Work Text:
Saturday, July 11, 1987
Somewhere Outside Phoenix, Arizona
Neil McCauley blinks twice, lowering his eyelids with the slow downwards crush of a hydraulic press. He’s trying to force the tiredness from his eyes like wringing water from a damp rag. It doesn’t work. He blinks again, harder this time. He knows a good night’s sleep won’t fix it, but he would still very much like to find a halfway-comfortable bed and collapse into it. Instead, he has to fill up a less-than-comfortable pickup truck with as much gas as it can hold and get it back on the road for another few hours of driving. At least the weather isn’t bad. This stretch of Arizona, sweltering during the day, settles into the mid-seventies at night. The air around him is comfortably warm, made even more pleasant by the occasional gentle breeze. Neil inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the metallic scent of gasoline before getting to work.
He’s just finished attaching the nozzle to the truck when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He freezes, his every sense on high alert as his right hand drifts towards his pocket. He relaxes when he sees it’s just a bug, now standing as still as he is. He could kick himself for being so careless, nearly drawing a weapon over a creature smaller than his pinky finger. That he was startled at all he blames on his tired eyes and the unsettling, desert-at-night interplay of light and shadow. He watches the insect approach him, its pincers twitching. Its black body, previously invisible in the dark expanse beyond the gas station’s rectangle of sand-colored concrete, takes on an iridescent greenish tint under the dull fluorescents.
I got nothing for you, Neil thinks, then wonders at himself for thinking it. The insect has stalled next to his boot. He imagines it staring up at him, waiting for him to make a move, curious about the giant with one hand on a gas pump hose and the other still hovering close to his pocket. Then, it seems to lose interest. Neil’s eyes track its motion as it skitters across the concrete, disappearing once again into the night. He stares for a few seconds longer, vaguely hoping it finds some rock to hide under or hole to burrow into, then turns his attention back to the gas pump. The machine is helpfully informing him the pickup’s almost fully refueled. He waits for the numbers to finish ticking before removing the nozzle.
He closes the truck’s fuel cap just as Chris emerges from the small convenience store on the other side of the station’s pumps. He watches Chris cross the concrete with long, easy strides, the footfalls of his work boots audibly solid. Hanging from the crook of one arm is a flimsy-looking plastic bag with Thank You! and Have A Nice Day! arcing over and under a lemon-yellow smiley face. The water bottles in the bag are there at Neil’s request. Chris’ purchases include the six-pack of beer held at his side, the pack of cigarettes visible in the pocket of his jeans, and the enormous, bright blue slushie in his right hand. There’s already a strip of clear plastic visible above the blue liquid, like he couldn’t even wait to leave the store before sampling the treat, which Neil figures is exactly what happened.
“Hope you filled her up with the premium stuff,” Chris comments. “Wouldn’t want to treat this fuckin’ beauty badly.”
Neil exhales through his nose, not quite a snort but something adjacent to it. He shakes his head as he reattaches the hose to the pump. The fuckin’ beauty in question is a rented pickup that was probably once painted baby blue; layers of mud and dust from years of long-haul desert driving have since turned the truck’s exterior some weary, resigned color, faded in a way that seems to suggest the brighter hues just stopped bothering to show up. It doesn’t matter. The truck doesn’t need to win any car show prizes nor the Daytona 500. It just needs to transport them and their equipment without any problems, and so far, Neil has no complaints.
Chris leans against the side of the pump while Neil digs his wallet out of his pocket. He pays for the gas and waits for the machine to make his change, feeling Chris’ eyes following his every movement. When Neil glances over, Chris’ head is cocked to one side like a curious dog, his lips steadily sucking bright blue ice through the plastic straw. It should be an innocent sight— it is an innocent sight. Neil knows he’s the one who’s wrong for the uncomfortable heat suddenly churning in his gut. It’s an unclean, guilty, intoxicating thrill, not dissimilar from how he felt planning his first-ever score what seems like a lifetime ago. He quickly focuses on the slot from which his change is supposed to emerge.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” Chris says between long pulls on his slushie, like he’s trying to preempt Neil’s disapproval. “Haven’t had one of these since I was a kid.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
The machine spits out a few coins and three singles. Neil slides the money into his wallet. Wiping his hands on his pants, he takes a step towards the pickup, then pauses. Chris is still watching him, the six-pack resting against his thigh. The fluorescent light makes the blue slush glow, its color eye-wateringly bright against the gas station’s drab palette and the deep, velvety hues of the desert at night. Neil sees condensation beading on the outside of the cup. He sees some of it slide onto Chris’ hand. He looks away before he can see anything else, willing none of the tempest raging inside him to appear on his face. He takes another few steps towards the edge of the gas station’s concrete rectangle and fills his lungs with dry air. Chris remains standing next to the pump, steadily sucking down blue raspberry. Neil can hear each and every slurp, the sounds unpleasant over wind whistling through rocks and the twittering din of what must be tens of thousands of crickets trying to get laid. Neil inhales deeply once more, then turns to Chris and asks:
“You ready?”
Chris nods. He’s wearing a bulky leather jacket over a plaid work shirt, faded jeans the color of the Pacific, and work boots. The shirt has been unbuttoned, revealing a white undershirt, but the jacket’s stayed on. Whether it’s a fashion decision or a tactical move to keep his own gun close, Neil doesn’t know. He does know the jacket makes Chris seem even bigger than he is, which can only be a good thing when driving through unfamiliar territory at nearly one in the morning. Not that Neil anticipates problems. For one thing, the tarp-covered machinery in the truck’s bed easily passes for normal construction equipment. For another, they haven’t seen any other vehicles on the road since exiting Phoenix city limits.
Chris’ shoulder brushes Neil’s as he walks around the front of the truck. Neil tries not to startle at the contact and ignores the way the faint prickling on his skin seems to linger. They open the truck’s doors, climb into their seats, and swing their doors shut with identical, mirror-image motions. The unintentional synchrony makes Neil smile internally. He turns the key in the ignition and feels the engine rumble to life as Chris stows the beers and the shopping bag in front of his seat. The now-half-empty slushie goes in the cupholder behind the gearshift, the plastic cup just barely fitting. Neil considers warning him he better not spill the thing everywhere, but he can already hear Chris’ casual brush-off of change of clothes in the back and just a rental, man, so he keeps his mouth shut.
Neil carefully pulls the truck back onto the road, then lets his boot sink heavy onto the gas pedal. His window is down, allowing warm night air to come gusting into the cab, rustling his hair and his work shirt. He prefers the wind’s howl to the radio’s tinny nonsense. Conversation is a nonstarter when Neil’s behind the wheel, one of his and Chris’ many tacit agreements. In return, Neil had silently endured a constant stream of Top-40 rock hits while Chris drove from L.A. to Phoenix. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Chris grabs his slushie from the cupholder and drains about an inch of liquid in one long slurp. He tells himself he’s keeping a close eye on him because he just got out and the period of adjustment every ex-con warns about is no fucking joke. He refuses to entertain any other possibilities.
They’ve been driving just long enough for Neil to lose sight of the gas station’s lights in any of his mirrors when Chris says:
“Shit.”
If he left his wallet back there, Neil thinks, irritation prickling at his temples like a budding headache, I will throw his dead fucking body under the tarp in the back.
“What?”
“Pull over, I gotta piss.”
Neil allows himself to relax slightly, relieved the derailment will at least be quick. The rumbling growl of the engine subsides to a low purr as he eases off the gas and steers the truck over the line dividing concrete from dirt. Small rocks and desiccated underbrush crunch faintly under the truck’s tires as they inch away from the road. Perhaps it’s overly cautious, considering how empty the road has been, but he does not like the idea of leaving a stopped truck out in the open— especially one whose cargo is secured with nothing but a piece of plastic. He takes his foot off the gas when Chris says:
“Here’s good.”
Neil parks the truck and leans back in his seat, roughly rubbing one hand over his face as Chris hops out. He leaves his almost-empty slushie cup resting on his seat. Neil returns it to the cupholder and contemplates the remaining neon-blue liquid for a few seconds, a wry smile forming on his face. No, he doesn’t disapprove. As far as he’s concerned, Chris could’ve bought the entire damn machine, if that’s what he wanted. Neil catches sight of his own eyes in his mirror, his irises black in the cab interior’s dim light. The bags under them are heavy, the lines on his forehead deeply-etched. He thinks he looks older than he is. He certainly feels it.
Chris is standing a short distance away, his silhouette faintly illuminated by moonlight, his shadow twice the length of the truck. Neil reaches for the map in the glove compartment, careful to avoid the suspicious-looking stains along its edges. His brow furrows as he studies the labyrinthine lines. They’re less than an hour outside of Phoenix; it’ll probably be about two hours to Yuma— less, if traffic remains nonexistent. The road they’re currently following appears on the map as a hair-thin line with no sizable towns anywhere near it, which to Neil indicates the trip should be quiet. Good, he thinks. The last thing he needs is trouble with a score before he even gets to it.
Thinking about the score makes him automatically glance behind him, squinting through the dust-caked window at the truck bed. The plastic tarp is still in place. Underneath it are several pieces of heavy-duty construction equipment, as well as a black duffel bag with toiletries and sets of spare clothing. Some of the equipment is standard, bought at legitimate stores with legitimate-looking IDs. Some of it, though, is highly specialized, only available for purchase from one guy in Phoenix who will only sell it hours after nightfall. All of it specifically requested by Tomás Vasquez, who’s the reason they’re driving to Yuma in the first place.
The score itself is a place Vasquez had been thinking about knocking down for a while, not waiting for the right time so much as the right crew. He’d called Neil about it shortly after Neil got out, and it piqued Neil’s interest immediately. It’s a small bank, take likely just shy of six figures. Not a bullshit cowboy score, and enough to keep him going long enough to form a tight crew of his own and buy a real high-line score. Vasquez had asked him to bring his own safe man. Neil, running a quick calculus on how long it would be before Chris got out, had promised he’d get back to him. It’s been little over two months since Neil made that promise. A little under two weeks since he’d picked Chris up. Two hours to Yuma, more or less.
In a pickup truck in the Arizona desert, Neil checks his watch. Almost one in the morning. Tiredness is tugging at him yet again, the predictable result of sitting quietly for too long. Chris should be back by now. Neil opens his door and clambers out of the truck to find him standing a few paces away. His hands are on his hips like he’s some kind of surveyor, but his head is tipped backwards, baring his face to the moonlight. Neil walks up to him, stopping when he’s standing by his side. He follows Chris’ gaze towards the heavens, and he understands. No amount of time done could harden him to the gorgeous display above them, a dizzying array of stars gleaming and twinkling against the velvety night sky. The moon, looking full or near to it, illuminates the sparse landscape in shades of silver. Neil stands next to Chris in silence, feeling the seconds slip away like water into desert topsoil. He reminds himself it hasn’t even been two weeks since Chris was locked up like an animal, and an unobstructed view of the night sky is a reality to which he has not yet readjusted.
“You think any of them’s Gemini?” Chris asks.
He’s still staring upwards, the question his only acknowledgement of Neil’s presence.
“Do I think what’s Gemini?” Neil asks.
“Gemini,” Chris repeats, jutting his chin towards the stars. “The twins. Like, zodiac signs? My mom was into all that astrology shit. She was always telling me I’m a Gemini. Like that meant something.”
Neil hums noncommittally. He doesn’t believe in any of that bullshit, and he knows Chris doesn’t, either. Even with a view this spectacular, the stars look like random dots to him, bright white pinpricks like millions of diamonds carelessly spilled onto a navy-black rug. Much more interesting to look at is Chris. His eyes in the dark are twin abyssal pits that give Neil a peculiar sense of vertigo. His hair glows in the moonlight, the effect otherworldly. The scar above his right eye seems old and weathered, a subtle fault line in the landscape of his face so subtle as to belie the violence that put it there. As Neil watches him watch the stars, he notes the intensity present in his stare, the shrewd focus and stone-cold self-discipline that weren’t there when he first met him. It’s a hell of a thing, to realize he’s watched Chris grow up. That of all the people who should’ve been there to witness it, it was him instead.
“What are you thinking?” Chris asks, still craning his neck to peer upwards at the sky.
“We should figure out where we want to sleep.”
The words hang in the air. When Chris turns to look at him, his gaze is calculating. The coldness does not bother Neil the way he suspects it might bother someone who’s never seen the inside of a cell. The deadness behind them is the same deadness Neil sees behind his own, though their usual blueish-green color, like a frozen-over lake, looks black in the ghostly moonlight. There is a deliberate hard set to his features, the face that was once a mask of blankness sharpened into icy indifference by years on the yard. Dispassionately interested in but not particularly impressed by celestial majesty, too busy contemplating how to most effectively operate in the terrestrial world. A dark, powerful ambition simmers within him, well-concealed to most but obvious to Neil, a hunger that encircles his composure like a serpent coiling around a metal rod. He is, to Neil’s mind, beautiful.
Chris shifts in his boots, the thick soles scraping against desert dirt. His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he thinks. Both are blue from the slushie, Neil notices. It’s a funny thing to see on a grown man, especially a grown man capable of beating other grown men to bloody pulps without a shred of feeling. He knows Chris will make sure to wash it off before they meet Vasquez first thing in the morning, lest the old man think Chris is the one person in history who managed to get hypothermia in Arizona in July.
“It’s whatever you want, man,” Chris finally says, like the reply’s coming in via long-distance call and requiring some time to find them. “I don’t mind crashing here.”
Here means in the truck, taking turns sleeping in the cab while the other keeps watch. Neil considers it. Their other options are driving two hours straight to a motel in Yuma, or picking some sparsely-populated town along this road and finding a motel there. None of the choices strike Neil as particularly appealing, but the more he thinks about it, the more he becomes certain he does not want to start driving again just yet, even though he knows he really ought to do exactly that.
“We can stay here for a while,” Neil decides, checking his watch. “Get our heads right. Then drive straight to Yuma, find somewhere to sleep, and meet Vasquez tomorrow morning.”
Chris nods and starts back towards the truck. Neil follows, noting his deference. In Folsom, Chris followed his lead more-or-less without complaint, but that was probably just a tactic, maximizing his own survival odds by ducking under the wing of someone who already knew the ropes. Their on the outside relationship is still a raw, malleable thing. Neil doesn’t know exactly what he wants it to be, nor what Chris wants it to be. He does know Chris is the only person on the planet who gives a fuck if he lives or dies. He also knows he still feels an obligation to him, an inexplicable need to take care of him, an irrational and humiliating yearning to keep him by his side even after this score is behind them.
He stops when he sees Chris lean past his seat instead of climbing into it, grabbing the beers and his slushie then moving towards the back of the truck. Neil doesn’t bother asking why. He watches Chris open the back of the truck, place the six-pack and the large plastic cup on one side of the bed, then use his forearms to boost himself up. He does it in one smooth, athletic motion, with the sort of unthinking physical grace he’s had ever since Neil’s known him. Neil’s always found that fitting, in a way he could not verbalize and will never attempt to. Beautiful movement for a beautiful man, that rare alignment of appearance and functionality usually reserved for custom-made watches and expensive knives.
Neil follows him onto the back of the truck, his own motions slower, more methodical. Chris scoots further in, shoving at some of the bulky outlines under the tarp to make more room. Neil, quickly realizing there is no dignified way to sit in the back of a truck, extends both legs and tries to lean against the side of the bed. Chris is already sitting sideways facing the other way, the sole of one work boot close to Neil’s hip. His other leg is bent at the knee. He’s reclining, almost lounging, like the truck bed is the most comfortable place he’s ever sat. He looks completely at ease. He has a way of doing that, Neil’s noticed, a way of looking perfectly natural in every setting. Neil can imagine him in a well-cut suit at the high rollers’ table somewhere in Vegas just as easily as he could imagine him in dreary prison blues. He can imagine his lake-water eyes scanning both settings, flashing sharp and impassive as he amasses information for later use. He can imagine his voice dropping low as he spills those secrets to Neil and Neil alone.
Chris pulls two beers out of the six-pack, using one of the bottles to open the other and handing it to Neil. The other he places next to him, remaining for the present moment unopened. Neil drinks half the bottle in one go, staring over Chris’ shoulder at the dark mass of mountains rising in the distance. He lowers the bottle from his lips and turns it to examine the label.
“Any good?” Chris asks.
Neil nods. It’s okay. Not cold, but cooler than the air around them, and the taste could be worse. He mostly appreciates having something to look at that’s not the sky or the cacti or Chris. Not that Chris cares, because he keeps glancing up at the stars like they’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep checking to make sure they haven’t, but it’s the principle of the thing. Neil knows Chris’ sudden fixation is not so much the stars themselves as what they represent. Neil focuses on his beer bottle, giving him some semblance of privacy. A warm breeze floats past them, bearing a slightly sweet smell. Desert flowers, Neil figures, though he wouldn’t be able to identify any of them with a gun to his head. He shifts, stretching his legs and his shoulders. He feels himself sinking into the marshy no-man’s-land between calm and drowsiness. He forces himself to stay alert, reminding himself he needs to start driving soon. But not yet.
For a while, all he can hear are the crickets, their chittering occasionally punctuated by an owl’s lonesome hoot. He watches Chris dig the pack of cigarettes out of his jeans and shake one loose. Chris doesn’t offer him a cigarette; he doesn’t ask for one. Instead, he watches Chris smoke and tap ash over the side of the truck, the cigarette dainty-looking between his long fingers. Long fingers and big hands, Neil notices, with calluses and scars across the skin. Chris was barely more than a kid when they’d first met, scrawny for his height, but he’s since filled out nicely. A man, not a boy, with the broad shoulders and beat-up hands to prove it. It’s not a sudden realization so much as the first time Neil’s consciously evaluated and named the slowly-collecting mass of minor observations he’s been filing away for years. He feels it in his gut just the same.
Chris switches the cigarette to his other hand and reaches for his cup. Neil watches him suck the last layer of bright blue down to just a few droplets while his cigarette’s smoke curls upwards. He notes what his lips look like, full and tinged blue, as they form a circle around the straw. He thinks he should probably avert his eyes, but he knows Chris won’t ask him to. The look on Chris’ face is one Neil recognizes, though he’s never been able to identify it. He’s seen it a handful of times over the years, usually after he’d just done something to help Chris out, only ever when it was just the two of them. It sends tendrils of electricity dancing across the surface of his skin, a peculiar but not unpleasant sensation. He knows he will not tell Chris to stop looking at him like this any more than Chris will ask why his gaze sometimes lingers on his mouth.
Neil is acutely aware of Chris’ ankle mere inches from his thigh, a pale sliver of bare skin visible between his sock and the leg of his jeans. He finds himself tempted to tug the denim down over it, even though the air’s far from cold and there’s no sun to burn him. Instead, he rests his beer bottle atop his own thigh and rubs his thumb over the waxy label, absentmindedly making note of the sensation as though it will one day be of use to him. He can tell Chris is gearing up to say something. He waits for it patiently, unwilling to speculate on what it will be before Chris has opened his mouth.
“Do you believe in fate?” Chris finally asks.
Neil stares at him blankly, wondering where the fuck the question came from. Chris Shiherlis is about as far as a person can get from being a philosopher, no matter how much Kafka and Camus he struggled through at Neil’s behest. Probably the stars, Neil decides. The night sky has a way of making a philosopher out of anyone.
“You make your own choices in this world,” Neil replies, after a few moments’ careful contemplation. “You cannot blame the consequences on anyone but yourself.”
“Not like that, like— do you think we were supposed to meet, somehow?”
“You’re asking me, do I think you and I were put on this earth to boost banks together.”
“Well, it sounds pretty fuckin’ stupid when you put it like that,” Chris mutters, his eyes tracking the wispy gray smoke rising from the end of his cigarette. “Fuck it, forget I said anything.”
They lapse into another silence, Chris moodily smoking and staring at the distant mountains, Neil gazing at the beer bottle on his thigh as he thinks of what to say. A gust of wind blows past them, rustling the plastic tarp. He and Chris turn to check the front of the truck bed with identical alacrity, both of them making sure the tarp is still fastened securely before going back to not looking at each other. Neil can’t shake the suspicion Chris was trying to tell him something he did not say. It would be unusual— Neil has always appreciated Chris’ directness with him and has always tried to return the favor— but not unthinkable. It occurs to him that Chris may be attempting to figure out their on the outside dynamic just like he is, and may be similarly lost.
“Fuck do I know,” Neil says, after a long pause. “You could be right.”
“You don’t have to humor me.”
“As long as you have known me, have I ever been the type to humor anyone?”
He thinks he sees relief in Chris’ face. He wonders at that; Chris is only expressive when his emotions are too powerful to contain, most often scorching flares of temper and stultifying, empty-eyed despair. Aside from that, Chris generally does an impressive job keeping his face blank. Neil, who’s never been particularly good at reading other people’s feelings, isn’t used to seeing something between those extremes, let alone something so vulnerable. And yet, he understands it immediately. It’s easy to understand. Easy the same way looking out for each other on the yard was easy, the same way Neil senses, with a baseless and irrational certainty, that pulling a score with him will be easy. He doesn’t know whether Chris is the one person he can read, or if he’s the one person Chris will let read him. He does know, as he watches Chris softly exhale a mouthful of smoke, that he likes looking at him and knowing what’s going on in his head. He finds himself suddenly gripped by the desire to reach out and touch his face, just to make sure he’s real. Instead, he curls his fingers into loose fists.
“You sure?” Chris asks. “You’re not fucking with me?”
“I am not fucking with you.”
Chris leans towards the six-pack and grabs a third beer, which he uses to crack open the one previously resting against his thigh, all while the end of his cigarette dangles precariously from the gap between his left index and pinky fingers. Neil watches him carefully remove the slushie’s lid, pour the entire beer into the cup, and swirl it around like he’s a bartender at a high-end club instead of an unreformed ex-con mixing cheap beer and slushie dregs in the back of a truck. Neil can’t help the look of mild disgust that settles over his face as he watches, but he can’t look away, either.
“Just getting my money’s worth,” Chris explains, but he can’t keep a straight face even as he’s saying it, and Neil finds his own lips twitching upwards as Chris tips his head back to drain the concoction.
Neil’s eyes follow Chris’ throat as he drinks, then chart a rogue pinball’s trajectory over his face— full lips to faintly-stubbled jaw to eyebrow scar back to lips, then down to his own lap as a hot rush of discomfort floods his stomach. Tiredness prickles at his eyes; shame prickles in his chest. He finishes his beer. Chris finishes his cigarette, tosses the butt over the side of the truck bed, stretches out, and sighs contentedly. It’s contentment Neil understands. Chris is an ideal companion, nice to look at and easy to sit quietly with. Chris is his best friend, he realizes. Granted, he’s also his only friend, but the title is his nonetheless. Perhaps it’s just his exhaustion, but Neil finds himself wondering at Chris’ words. At the juvenile, nonsensical, hopelessly earnest and devastatingly sweet idea that they were supposed to find each other, whatever the fuck that means.
He still remembers seeing Chris across the yard for the first time, a lanky kid turning on one heel like a satellite dish trying to find a signal. He remembers thinking Jesus Christ, they’re going to eat him alive. He remembers the thought disappearing the second he saw his face up close. The piercing, frigid, don’t-fuck-with-me aggression some guys worked for months to develop was already present, like he’d been born with it, and maybe he had been. His hair was in the awkward stages of growing out, a few strands falling over his forehead and the rest reaching the middle of the back of his neck. The blond stood out, Neil recalls. It flashed golden when the sunlight struck it just right, incongruous with the drab gray-brown buildings around them. It was a bright, uncomplicatedly lovely thing for Neil’s mind to latch onto, to appreciate from a distance before Chris finally approached him. Looking back on it, he figures if their meeting really was fate, it was probably just the universe deciding to throw him a bone.
“Do you want it to be like that?” Neil quietly asks. “That something made us meet?”
Chris glances away, running a hand through hair far past the awkward stages of growing out. He’s embarrassed, Neil realizes. The Chris he knew on the inside wouldn’t allow himself to be bashful about anything, and even if he did, he sure as shit wouldn’t let it show. Maybe it’s different now they’re on the outside. Maybe it’s different just the two of them, intentionally lingering in the middle of nowhere and not doing much of anything because there’s pleasure to be had in simply being free together. Neil doesn’t want Chris to feel embarrassed, but the sight of it is captivating. He thinks it’s a shame it’s too dark to see if he’s blushing, especially when Chris turns away from him and says:
“Shit, man, just forget I said anything.”
“It’s interesting,” Neil replies, turning the idea over in his head like he would an unusual pebble in his hand. “It absolves you of responsibility.”
Chris shakes his head, urgency pulling at the features of his face like the urge to make Neil get it is burning him up from the inside out.
“No, it doesn’t. It gives me more responsibility. ‘Cause if I met you for a reason, I gotta figure out what that reason is, and I gotta act on it. I gotta do something with what I’ve been given. If it’s all random, who gives a fuck? But if it’s not…”
Neil nods, not his agreement but rather his understanding. He watches Chris pull another cigarette halfway out of the pack, then seemingly decide against it and shove the pack into the pocket of his jacket. A cool wind curls around them, lifting both the tarp’s edges and a few wayward strands of Chris’ hair. When the air settles, some of those strands have fallen over his face. Neil fights the urge to reach over and brush them back. This gentle protector’s instinct is still unfamiliar to him, its exact nature a mystery. He only knows it comes from somewhere deep and primal within him, and that it only became powerful enough to influence his decisions when Chris first shook his hand and said Good to meet you, man.
“Nothing made me hold up that 7/11,” Neil says. “I chose to do that. I am choosing to take this score, even though I understand that if there was ever a time for me to shoot for a regular life it would be right fucking now. I cannot blame anything on forces I can’t see, forces that may or may not exist. Your fate is the sum total of the choices you make.”
Chris doesn’t ask why Neil didn’t shoot for a regular life between getting out and driving back to pick him up. He knows why. Neither one of them is built for a nine-to-five or a mortgage or any of the other bullshit accoutrements of the straight and narrow. Too much damage done, even before they were locked up. They share the same ignoble origins, lingering stains of casual violence and crushing neglect. Twisted things that cannot be fixed, emptinesses that cannot be filled, fucked-up psychology that no amount of therapy or pills could undo. But, crucially, they are no longer alone. They’ve both learned to live without companionship, but neither one is willing to relinquish it now, especially considering their options are this or a vain and foolish attempt at a life neither one of them could ever really have, anyway.
“You know, I realized something,” Chris says. “You didn’t have to pick me up.”
Neil’s fingers close around the neck of his empty beer bottle. Chris’ face is a curious mix of vulnerability and guardedness, like he wants Neil to read him but can’t allow himself to reveal too much. Neil levels him with the full force of his stare, unapologetically scanning every line of his face like he would a set of complex blueprints. He knows he won’t get it from a quick look. He also knows if he looks long enough, he will start to see. It’s ironic, considering Chris’ impulsive nature, but the man rewards patience. Even if he doesn’t know it.
“I promised you I would,” Neil replies.
“You didn’t have to do that, either.”
Neil’s trying to bore into him, to see past the walls he watched him build over the time they did together and into whatever bleeding center Chris would not permit anyone else to view. Neil has always been a careful observer, a cataloger of minor details. Nothing feels minor right now. Every muted sound, every miniscule motion, seems to hold worlds of significance.
“Nobody else was going to,” Neil says.
“So what? I would’ve figured something out.”
The second the words are out, Chris glances away, his gaze roaming aimlessly over misshapen plastic tarp. Neil tips his head to one side, noting the sudden defensiveness in Chris’ tone. He senses structural weakness in Chris’ walls, the tension in his body language that was not there a moment ago, a sure indication of near-defeat, like a bowstring pulled to the point of snapping. He studies Chris’ face— the barely-concealed agitation, the furrowed brow, the downturn of his full lips— until it occurs to him. Chris doesn’t resent needing Neil, he resents needing. He wants to be with him, but he doesn’t want to need to be with him. The tangled nature of it all makes Neil blink as he processes. It’s a real fucking mess, as is often the case with Chris. He understands anyway.
“I know,” Neil finally says. “I picked you up because I wanted…”
He trails off, suddenly aware of how precarious the moment is. Some humiliating cluster of cells deep in the recesses of his brain churns out possible conclusions— I wanted to be there for you, to see you again, to know you were okay— but he doesn’t verbalize any of them. Instead, he finishes with:
“Because I wanted to.”
He knows it’s lame even as he’s saying it, but he’s got nothing better. All the truly honest answers would make Chris skittish, and the full brunt of his loneliness is a massive, ugly thing he’d never ask anyone else to bear. In the ensuing silence, he watches Chris dig out a cigarette, light up, and smoke it to the very end of its dull orange glow before tossing it over the side of the truck. His brain is uncomfortably and uncharacteristically hazy, which he blames on the late hour and their dreamlike surroundings. Looking at Chris from somewhere within the haze, it begins to seem like a good idea to touch him. Neil’s few remaining functioning neurons shoot the idea down the instant it’s formed. Neither one of them is the touchy-feely type; trying to reach out and touch him would most likely result in Chris asking if he’s had a stroke. But the slump of Chris’ shoulders pulls at something in Neil’s chest, something buried deep and unyielding in the viscera behind his ribcage, and he wants to touch him. He doesn’t.
His thoughts involuntarily slide back to the last time he touched Chris, really touched him, beyond accidental brushes-past and playful bumps of Chris’ shoulder. It had been when he picked him up from Folsom, a gorgeous summer day he knows he will remember with perfect clarity for the rest of his life. He remembers how Chris looked squinting in the bright sunlight, his long hair glowing golden, a wide and delighted grin splitting his face the second he caught sight of Neil. He remembers the warmth and solidity of Chris’ arms as he pulled him into a tight hug even though Neil had extended his hand to shake, the lingering embrace eventually broken by Chris drawing back and exclaiming I dig the beard, man! He remembers how Chris waited for him to put ten minutes of driving between them and the prison’s gates before turning to him and asking: so, you got anything? Something heavy had shifted in his chest at the question, a rusted-shut door swinging open, some long-slumbering beast finally stretching itself awake. He remembers feeling a small but genuine smile form on his own face as he said yeah, I got something.
Neil’s startled from his musings when Chris starts to move. Neil sees understanding in his body language, sees Chris perceiving him as easily as he always has and adapting accordingly. As his hand drifts towards Neil’s knee, Neil’s tired mind kicks into a staticky overdrive. He realizes Chris has managed to strike that elusive balance between careful planning and split-second improvisation just to touch him, acquiring the mark of a good thief from him and for him. A fierce, searing pride erupts in his chest, barely distinguishable from the blistering affection he feels surging through him, cauterizing his insides, burning him clean. He watches Chris’ hand settle on the dark fabric over his knee, his heart pounding something furious.
“Hey,” Chris says softly, “thanks for picking me up. And for putting me on this score. And for, you know, everything else.”
The mask, showing signs of slippage since Neil found him gazing at the stars, has crumbled to pieces. Chris’ face bleeds sincerity like an open wound. Neil’s pulse hammers through him. He wants to grab the twisted, shriveled vulnerability with both fists and hide it somewhere dark and quiet once again, but this time, inside himself. He forces himself to meet Chris’ eyes, to absorb the emotion emanating from them. He’s doing it on purpose, Neil realizes. Deliberately tearing his own walls down and offering everything he’s ever tried to bury inside himself to Neil, because he wants Neil to see it. To see him. To be the only person who’s ever really seen him and the only person who ever really will.
Neil doesn’t know what to do with the tidal-wave devastation of Chris’ unshakable trust in him, let alone the knowledge that he is the sole possessor of that trust. Incoherent thoughts ricochet around his head. His eyes track every shifting shadow as Chris moves towards him. He knows what’s about to happen, what’s been in the making for years, now, perhaps even since that first day on the yard. He isn’t capable of expressing how badly he wants it. At the same time, he does not want this to be transactional, doesn’t want Chris to do it because he feels he owes him, doesn’t want—
“Come on,” Chris murmurs, like he’s coaxing a pin into a complex lock. “Let me in.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.”
And then Neil’s head swims with thoughts of big and heavy and warm, each detail visceral and significant as Chris bears down on him. Chris cups his face in both hands, holding on tight like he’s trying to haul Neil’s mouth into the kiss. Neil comes willingly, parting his lips at the first slide of Chris’ tongue. His own hands cling tightly to Chris’ hips, flexing involuntarily as Chris kisses him with a desperation that makes Neil’s chest feel tight. His eyes slide shut as he gives in to sensation, allowing himself to claim and be claimed all at once.
Chris tastes like cheap beer and cigarette smoke and blue raspberry slushie, an incongruous blend that should not work but, to Neil’s mind, does. He licks at the artificial sweetness, sucking the residual sugar off Chris’ stained-blue tongue. Chris lets him, his breath hot on Neil’s face between kisses, barely containing his eagerness to explore Neil’s mouth. He groans when Neil’s tongue slides over his teeth, a raw animal noise that raises the hair on the back of Neil’s neck. He sits up to give himself better access, straightening his back and pulling his legs in until they’re bent at the knee, the soles of his boots flat on the metal truck bed. Chris immediately maneuvers himself between his legs, surging into him with such force, Neil distantly wonders if they’re in any danger of tipping the truck. But the truck holds steady, and so does Chris, who’s now sucking at Neil’s bottom lip like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
Neil’s dimly aware the kiss is awkward, their noses bumping and teeth clicking as they figure each other out. It’s been years since Neil’s had this; his body is in the throes of a euphoric, agonizing period of readjustment, every cell a microscopic supernova of pleasure. But they find their rhythm in record time, same way they always have, their chests pressed together as they kiss like they’re trying to swallow each other whole. Chris’ stubble scrapes against Neil’s beard; the friction is surprisingly nice. He tightens his grip on Chris’ hips as he takes anything and everything he’s given, then angles his head for more. Kissing him is not enough. Neil wants to devour him. He thinks Chris would let him.
The sighs Chris is spilling into his mouth are punctuated by the occasional sharp inhale whenever Neil’s tongue does something particularly right, each involuntary rush of air sending a bolt of triumph to Neil’s gut. He lets himself get lost in Chris’ warmth, his strength, how close he is. He needs him even closer. His hands burrow under Chris’ leather jacket, his shirt, his undershirt, then slide up the smooth, flat planes of his bare back. He freezes when he feels the telltale raised ridge of scar tissue. He feels Chris freeze, too, the muscles of his torso and his strong hands stilling in tandem. When he pulls his head back, his eyes are wide and shining, his lips fuller than usual and wet with saliva. Neil drinks in the sight of him, willing himself to commit every detail of this moment to memory.
“‘S’okay,” Chris whispers hoarsely. “Long time ago.”
Neil nods, but instead of resuming his exploration of Chris’ back, he stretches out his legs. Chris understands instantly, trading his hunched-over crouch for purchase on Neil’s lap. Neil leans against the truck bed as Chris straddles him, his thighs strong and solid on either side of Neil’s. His hands roam aimlessly over Chris’ broad back, trying to pull Chris towards him even though he’s already as close as he can get. Chris is doing the same with his hands on Neil’s face, his fingertips brushing the hair on the back of Neil’s neck and his thumbs caressing Neil’s cheekbones. It’s not a gentle caress; Chris is pressing his thumbs into Neil’s face like he’s trying to mark him with his fingerprints. Neil returns the frantic roughness, digging his nails into Chris’ back. Eagerness and desire have them moving sloppily, each and every touch saturated with the barely-contained desperation of two nervous systems sparking and fizzing with long-denied pleasure. Neil feels like every nerve ending his body is waking up after eons spent asleep, returning to the land of the living in a storm of howling colors. He opens his mouth to Chris over and over again, letting him in, feeling Chris let him in. Each tiny gasp between them is a testament to something much bigger than kissing, each quiet moan subsumed by the waves of nameless emotion pulsing through him, vibrating outwards from the very core of his being like a just-struck tuning fork.
He does not know how much time elapses with Chris’ hands on his face and his hands on Chris’ back, kissing and breathing into each others’ mouths. He does know Chris’ movements are becoming clumsy as he moans wordlessly against Neil’s lips, like the self-control Neil helped him build is now disintegrating in Neil’s hands. Neil leans forward in attempt to shove his tongue down Chris’ throat. The movement results in a sudden, unexpected pressure against his hip; Chris is fully hard. The realization sends a bolt of heat directly to Neil’s gut, his own cock stiffening in response. He instinctively rolls his hips towards Chris’ groin. Chris lets out a beautiful sound somewhere between a whine and a groan and a low sigh of relief that raises goosebumps on Neil’s forearms. He feels his pants getting tight as he watches Chris pull back and race to strip off his jacket and his work shirt, his usual grace replaced by sharp, jerky haste. Neil takes the opportunity to remove his gun from his pocket; Chris takes it and withdraws his own weapon, then leans over to place both of them on the tarp. When he settles himself, Neil can’t help but notice his position: simultaneously on Neil’s lap and on his knees, but sunk further down, the backs of his thighs pressed to his calves, his knees and shins pressed into the truck bed. Like he’s praying. Neil doesn’t have time to formulate any coherent thoughts about it before Chris surges back into him.
He kisses with an urgency that takes Neil’s breath away. He’s fully hard, now, his fingers digging into Chris’ back hard enough to bruise as Chris grinds against his crotch and lower stomach in pure animal desperation. Some part of Neil is proud of himself for earning this measure of frenzied desire from him, but he doesn’t want it to end with them coming in their pants like a couple of overeager teenagers. As if reading his mind, Chris suddenly stills his hips. Neil watches him get ahold of himself with Herculean effort, like it’s taking every ounce of willpower he has not to touch Neil wherever he can and finish just like this. When Neil glances down, Chris’ bulge is straining at the crotch of his jeans. Neil can feel a wet spot in his own underwear, now uncomfortably tight, where pre-come has started to leak. He can feel sweat dripping down his back and pooling above his waistband, as well as his dry throat and thundering heartbeat. A faint sheen of moisture is visible on Chris’ forehead. His palms on Neil’s cheeks are hot and slightly damp. His white cotton undershirt clings to his chest and stomach. Neil reaches up to smooth back his hair before settling his hands on Chris’ hips, waiting.
There’s a brief moment of heavy silence, a near-palpable charge in the air, and then Chris starts to move. His right hand moves from Neil’s cheek to his jaw, then caresses his neck and collarbone, then slowly presses its way down his chest and stomach until it’s resting atop the bulge in his pants. Neil’s breath stutters. The pressure alone is wonderful; it takes everything he has not to thrust against it. His brain goes wonderfully blank, TV static and white noise, some primal, gut-instinct emotion deep within him howling for Chris to just fucking touch him already. Chris is staring at his own hand on Neil’s crotch like he can’t believe it’s there. He looks up at him, his question obvious. Neil nods so fast he nearly cricks his neck, then hisses quietly as Chris unzips his pants and tugs the waistband down. He lifts his hips, trying to help, but Chris isn’t trying to strip him naked. Instead, he gets just enough of Neil’s pants and boxers out of the way to grasp his cock, eliciting an involuntary groan from deep in Neil’s chest.
“Fuck,” Chris murmurs. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
Neil swallows hard, endeavoring mightily to control his breathing. No, you don’t know, he thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut. He knows should feel ridiculous, fully clothed in the back of a truck with his dick out, but he doesn’t. He has nothing in his head but the barrage of sensations, especially the exquisite, bone-deep satisfaction of a large, callused hand stroking his cock with a diligent gentleness Neil hadn’t thought Chris capable of. His hands automatically slide to Chris’ hips. Chris strokes him a few times, adjusting his grip like he’s getting a feel for it, before releasing it to open his jeans.
Neil watches Chris’ capable fingers undo his jeans with unconcealed hunger, momentarily ignoring his fully-hard cock. It’s hard to see much of anything from this angle, especially with only moonlight at his guide, but Neil can tell Chris is also fully hard. Without thinking, he reaches for it, only for Chris to stop him with a vise-like grip on his wrist. Neil’s eyes snap to Chris’ face. Chris shakes his head, then moves Neil’s hand back to his hip. Neil hangs on tightly, his heart pounding, as Chris carefully shifts his hips, then slides his cock against Neil’s in a motion so drawn-out as to be almost in slow-motion. It’s completely alien, unbelievably intimate, filthy and perfect and overwhelming, making Neil’s most shameful fantasies seem positively tame by comparison. He can’t help the noise that escapes him, a moan equal parts surprised and aroused. His eyes flutter shut as Chris grinds their cocks together, his pace deliciously and agonizingly slow. A viscous bead of pre-come slides down Chris’ shaft and onto Neil’s. Neil’s head falls backwards, his knuckles turning white around Chris’ hips. He feels Chris go still underneath him. The moment seems to stretch into a miniature infinity as Neil tries to find the strength to meet his gaze.
Chris is staring at him when he finally does, his eyes glazed over with lust. Neil can see himself in Chris’ pupils, blown so wide as to nearly eclipse his irises. He can see Chris silently asking permission. He nods. Chris nods back. And Neil lets himself float in mindless ecstasy as Chris settles both hands on his shoulders and grinds his cock against Neil’s over and over again. Neil, suddenly overcome by the need to be close to him, tries to tug him in by his hips, the pads of his thumbs pressing against bare skin while his fingertips rub over rough denim. Chris shifts, obliging as best he can, but they’re already about as close as they can get. Neil feels him tighten his grip on his shoulders, staring downward with a look of intense focus on his face. When he licks his lips, something in Neil cracks. He grabs his face with both hands and pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss, fully intending to never let him go.
White-hot pleasure is coiling tightly in Neil’s gut, already threatening to spill over, sending sparking tendrils to his furthest extremities. He knows he isn’t going to last much longer. He nearly tips backwards over the side of the truck when Chris takes both their cocks in one large hand and strokes them experimentally. Instead, he slides his hands to Chris’ ass and squeezes, urging him to continue. Chris does, twisting his wrist and tearing a low, tangled groan from the back of Neil’s throat. Even with Chris’ leaking, though, there’s too much friction. Chris knows it; he only gives them one more stroke before he lifts his hand to spit in his palm. Neil grabs his wrist. Chris’ gaze meets his, its naked hunger raising the hair on the back of Neil’s neck, and then Neil leans forward and spits in his hand. Chris blinks a few times, his capacity to process seemingly fried. Then, his entire face splits in a wide, amazed grin. The slide is easier, this time, each rise and fall of Chris’ hand sending a ferocious pleasure through Neil’s body. He lets himself melt, trusting Chris’ hand and the secure weight of him on his lap. His hands quest over Chris’ hips and ass and lower back, trying to feel as much of him as he possibly can. He can tell Chris is close by his clenching thigh muscles and the increasingly erratic rolls of his hips. Neil thrusts into his fist, too, hurtling at breakneck speed towards the best orgasm of his life.
Chris’ eyes are dark and focused, his brow knit tightly in concentration. Bliss burns in Neil’s chest like sparklers as Chris swipes his fingers over the heads of both their cocks. He’s beautiful, Neil thinks wildly, feeling a little delirious. The strength of his own emotion starts to crawl up his throat, threatening to choke him. He closes his eyes and lunges forward, his nose slamming into Chris’ as he crashes their lips together. Chris lets loose a yelp of surprise, but he responds the split second after Neil swallows the sound. His free hand comes up around the back of Neil’s head, scrabbling for a hold in his hair as he pumps them as fast as he can. The noise Chris’ hand makes around both of them is something right out of Neil’s most indulgent imaginings, as is the feeling of Chris’ cock rubbing against his own, both of them flushed and aching and shiny with spit and pre-come. Wordless sounds tumble from Chris’ mouth into Neil’s, though at some point, Neil realizes they have become words. Neil, Chris is mumbling, over and over again like a mantra, Neil Neil Neil, the most beautiful sound Neil’s ever heard. He digs his fingernails into the muscle of Chris’ hips, utterly lost in the slick pressure around his cock and rendered speechless by the enormous swell of tenderness he feels towards this man.
“Neil!” Chris gasps, his breath hot on Neil’s cheeks. “Fuck, Neil, I’m close—”
So is Neil, and he feels the same urgent need he hears in Chris’ voice. He grabs a handful of his hair and hauls their faces together in something not quite a kiss, more so them panting into each other’s mouths as they chase their climaxes with shared ferocity. Neil feels himself approach the edge and shuts his eyes tight as Chris carries him over. He heaves a shuddering gasp against Chris’ bottom lip as he comes onto Chris’ hand and the bottom of his t-shirt. Chris follows moments later with a hoarse yell. He immediately slumps against Neil, his face buried in the crook of Neil’s neck as his orgasm spurts onto his t-shirt. Neil’s arms come up around him automatically, holding him close as he feels Chris tentatively release their softening cocks and wipe his hand on his own shirt. Chris is panting, gusting hot air onto Neil’s neck like he’s just run a marathon. Neil’s own breath is ragged, his body exhausted and his mind blissfully blank as the aftershocks of his orgasm course through him.
The rush of blood is deafening in Neil’s ears, as is the thundering of his own heart. Chris’ orgasm has turned his body limp and pliant, all two hundred or so pounds of him collapsed on top of Neil. Neil doesn’t mind. He likes the closeness, the security of Chris’ bulk sinking into his lap and pressed against his chest, the live-wire energy humming through Chris’ body like he can’t yet come down from the high. Neil gets it. He’s sweaty and out of breath and his tailbone aches where it’s been digging into the truck bed, but he’s never felt this good in his life. Chris’ body shields his sensitive cock from the breeze when it comes, a welcome rush of cool air on his face and the back of his neck. He rubs his palms over Chris’ shoulderblades as a profound contentment seeps into his bones, convincing him they should stay here forever, fuck the score, fuck everybody and everything else, but then—
“I gotta get up,” Chris mumbles, the words muffled by Neil’s neck.
“No you don’t.”
Chris laughs. Neil feels the vibrations against his skin more than he hears it. It triggers some sort of cascading chain reaction within him, culminating in a wild swooping sensation in his gut, like he’s suddenly realized he’s standing atop a very tall cliff. He drags the heel of his boot across the metal truck bed to ground himself, exhaling as Chris dusts kisses over the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. Neil strokes his back with one hand, his other hand reaching upwards to play with a few strands of Chris’ hair. Chris lets him, sighing contentedly into his skin as Neil’s fingertips brush the nape of his neck.
“Yeah, I do,” Chris says after a few seconds, sounding a little apologetic. “My knees are killing me.”
So Neil lets him up, his hands falling to his sides as Chris heaves himself off his lap with a grunt of effort. Neil watches hungrily as he settles himself on Neil’s right, committing every last detail of him to memory. Their thighs and shoulders are pressed together; Neil can feel Chris’ warmth radiating through his shirt. It’s Chris’ shirt, though, that bears the most incriminating evidence: a few white-ish, just-barely-visible streaks on the cotton. Neil regards them as he tucks himself back into his pants and zips up, somehow unsure if they’re real despite helping put them there. Chris follows his line of sight and smirks, his cocky expression undercut by similarly-disbelieving wonder. He copies Neil’s motions, then turns to him and asks:
“You think Yuma’s got a store that sells t-shirts?”
“No,” Neil deadpans, and Chris snorts before adjusting his position and letting his head fall backwards so he can see the stars.
The crickets seem even louder in the aftermath of what they’ve just done, the stars and moon brighter as if to illuminate them specifically. Neil scans their surroundings, an utterly absurd maneuver Chris does not comment on because he’s got the same set of questionable-but-necessary habits. They sit there for a while in a silence almost awestruck, the air itself saturated with wonderment. The enormity of what’s just happened is starting to sink in, making his mind whirl. Something strange is aching in his chest, its weight reassuring instead of oppressive. It takes him a few seconds to identify it as happiness.
“You didn’t find anyone, did you,” Chris finally says, licking his lips. “Between getting out and picking me up. I was— this was your first in years.”
Neil just nods. He tips his head backwards, baring his throat to the night air as he studies the stars. They’ve passed a point of no return; that much is certain. He suspects it should feel frightening in its finality, its immensity paralyzing and unbearable, but it doesn’t. It feels right, somehow. Like something a long time coming has finally fallen into place. His only fear is that this won’t last, that it’ll slip away from him like every other good thing he’s ever had. But this time, he’s willing to take the chance, because he’s never had anything this good, ever, and he is not willing to give it up. He is not willing to give Chris up.
“You ever done that before?” Chris asks. “Been with a guy, I mean?”
“No,” Neil says simply. “You?”
“No, me neither. But it was a pretty good start, I thought.”
“Start?”
The look on Chris’ face is not one Neil has ever seen before. The longer Neil takes it in, the more he sees: amazement, bashfulness, defiance. And hunger, too, an aching sort of hunger so potent it yanks Neil out of his analytical framework and kicks him in the solar plexus.
“Yeah,” Chris replies. “Only if, you know, if you want—”
“I want to.”
Chris’ face changes again. The new expression is one Neil recognizes: cautious hope; contentment tempered by the knowledge that nothing this good can last; massive, nameless longing deliberately forced smaller and duller by a lifetime of disappointment. He recognizes it because he’s used to seeing it on his own face. Because he’s feeling it right now, fighting his own preference to have nothing for fear of losing everything with the fervent belief that he and Chris will find a way simply because he will not allow anything else.
Chris leans backwards, slouching until his shoulder’s level with Neil’s. Neil knows he’s no Casanova, but he knows what they do in movies and he knows he likes being close to Chris, so he wraps an arm around Chris’ broad shoulders. Chris reacts immediately, curling into his side with a pleased hum. He smells like cigarette smoke and sex and the faintest hint of blue raspberry, which causes a fond smile to form on Neil’s face. Even with Chris’ flank pressed close against his, Neil wants him closer. He wants to melt into him and fuse into one being through some miracle of science. But given the impracticality of that particular desire, his thoughts turn to the next best thing.
“I want to,” Neil repeats. “But not like this.”
“What?”
Chris’ confusion is visible in the slight furrowing of his eyebrows, the almost pouting set of his lips. Neil feels his own face softening as he looks at him.
“Not in a fucking… rental truck in the middle of the desert.”
The words hang in the air for a few seconds while Chris processes. Neil toys idly with the hem of Chris’ t-shirt sleeve, feeling goosebumps rise on the tattooed skin underneath. He wants to touch every dark line of those cheesy fucking tattoos, wants to kiss them as Chris moans his name over and over again.
“So now you’re gonna play the gentleman?” Chris asks.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we just got off like a couple of horny fuckin’ teenagers in a rental truck in the middle of the desert!”
Neil inclines his head slightly, as if to say fair enough. He is not too stoic to see the situation’s humor. A moment of charged eye contact passes between them, and then Chris is quickly gathering their refuse and vaulting out of the truck bed like he can’t bear to wait even a second longer. Neil follows, lifting and securing the back of bed behind him. They’re taking long strides without running, Neil notes even as he’s doing it, like they’re trying to contain their eagerness. But Chris is eager— Neil can see it in the unusual bounce in his step, in the way he makes his way into the driver’s seat before Neil can argue. Instead, he walks around the truck and climbs into the shotgun seat. He’s eager, too. He feels it as an internal buoyancy, an almost-fizzy lightness in his chest he imagines must be what it feels like to drink good champagne.
Chris grips the wheel tightly for a moment, a grounding technique as endearing to Neil as it is familiar. He stays quiet as Chris turns the key and maneuvers the truck back onto the road. Chris doesn’t touch the radio, which Neil knows is for his sake. He clenches the fingers of his right hand into a tight fist, digging his fingernails into his palm so as to release the emotions coursing through him as quietly as possible. It doesn’t help. Chris at least does him the courtesy of not looking at him, like he knows Neil’s afraid he’ll fall apart if he’s witnessed in this state.
“I don’t wanna wait ‘til Yuma,” Chris announces. “Nearest available motel, that’s where I’m headed.”
Neil looks at him. The truck’s open windows allow nighttime air to whip past them, stinging their cheeks and filling their throats with a warm, dusty, slightly sweet smell. Chris is staring straight ahead, his lips set in a determined expression. His hair seems to fly behind him, a frenetically flapping wave of shadowed gold. He looks good, Neil thinks, even though he knows the simple phrase doesn’t even cover the half of it. His heart aches with how beautiful Chris is, how well freedom suits him. The overwhelming desire to touch him courses through his veins and arteries, indistinguishable from his own blood.
“Okay,” Neil says. “Good.”
As though he can feel the weight of Neil’s gaze, Chris turns to face him. Their eyes hold for a moment that seems to stretch into infinity, filled by the roar of the truck’s engine and dry desert wind. Neil watches Chris break into a triumphant grin. After a few seconds, he turns to look at the road again, but the smile doesn’t leave his face.