. Then Rick straddles his waist, one foot on the floor of the car and the opposite knee jammed into the space between Stan and the seatback. He’s not wasting any time. Once he’s got them settled, he sits back and goes to work on Stan’s belt buckle.
Stan sucks in a quick breath and reflexively grabs on to Rick’s wrist with one hand. Without missing a beat, Rick takes that hand and guides it to his own belt buckle instead, then goes right back to opening Stan’s pants. Stan hurries to catch up with him, using both hands now to pull open the skull-shaped clasp and peel out the long leather tongue. It’s clumsy and difficult, but only because they won’t stop kissing each other while they do it, groping blindly at buttons and flies with inebriated fingers until Rick finally slurs, “a-a-all right, screw it, just— just get your own dick out.”
Don’t stop and think about it. Stan just does as he’s told, opening his zipper and shoving down his boxers and getting his dick out in front of a total stranger and maybe Rick’s crazy is contagious because Stan is not nearly as freaked out by this as he thought he’d be. Maybe it’s because Rick seems just as eager, just as needy. Maybe it’s because Rick never stops showering him with encouragement, ”yeah, baby, c’mon, baby, sh-sh-show me what you got.” Maybe it’s just because Stan is so desperate to feel anything. To feel close, to feel connected, to feel— easy there, knucklehead, don’t get carried away.
Rick’s hand wraps around his cock. Stan stops thinking about anything else.
“Ah,” he grunts, canting up his hips. “Ahhhhh, fuck.”
Rick swivels his wrist, a motion that makes it feel like his grip is spiraling as he moves up and down Stan’s cock, slow and sweet. Stan is clutching at Rick’s back, his shoulders— finally he grabs Rick by the head and wrenches him down into another kiss, their mouths colliding with such force that it’s a miracle neither one ends up bloodied. The motion pulls Rick’s body down over him, his hips rolling forward, his cock bumping right up against Stan’s in the space between them.
Stan exhales, sharp, and looks down. Rick sits back and lets him look, practically daring him to lose his nerve.
“Huh,” Stan says. “Whattaya know. The carpet matches the drapes.”
And Rick laughs, then leans down to keep on kissing him while he thrusts his hips again, the head of his cock rubbing against Stan’s belly. Stan’s brain boils to static, his body reaching towards the heat, the friction. Rick lines up his cock right next to Stan’s and curls his fingers around them both, pulling them flush against each other, hot and hard and hypersensitive. Stan groans into Rick’s mouth, his hands fisted in that messy silver hair.
Rick starts to jerk them both off in tandem. He matches the tempo of his hand to the grinding of his hips, maximizing the amount of pressure between them, determined to wring every possible ounce of pleasure from the experience. Stan urges him on, tearing at Rick’s hair with such force that he’s amazed Rick doesn’t cry out in pain. After one particularly brutal twist, Rick actually gasps with pleasure, craning his neck away from Stan’s touch to intensify the pull. Stan immediately breaks off their kiss so he can yank Rick’s head all the way back, forcing his neck into a brutal arch. Rick hisses in satisfaction, his rhythm stuttering for a moment before he redoubles his efforts, his hand working fast and rough between them.
With his head thrown back like that, Stan’s gaze is inescapably drawn to the front of Rick’s t-shirt, to the way the threadbare material clings to his shoulders and chest. They’re close enough that Stan can see the twin outlines poking against the fabric, and he takes his hands out of Rick’s hair so he can shove up the t-shirt and have a look.
Both of Rick’s nipples are pierced, a matching pair of curved barbells that glint in the last of the illumination from the faraway streetlights. He’s so skinny Stan could count his ribs. Right over his heart there’s a shitty stick-and-poke tattoo: DNR. Stan runs his thumb over the letters, frowning. Do Not Resuscitate.
Rick keeps one hand wrapped around both their cocks. The other hand reaches up to cover Stan’s, pressing his palm flat over the faded ink.
“The ride stops,” Rick breathes. “I get off.”
“You don’t want it to stop,” Stan mumbles. “Do you?”
Rick offers a crooked smile. “Not tonight.”
And for tonight, that’s enough. No point in talking about it anymore. Stan slides his hands around to Rick’s back, leans up towards him, and fastens his mouth over the nearest piercing, his teeth closing on the nipple.
“Fuck,” Rick chokes out, his free hand slamming over Stan’s shoulder to brace himself against the car door. “Oh, shit, yeahhhh.”
Stan pulls down on Rick’s shoulder blades, drawing him in as he explores the piercing with his tongue, probing and licking while Rick twitches and shakes, his voice juddering out of him in a low, incoherent moan. He’s so overstimulated that he has to take his hand up from between them, shoving it into Stan’s hair instead, his palm still wet with precum as he cradles Stan’s head against his chest.
“Nnnnnngh,” he whines. “C’mon, harder, h-harder.”
Without hesitation Stan bites down and sucks hard, thrilling at the way Rick’s body surges against him in ecstatic response. Rick doesn’t want him to be gentle, he doesn’t want him to be tender. He just wants someone who doesn’t hold back, and when it comes to charging headlong into anything, Stan is already miles ahead of himself. At this point Rick could probably ask Stan to stab him and Stan would start looking for a knife.
Somewhere in the tangled clench of their bodies, Rick manages to snake one hand back down between them, gathering both their cocks into his long-fingered grip and squeezing them together, building back their rhythm. While Rick works with his hand, Stan works with his lips and teeth and tongue, lavishing attention on him until the nipple is swollen and aching. Then he drags his mouth across Rick’s chest to take hold of the other one, his incisors clicking against the tip of the barbell as he goes. He bites down again and Rick’s hand between them clenches tight, then goes just loose enough to let the tempo climb. It won’t be long now.
It starts in the pit of Stan’s belly, low and hot, his whole body going tense in anticipation. He sits back against the car door, his mouth open and panting, his hips thrusting shallowly to meet Rick’s weight bearing down on him. Rick’s shirt starts to slide down again and Stan pushes it back up, his thumbs rubbing at the bruised nipples, insistent.
“Yeah,” Rick wheezes. “Yeah, yeah, c’mon—”
He comes in a thick spurt across Stan’s belly, and again, splattering his release all over the dark hair. Then, his body still jolting with the aftershocks, he swipes his fingers through the mess and grabs on to Stan’s cock, jerking him fast and slick. It’s so obscenely hot that the jizz doesn’t even have a chance to dry before Stan comes like a freight train, orgasm roaring through him with such force that he actually cries out, his head thrown back against the car window with a dull thud.
Dazed and breathing hard, he somehow has the presence of mind to draw his feet up along the bench seat, propping up his legs so Rick can lean back against his thighs. They sit slumped together in silence, their lungs like overheated engines, the interior of the car stuffy and reeking of sex. Rick pulls up the hem of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow and the drool from his mouth. Stan scrubs at his damp face with his damp hands.
They’re cooling down. With a little insistent ass-wriggling, Rick persuades Stan to open his legs, then scoots back between them until his back ends up propped against the opposite car door. Stan turns around just enough to reach the little crank and open his window a crack; Rick follows suit. They sit back and regard each other comfortably, both pairs of legs now tangled up on the seat between them.
“You were right,” Rick says.
“Huh?” Stan quirks his head.
“Th-this is a big backseat.”
Stan laughs.
After a little bit of searching, Rick finds his pack of smokes on the floor of the car, the lighter still wedged in his hip pocket. He pulls out two cigarettes and tucks them both in his mouth, bringing up the flame to light them one after the other. Then he takes one and leans forward to offer it to Stan. Stan leans forward to accept. With his own cigarette still clenched in his teeth, Rick arches his ass up off the seat just long enough to yank his jeans back into place, tucking his dick away and doing up the button and fly. He leaves the belt undone. Stan ends up making the same call. They sit and smoke their cigarettes and Stan never once gets the urge to ask Rick where he’s from or how he got here. Stan doesn’t even know his last name. It doesn’t matter. Not tonight.
Rick flicks his cigarette butt out the crack in the window, then slumps over with his head against the back of the seat.
“So, uh,” he smirks. “Mind if I sleep over?”
“No problem,” Stan says. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. Mi casa es su casa.”
Rick grins and squirms his legs against Stan’s, half to get comfortable and half just to jostle him. Stan tosses out his cigarette and squirms back. When they finally settle down, Stan ends up with one hand clasped cozily around one of Rick’s ankles. Rick doesn’t seem to mind.
“Hope you don’t mind snoring,” Stan warns.
“Heh,” Rick snickers. “H-hope you don’t mind kicking.”
Stan can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. He supposes he’ll just have to find out the hard way.
- - -
He wakes up to a timid knocking against the window right next to his head. Bleary-eyed, he sees Rick still sprawled across from him, totally out cold. It’s just barely light outside, on the very edge of dawn. Knock knock knock. Every muscle in Stan’s body is cramped tight as he struggles to half-turn and see who’s out there.
It’s some poor teenager in a greasy apron, looking half-bewildered and half-alarmed to discover the El Diablo sitting right in front of the service entrance to the diner.
“Hey, you… you can’t park here!” he protests meekly. “You gotta move this car, mister!”
Stan nods and waves his hand in half-hearted acknowledgment. “All right, all right, we’re going.”
The kid lingers uncertainly, so Stan cracks his knuckles against the glass and barks, “I said we’re going!” It’s like watching a rabbit run.
Yawning, Stan nudges Rick in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. “Rise and shine, cupcake.”
Rick wakes up with a prolonged, “ugggggggh,” his knuckles rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. “Am I— am I dead. Is this Hell.”
Stan snorts. “You wish. C’mon, Chinese fire drill, let’s go.”
He pops open his door and clambers out on stiff legs, his back aching. Still only half-conscious, Rick sluggishly lurches out of the car after him, squinting in the early morning sunlight as he lopes around to the front passenger door and gets in again. Stan sees the kid in the apron watching as he gets behind the wheel, and he gives another wave of acknowledgement as they start to move. Rick sees the wave, notices the kid, and immediately scowls and flips him the bird.
They park out in the front lot and smoke another pair of cigarettes while they wait for the diner to open. Been a long time since Stan looked over at the shotgun seat and saw someone sitting next to him. It’s a good feeling. He could get used to it. Rick’s certainly making himself right at home, cranking down the glass so he can lean back and sling his leg out the window, his boot resting on the rearview mirror. Stan thinks he looks even better in the light of day, with the sunlight creeping into his wild silver hair.
The neon light in the diner window clicks on: OPEN. Stan’s only half-done with his cigarette but he ditches it anyway, the lit cherry leaving a thread of smoke through the air as it goes. He turns to give Rick a cocky grin.
“Whattaya think, Slim? Wanna dine and dash?”
Rick leans forward to stub out his cigarette on the heel of his boot.
“Fuck yeah,” he laughs. “I’m starving.”
They go through four pots of coffee and three full stacks of pancakes between them. Then they make a break for it while the kid in the apron is in the back working out the details of the overly-elaborate omelette they just ordered. They never really make the decision to stay together. Rick just hops into the shotgun seat, and it feels so good to look over and see him sitting there that Stan figures he might as well let him sit there for a while longer.
So he just starts driving.
__________end.