Archive of Our Own

———

He’s trembling, extremities numb. Staring blankly at the water damaged off white wall of the police station. Somewhere in the next room an ancient coffee machine chugs to life, wheezing out black sludge as a sticky Sergeant looks at him, mouth a gape. 

Every high pitched sound jolts him back to that moment. Every whine of the copy maker, every scrape of the chair on the hard linoleum reminds him of her desperate screams. 

(“Please, Jim, do something,” Nash’s terrified sobs, wrists rubbed raw by the thick ropes.)

“Son,” a cop approaches him, voice falsely consolatory. Only a few hours earlier he was public enemy number one. Now he’s ‘son’. (Not kid. Not to them. The cop’s eyes are the wrong color). “We need you to come along.”

His battered body unfolds from the unforgiving chair. He’s aching all over, making him feel years older. (I am years older. I’ve lived a whole life. Someone else’s life). Jim stumbles after the officer into the observation room, breath catching as he sees him. Sitting with polite disinterest, observing the cops around him without much care. 

“We don’t even know his name,” the cop’s drawl breaks through his hazy thoughts. “Don’t worry, he can’t see you through the glass.” Jim knows better. He can probably sense Jim is near. 

“John Ryder” he whispers his name like a prayer. Like a curse. Looking at a pair of eyes colder than the ocean he’ll probably never see now, with his head cocked like a puppy waiting for its master to come around a corner. 

“I want to talk to him,” he feels his lips forming the words, surprised by how calmly the sentence falls from his mouth. (Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised?).

As he walks through the door and their eyes lock, the air evaporates from the room, sucking the other occupants out. Leaving them. Just them. Jim walks towards him as if through molasses, reaching out. John lifts his hand and entwines their fingers together; his face looks fond. Goddamn fond. Jim tugs him closer, leaning over, absorbing his reverent expression. 

Dimly, he can feel the eyes of the other unimportant occupants squeezing back into his consciousness,  as he gathers moisture in his mouth. Quickly, he moves forward and spits viciously in John’s face, spattering him in saliva.

Swiftly, with a shocked rustling of clothes, the cops move to grab him and tug him away. As he’s being pushed towards the door, he turns back one last time (I read somewhere not to turn back). John is returning his gaze, eyes hot and eager. No disgust on his face as Jim’s saliva dribbles down his skin. 

———

He hovers near the wheezing air conditioning unit in the station, chewing on his thumb nail. He watches as the officers mill around, bustling to get the prisoner transfer ready. Blissfully unaware about how the world has changed. It's just another day to them. Not to Jim. Something has shifted. It’s over. The monster is gone. No longer stalking his every move. He takes a deep breath, looking out the streaked window. The pit of his stomach feels tremendously empty. Hollow. 

Jim gazes out at the cracked and dusty Texas wasteland, feeling no relief. His future doesn’t look brighter. 

———

“Son,” wrong. “Son.”

Jim tears his eyes away from the disappearing police bus. He can’t see those blue eyes anymore. But he imagines they are still fixed on him through the thin wall of metal. 

“I can take you to the bus station if you want. Maybe you can get a bus back to your folks,” he can’t. Can’t go back there. 

(His mother, washing dishes in front of the large bay window in the kitchen. Not looking at Jim as he shifts into drive and pulls away from the curb. He takes one last look at his childhood home as he leaves his neighborhood for the last time.)

“Alright,” Jim says numbly, turning back to watch the bus get swallowed into a cloud of dust. 

“Well,” the cop is looking at him funny. He can feel it. He knows the look. (Freak). Stumbling slightly, he moves to the passenger side of the cop car, slumping into the hot leather. 

The first few miles are wrapped up in thick silence as they bump along the hot road. 

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” a faltering glance is thrown his way from the driver’s side. Jim’s mind dances away. 

(His mother’s face, twisted in horror, clutching her rosary, home too early from church a few months after graduation: “What’s going on here?”

Shame twisting in the pit of his stomach as he releases Michael Young from next door, pushing him off his bed.)

Back in the present, Jim’s fists clench. Mind calcifying on an idea. And goes no further. Quick as a flash, his hand darts forward and grips the cop’s gun, pulling it out of its hostler, pointing it at the officer. He feels no fear as he watches the shock flash in the other man’s eyes. 

As he shifts into the driver's seat, his heart starts to calm. He’s the one chasing for once. When he catches up with the bus, he’s almost relieved to see John burst through the flapping doors and crash through the glass of the windshield. 

“Hey kid,” said so lightly. Like they ran into each other at Sunday brunch. 

———

They stand on the side of the road, like gunslingers in an old movie. Looking at each other. Jim’s legs are trembling, (Terror? Excitement?) but his grip on the shotgun is sure. Moments pass (Seconds? Eons?), breath rattling around in Jim’s lungs, eyes unblinking. 

“Well, kid,” John says quietly. “What are we going to do now?” Like he actually doesn’t know the answer. Like he doesn’t care. Like he wants Jim to make the decision for him. Like he wants Jim to shoot him. To kill him. To rip him bloody and gorge on the pain he inflicts in return for brutally shredding Jim’s fragile barely formed life. 

Jim clutches the shotgun with sweaty palms, grimy fingers catching on the hot metal, itching for the trigger. 

“I don’t know,” he coughs the words out around a tight ball in his throat. 

Casually. So casually. John comes nearer, shadow looming. They stand close. Breathing in each other’s air like lovers would in bed. John reaches out and pushes Jim’s hair back from his tender sunburnt forehead, a slow smile pulling up his lips, stretching the skin of his face across the bones beneath. 

———

Jim’s ears won’t pop. A low rumbling hum surrounds him, insulating the interior of the car. The feel of the accelerator beneath his shoe and the dusty road in front of him. That’s all he sees. All he needs to see. To think about. Not about the feel of the overcoat beneath his fingers as he wordlessly tugged. Not the kindly smile bestowed on him like a benediction (Forgive me Father, for I have sinned). And not the space beside him in the cop car, filled like a black hole. Sucking Jim back in. 

———

He pulls over one time. Just once. Pushing an unresisting John out into the hot air, pointing the shotgun straight at his face. 

“I can do it,” Jim yells hysterically, voice swallowed up by the vastness of the desert. 

“Sure,” John says. Calm. Always so fucking calm. “It’s loaded this time.” 

(“You didn’t check it did you,” John’s voice gently ribbing, expression condescending.

Jim’s trembling fingers wrapped around the pistol as his breath stumbles, hitching panicked in his chest.)

Jim strides forward, pushing the muzzle brutally into John’s cheek. He doesn’t know what expression his face is making, but John’s gaze never wavers, eyes fixed unblinking on Jim. A few hundred heartbeats later, the gun is pointed towards the dirt. 

“We—” Jim starts, voice rusty, cheeks wet. “We need to switch cars. 

John shrugs, moving to the passenger side of the vehicle, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Waiting. 

Legs stiff, Jim stumbles towards him, joining him next to the car. 

———

It’s somewhere between four and five in the morning, the peachy sunrise just touching the horizon. The diner is quiet and empty, save for a grizzled old man behind the counter, leaning heavily against the wall, eyes drooping. Jim carefully doesn’t think of soft blonde hair and a smile as sweet as a dewdrop. John is seemingly impervious to fatigue, showing no signs of exhaustion. His eyes are fixed unblinkingly on the desert outside the window, fingers curled delicately around the slightly bent spoon. 

“Do you even eat or drink?” Jim breaks the silence, voice hushed, glaring obstinately at the other man. 

John turns slowly, a slight creak in the cheap leather of the booth. With an amused expression on his face, he raises the chipped coffee mug to his lips and takes a deliberate sip, eyes never leaving Jim’s. Narrowing his eyes, Jim takes an answering mouthful of coffee from his mug, and promptly burns his tongue, hissing in pain. Laughter twinkles in John’s eyes as he takes another sip. 

“We need to— to change our appearances or something,” Jim rallies, furrowing his brows in what he hopes is a serious expression. 

“Do we?” John says impassively, expression playful. 

“Well. Yeah,” Jim answers blankly. Not that he had contemplated it too deeply, but Jim was under the impression this was not John’s first—well—murder spree. Surely, this was something he did. “It seems like the sensible thing to do.”

John lets out a sharp bark of laughter, startling the old man at the counter who glares at them sharply. Jim feels slightly rankled. It seems like a good suggestion to him. 

John’s teasing smile lights up his face. Casually, he leans forward, reaching across the Formica table. He grips Jim’s head in his too large palms, pulling him close, eyes fixed on his parted mouth. Jim feels the saliva gathering as he remembers the tangy taste of the coin from the other diner. His stomach twitches, a pulse of heat low in his body. 

“You think too much, kid,” John whispers thoughtfully, looking at Jim’s nervous face pensively. As if it was the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. As if he was a work of art. A painting in the Louvre. 

“And you not enough,” Jim spits back. John likes it when he spits. He pulls slightly, testing the strength of the grip. As he struggles, he watches John’s Mona Lisa smile crack his face apart. Jim still can’t see what’s behind it. 

———

It’s only at Jim’s insistence they find a motel. The dreary building has a wagon wheel out front in what the owner probably thinks is a charming nod to westerns. The woman at the front desk eyes them beadily as John calmly asks for a double. Her eyes fix on Jim, taking in his age, his disheveled appearance, and doubtless his awkwardness. 

(He feels a hot rush of sickening shame at the disgusted twist on the construction worker's face. He’s seen it before. Which is why he ran in the first place. 

“Alright, get a move on sweethearts,” a curl to his lip that’s all too familiar. A cold press of steel to his groin that’s not.)

The room at least is relatively clean. Two beds looking reproachfully at Jim. Exhausted, he collapses on the thin comforter, trying desperately to shove all thoughts from his mind. 

———

He startles awake, heart pounding frantically. No light filters in through the thin curtains. It’s still early then. His dream was confusing. Unsettling. It’s already slipping away as he rolls over and squints at the other bed. He can just barely make out the dark outline of the shape, breathing steadily in and out. 

“Are you real?” He whispers into the pitch darkness of the room. 

“Are you?” His voice grunts back immediately. Sounding unimpressed. 

Flushing, Jim rolls back, pressing his hot face into the mattress. Mortified. 

———

Jim's forehead bumps against the cool glass of their latest car as he stares listlessly at the passing cacti. They’ve been driving for days. Maybe a week. It feels like years since he left Chicago, frightened, but a tentatively hopeful kid. (How stupid and fuckint naive I was.)

“Where are we?” Jim croaks after hours of silence. 

“Just outside of Oklahoma,” John’s response is hushed. (Does he ever raise his goddamn voice?)

Oklahoma. They’ve left Texas. Jim didn’t think it was possible. He somehow thought they would live forever in the liminal space of long stretches of dusty roads between scrubby towns. Jim peers out at the desert. There are lights in the distance, winking into existence in the growing gloom. He feels restless, jittery. Like that feeling you get when you think you didn’t turn the stove off after leaving your house. 

“I’m tired.”

“Then sleep,” John’s gaze flicks to him, not looking at the road. 

“We should stop,” Jim insists. Without breaking eye contact, John flips on the blinkers, veering towards the lights. 

———

Jim gnaws on his raggedy thumb nail, watching the steam curl from the open bathroom door. An infomercial drones in the background, fighting for dominance over the steady drip of the motel shower. If he leans forward slightly, he can see the cracked mirror through the open door. Through the steam clinging to the glass he can make out the shape in the shower, head tipped back. Jim imagines John’s eyes closed, mouth parted as the water beats down on his body, water trickling through the hairs on his chest. 

(Jim is sixteen and poking a stick at the detritus of the swampy river. Sludge and candy wrappers float to the surface. Suddenly, his stick brings up a sodden magazine. He tips his head in interest, reaching out with his hand, barely making out flashes of naked skin through the murky dirt. 

A half hour later, heart pounding and cheeks red, he scrambled up the hill away from the incriminating evidence.) 

A sudden sharp pain as his nail rips the skin of his cuticle, leaving a trickle of red. Jim sticks his thumb in his mouth, sucking away the tang of the blood as the shower shuts off. Jim scrabbles back to lean against the headboard, pulling his knees up to his chest to cover his traitorous lap. 

———

The room is warm, hazy. Feels like a weekend. Time for rest. His body shifts, rubbing against the sheets, unsure where he is. 

(His mother’s face, adoring, holding out a steaming mug. Before. Before it all went to shit. 

“You work too hard, baby,” she says, fingers trailing through his hair. “Oh my, but you need a trim.”).

Something familiar. The fragrant smell of coffee. Slowly, he blinks away the cobwebs of sleep, absorbing small details along the way: steam curling from a paper cup, a slight rusty smell in the air. 

“Good morning,” John’s soft voice breaks into the stillness. “There was coffee at the front desk. Don’t know where the manager is.” 

Jim sits up, casting his eyes around for his companion. John is leaning against the wall, shirtsleeves rolled up. Jim’s mind stutters for a second, trying to process what he is seeing. Splatters of red traveling from John’s blunt fingers up his strong forearms, a few flecks on his cheek and neck. 

“What,” his voice sounds high, reedy. He stumbles out of bed, collapsing on the floor in a heap of blankets wrapped around his ankles. Once he’s sprung to his feet, John has not moved. “You—” but Jim already knows what has happened. 

Frantically, he casts around for his jeans, tugging them on as fast as he can and then racing to the door. He bursts out into the dry cracked air, head whipping around. Their room is the last in the building. Frantically, he rushes to the next door, hand flailing for the knob, and immediately stumbling inside when it gives way too easily. 

He freezes.

(An old station wagon, red splattered everywhere on the tan interior. A blood soaked giant stuffed bear with a tiny hand grasping its paw, fingers stiff in death.)

The couple is clutching each other. The woman’s eyes are open, mouth parted in a silent scream. The husband hadn’t even had a chance to react, eyes closed peacefully in repose. No blood is pumping from their arteries. Not anymore. 

He barely feels the pain when his knees hit the ground, vomit mingling with the blood on the floor. 

———

Trembling slightly, he wipes his hand across his mouth, willing the acid to stop churning in his belly. Jim staggers to his feet, pushing through the motel door and back to their room. John is still there, eyes trained on the doorway, head cocked. Waiting. 

Jim can feel his body shaking as he lunges toward the other man, fist at the ready. Quick as a flash, John grips his wrist, grinding the bones beneath. Not to be deterred, Jim hisses and pushes forward kicking John’s shin before being tossed bodily back onto the musty hotel sheets. Almost instantly, John’s heavier body is pinning him to the mattress. Heart pounding, Jim huffs, looking away from John’s icy stare. Suddenly, he’s extremely aware of all the places they are touching: John’s fingers curled tightly around his wrist, his other hand pressing down on Jim’s shoulder, his knees bracketing Jim’s legs, their chests brushing together as they gasp for air. 

Jim feels a spike of fear. But not for the right reasons (Please don’t press down, please don’t. I don’t want you to know). Suddenly, John pushes up, resting on his haunches and looking down impassively at Jim’s trembling body. Almost gently, his fingers release Jim’s wrist allowing the blood to start flowing again. 

“Drink your coffee,” John commands, voice still calm. “We have money to eat breakfast now.” He reaches into his back pocket and tosses a leather wallet onto Jim’s chest. With shaking fingers, Jim opens it, immediately seeing the eyes of the couple from next door laughing at him from a Polaroid. He closes the wallet, only noticing then the blood encircling his wrist where John had gripped him. 

———

The greasy hash browns at the diner taste like the bile still stuck in his mouth. He pokes at them, avoiding eye contact with John who is picking potatoes from his plate and dipping them in ketchup. 

“We can’t just leave them there,” Jim is the one to break the silence. 

“Why,” none of John’s questions sound like questions. 

“The cops will— I don’t know— link it to you,” he mumbles. 

“To us.” 

Jim’s stomach roils.

———

It happens. Just as Jim knew it would. Knew it from the moment he thought about licking the water from John’s skin that first night in the car. Starved for touch like a shaking kitten. 

———

The uncomfortable buzzing beneath his skin is back. It’s like he can’t sit still. This motel proprietor gives them the same goddamn look. Jim’s sick of it. They aren’t even doing anything to warrant it. (Not guilty your honor).

“A double?” The man drawls, moustache a revolting yellow color. Like rusted blonde on white hair. 

“That is what I said,” John responds calmly. His eyes are hard. Jim knows that expression. (Oh fuck). Jim reaches out to touch his sleeve, then stops shrinking away, pinned by the beady eyes of the old man. 

(“I’m going to California,” Jim pushes the broccoli dolefully around his cold plate. 

“San Francisco?” His father grunts. His mother stiffens. They don’t say why he guessed that city. They don’t have to. 

“No,” Jim replies sharply. Not looking at his brother's concerned expression out of the corner of his eye. “San Diego. I got a drive away.”

He looks at the bags under his mother’s eyes. She doesn’t meet his gaze.)

“Well. You’re plumb out of luck, son,” he says it nastily. “Only got a single.”

John returns his look with a shark-like grin. 

The motel room is old, walls painted an unbecoming green, a stupid cheery floral pattern on the comforter. The one bed taunts Jim as he tosses his bag on the ground. 

“We can’t keep going on like this,” his voice sounds panicky and thready to his own ears. 

“Yes we can,” John replies simply, flipping his lighter casually, wrapping his lips around a cigarette with careless ease. It’s irritating. 

Jim steps closer, pushing against John’s firm chest. The fucker doesn’t even sway. Just cocks his head with a playful twist of his mouth around the cigarette. 

“The cops are going to find us you fucking idiot!” He shouts, screwing up his face and standing on his tiptoes in his worn sneakers. His skin feels hot and itchy. The air in the close room is thick and soupy, causing sweat to gather on his hairline. He needs to hit something. He needs someone to hit him. 

John looks down at him, expression relaxed, blowing smoke into Jim’s face. Suddenly, his hand flies out, gripping Jim’s throat and pushing him back into the wall hard enough to make him lose his breath. 

“Is that what you needed, kid?” He asks calmly, raising the cigarette to his lips as he tightens his fingers making Jim gasp for air. 

“You know I could snap your neck right now,” he says neutrally. A strangled noise escapes Jim’s tender throat. (Not fear. It should be fear).

“Look at me,” John commands softly. 

Jim’s eyes snap open, trying to swallow around the massive hand on his neck. He hadn’t realized they were closed. With a final pornographic drag from the cigarette, John stubs it out on the vomit green wall next to Jim’s head. Then. 

Then. 

He’s looking down Jim’s body, eyes resting on where his jeans are tight, snapping his gaze up to give Jim a pitying look. Another wispy noise struggles to bubble out of his clogged windpipe. Abruptly, John releases his throat, causing Jim’s weak body to collapse, like the cut strings of a marionette, against the flimsy motel wall. 

Gasping, he looks up at John through slightly wet clumpy lashes. Waiting. Willing John to make the next move. (Please God, don’t make me make the next move).

As if hearing his plea and pleased by the comparison, John tugs him up by the collar with one hand and buries his fingers in Jim’s hair, cupping his fragile skull with his other palm. 

“This is what you wanted isn’t it? From the beginning. From that first night in the car,” John whispers intimately. Reveling in the humiliation his words cause as Jim fights the rush of blood to his cheeks. Weakly, he struggles in the man’s grasp.

“No,” John’s words are an easy command. Instantly, obeyed.

Please.

John cocks his head. Waiting, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

“Please,” Jim begs hoarsely aloud. 

John’s eyes crinkle with amusement as he leans forward, breath hot on Jim’s trembling lips. Not bridging the gap. A teasing smile still hovering. Jim can feel his muscles twitching convulsively in an effort to stay still. His breathing sounds harsh and loud in the quiet room. His body is strung tight, heat throbbing low in his body, making his jeans fit uncomfortably.

Slowly, John leans in, pressing his lips softly against Jim’s slightly parted mouth. A faint sound of relief rumbles in Jim’s throat. His breathing picks up as he tastes the cigarettes on John’s surprisingly soft lips. Jim pushes close eagerly, scrambling for purchase on John’s wide shoulders, mind whiting out. A small terrified part of his brain is screaming that this isn’t safe (Not for the right reasons).

He groans as John slips his tongue inside, trailing his fingers from Jim’s hair down to the buttons on his flannel. Frantically, Jim drops his hands to aid the process, tugging at the fastenings with shaky fingers. His breath catches when John’s fingers quickly work open the button on his jeans and tug the zipper down. 

With his clothes piled in a heap on the floor, he should feel cold. But his skin feels hot, goosebumps prickling on his exposed skin, as John trails his eyes down his body. His cheeks flame as John reaches out to slip his fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs. So close. 

Jim wants to grip his hand and wrap his fingers around his cock, but he’s afraid John will pull away and laugh. So he waits, trembling, breath hitching. Looking pleadingly as the other man traces the wet spot on the cotton of his briefs, making Jim whine in his throat. 

“Alright,” John says quietly, pushing the underwear down and wrapping Jim’s prick in a firm grip. It’s fast after that. Too fast. With Jim making high shocked noises and gripping John’s coat tightly and pulling him closer. As close as he can get him, mouth seeking out the other man’s lips as he comes in a hot rush, legs buckling. 

———

He’s cold now. Sitting in the same underwear staring at the white tiles of the dingy bathroom. He’s waiting. Waiting for the nausea to roll in his stomach. He leans forward, resting his forehead on the porcelain. He waits for a long time. Nothing comes up. He doesn’t know if he should be disappointed or not.

He had slipped out of John’s still fully clothed arms — Jim had not had the courage to touch him in return with that smug look gracing his face — and stumbled into the bathroom. Hoping, maybe, that he would be disgusted with himself. For the right reasons (What are the right reasons?). 

———

Their new car — or new old car — has no air conditioning. It wheezes along the road, rattling its engine next to the other scarce cars on the road. He doesn’t know where to fix his eyes. John is acting completely normal. Well, normal for John. When Jim had woken up, he hadn’t asked where the new set of car keys appeared from. There was not any accompanying blood this time. But that didn’t mean someone hadn’t given their lives for it. 

Jim still feels unbalanced. Thankfully, his skin has settled slightly, no longer feeling like pulling his own hair out by the roots. But there is still a hunger in the pit of his stomach. He wishes, as he watches John casually maneuver the steering wheel, that he had been brave enough to tug John’s clothes off the other night. That John had pushed him down on his knees. 

Jim shifts self-consciously, eyeing John. He rolls down the window to try and get the air flowing in the cramped, too warm cab of the car 

———

The next town they pass has a pristine white church with dozens of people milling around on the grassy knoll. With a jolt, Jim realizes it is Sunday. They aren’t in a vacuum. In the world around them, people are going about their business. Unaffected. Their worlds haven’t been changed. In another state, his mother is in a similar church. He wonders if she still prays for him.

———

(“Why are you doing this to me?”

He can’t see anything. It’s dark. He can still feel the terror of that moment, trembling through his body. Hands on his skin, but not where they are supposed to be. Not gently cradling his face, not stroking his cheek and lips with blunt fingers. 

“You’re a smart kid.” 

His eyes are open. Were they closed before? They aren’t in the diner. He’s not seated in a booth. Slowly, like reaching through water, his companion trails his fingers down his chest, catching on his nipples. He doesn’t know where they are. Is he naked? 

“Figure it out.”

A stab of pleasure as he feels those thick fingers grip his —)

Jim wakes with a start, gasping. Cock tenting his briefs. Groggily, he shifts his head, feeling his too long hair catch on the scratchy sheets as his eyes seek out the other occupant of the bed. 

John is already looking at him, an amused expression on his face. He’s sitting against the headboard, cigarette hanging indolently from his fingers as it rests on his pulled up knee. Jim feels his mouth part, tongue dry. John knows what he needs, sliding down the bed and shifting his thigh between Jim’s legs. Jim moans in relief, pressing closer, trying to ignore the breathy chuckle from the other man as he feels fingers wind into his hair and pull sharply, as Jim grinds helplessly against his thigh.

This time, Jim gathers his courage and pulls at John’s clothes, silently begging for him to undress too. Surprisingly, it takes no more prompting than that for John to pull off his shirt and shuck his jeans and underwear to the side, leaning back, unconcerned on the bed. Jim’s eyes instantly fly to his lap, letting out a shaky breath when he sees the other man’s hard prick, bigger than Jim’s, drooling slightly at the tip. Jim struggles upright, sitting on his legs and tentatively reaches out. As Jim wraps his fingers around John’s thick cock, he makes a low rumble in his chest. 

“I—” Jim starts, voice already hoarse. “Can I—”

John smiles at his fumbling, reaching out, threading his fingers back into Jim’s hair and pushing him down until his mouth bumps against the hot flesh. Slowly, Jim wraps his lips around his prick and sucks lightly. John lets out a shaky sigh. “That’s it, kid.”

Jim moans slightly at the encouragement and pushes down further to take more into his mouth. He does his best to stroke and suck at the same time, saliva messily running down to slick his hand as he works. Jim’s cock throbs as John tugs his hair harder. Fumbling slightly, he wraps one hand around himself, squeezing to alleviate some of the pressure. He chokes around John’s length as he tries to take as much as he can. 

“Going to come,” John grunts. Uncertainly, Jim pulls back, almost immediately getting hot liquid caught on his chin as John finishes on his face. It only takes a few pulls on his own cock for Jim to join him, pitching forward with a whine. 

———

After, Jim is sitting slumped in John’s lap, head resting on his chest, breathing heavily. John lights a cigarette and thumbs Jim’s mouth open to receive the the first drag. 

“I could have killed you,” it comes out as barely a whisper, hot against John’s skin. He can feel John’s chest hairs rub against his cheek as he breathes the words out. “With the shotgun. After the police bus.”

“I know,” John’s rumbles, taking a drag from the cigarette and flicking the ash carelessly away from them. 

“You would have been okay with that,” realizing as he says it, how true it is. He feels John shrug and then bump the cigarette against Jim’s fingers, prompting him to take a turn. 

“This is better,” John says as Jim sits up and inhales the smoke, watching John follow the way his lips wrap around the cigarette. 

———

Their car dies on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere. It’s about three in the morning and the wind is surprisingly nippy. A harbinger of another season to come. Jim is too tired to complain, leaning heavily against the side of the vehicle, almost asleep. John is characteristically stoic, looking up at the blanket of stars with a pensive expression on his face. 

“It is easy to imagine that you are the only person alive on the planet,” he whispers, jolting Jim out of another doze. “In moments like this.”

“I guess,” Jim yawns. “Don’t know how alone you can feel with someone right next to you. I’m here.” He grumbles. 

“You certainly are,” John replies. Even with his eyes drooping shut, Jim can feel John’s gaze on him. “Come. There is a car approaching. We must move.”

———

“Where you boys traveling to?” The man is jovial, chugging coffee liberally from a thermos. 

(The acrid taste of gas station coffee thick in his mouth as he peaks at the handsome man in his passenger seat, dripping with rain water.)

John looks relaxed and natural, slumped in the seat directly behind the driver, Jim at his side.  He casts a look — that now familiar look — to Jim as he answers: “Nebraska.”

Casually, John sticks his hand in his pocket, pulling out a flash of metal that winks mockingly at Jim. Eyebrows raised, he flicks open the knife. Jim can feel a bead of sweat escaping from his hairline as he sits, paralyzed, heart pounding. He tries to communicate mutely. (I don’t want to watch). Instead of reading his mind (Or maybe he did), John extends the knife towards Jim. Flinching, he recoils slightly, shaking his head. John rolls his eyes and leans forward. 

“Tell me,” John says pleasantly, smiling winningly. “Do you know what happens when you stab an eyeball?” He asks their driver. 

(“I don’t want to die!” Jim shouts, pushing the heavier man, shocked by his outburst, out the door of the car onto the shadowy highway.)

It only takes a few quick seconds for the man to figure out what is going on, expression changing from confusion to fear. 

John’s smile is feral as he slits the man’s throat, blood splashing liberally onto the dashboard. The man’s terrified eyes bore accusingly at Jim from the rear view mirror, as the life leaches from his body. 

———

The sticky feeling of the arterial spray that had caught Jim’s cheek, is making his skin itchy. He’s staring blankly at the dead body John had rolled onto the side of the road. His heart hasn’t stopped racing, palms sweaty. There is blood dripping down the interior of the car. John casually wipes down the steering wheel with a crumpled napkin from the front seat. (You wouldn’t think so much blood would come from that. Or maybe you would.)

“Come on, kid,” John huffs, pocketing the man’s wallet. “Time to get going.”

Numbly, Jim closes the man’s eyes, feeling the coolness of his stiff flesh already setting in. There is a warning rumble of thunder in the distance. 

———

They stop a handful of miles later. Weakly, Jim stumbles from the car, turning his face to the sky, letting the rain cleanse the blood from his skin. When he ducks back into the car, with a wet squeak of leather, John is smiling. 

“You look like a drowned animal,” he says fondly. 

“Familiar with drowning animals, are you?” Jim snarks back, wrinkling his nose at John angrily. Still unsettled. Shaken. 

John barks out a laugh. He continues to chuckle, and Jim finds himself reluctantly joining in, mirroring the man next to him. Briefly, he flashes back to the car. Flaxen hair drenched in rain water, pale eyes illuminated by the weak light of the sedan’s interior. 

(“What’s so funny?” 

Laughing uncomfortably along because he has no idea what else to do. Always following someone else’s lead. 

“That’s what the other guy said.” 

The hairs on the back of his neck telling him he’s in danger. He hadn’t listened. Mesmerized by the man’s craggy face.)

He’s laughing again now, still unable to look away. It’s easy laughter now. (When did you get comfortable? There’s nothing to be laughing about.)

John pulls the keys out of the ignition and casually flicks them into Jim’s sodden lap. 

“Why don’t you decide where we go next?” John says. 

Hesitantly, Jim picks up the keys, clenching his jaw. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, fingering the cold metal. “Yeah okay.”

———

The woman at the front desk has a long neck and a sour stare, reminding Jim of unfriendly Canadian geese he used to chase back home. She peers suspiciously at the two of them as John shoves over the money in exchange for the key. 

“That your car out there?” She snips. 

“Obviously,” John looks bored. Jim cuts his gaze to the parking lot, trying to gather any suspicious information. He doesn’t notice any blood, only a slightly dented Ford. 

“Hmm,” she says, taking a drag from her almost finished cigarette and blowing the smoke into John’s unamused face. Timidly, Jim flashes the woman a wobbly smile as he reaches for the key. She gives him a flat stare in return.

Thankfully, the motel is clean, smelling faintly of lavender. (You’re something of an expert of seedy motels now, aren’t you?). The large bed faces away from the entrance and towards the cream colored bathroom door. Still feeling the phantom blood on his skin, his heart gives an elated leaps when he peaks inside and sees a bathtub. Smiling, he moves towards it, already fantasizing. 

“I think I’m going to take a bath,” he says, feeling a presence at his back. 

“I’m going to shave first,” John replies, moving into the room. Jim has observed this ritual shyly through a carelessly cracked door in previous motel rooms. This time he makes no move to exit the bathroom. Instead, jumping up onto the sink next to the other man, swinging his legs slightly as he watches him run his switchblade under the tap. 

He looks on, mesmerized as John lathers up with the cheap motel soap, bringing the sharp blade to his face. Rhythmically, he pulls the knife down his skin, catching little bits of hair and periodically rinsing the blade off in the sink. Jim watches, as the sharp knife travels the planes of his face. 

“You should probably cut my hair while you're at it,” Jim’s voice sounds hollow and tinny in the small bathroom. 

“Why?” John asks after another smooth pass at his face. 

“It’s too long,” Jim fumbles, straightening up from his slouch to look John squarely in the eyes. 

Lazily, John reaches out with his free hand, slightly damp with soap and water, winding his fingers in Jim’s hair. 

“Only cut it if you want,” Jim swallows loudly as John tugs gently. 

“We can — we can leave it for right now,” he mumbles, looking expectantly at John’s mouth. Waiting to be pulled in for a kiss. Instead, John trails his fingers from Jim’s hair to his mouth, pulling down his bottom lip and slipping a finger inside. 

“Take your bath,” he says, looking at Jim’s mouth. Jim starts to close his lips around the finger, just as John pulls it out, rinsing off his knife and leaving it on the counter. Giving Jim one last look, he slips out of the bathroom door leaving it slightly cracked. Jim huffs in disappointment and jumps off the counter. He turns on the tap, waiting impatiently for the water to start steaming. 

———

Lukewarm water swishes around him as he slides further down into the tub, eyelids drooping as his chin submerges. His fingers skim the surface, swirling the diminished bubbles. When he stays perfectly still, the water is warmer but if he sways his body, little streams of cool water trip over his skin. The weak light from above, beats against his closed lids. (He sees a field with geese looking reproachfully at him. The grass between his toes is warm and damp. He has to move. They are coming to get him. One of them opens its bill, malice in its eyes. 

“Now you just stay there,” it says).

“Don’t you move!” Louder, his eyes open now, disoriented, water sloshing mutely in the small bathroom. Jim’s heart starts to pound as he realizes the voice has a subtle twang to it, and it’s definitely coming from outside the bathroom door. 

“Sit still,” the voice is loud but shaking with nerves. 

Pulse racing he slowly pushes upright, letting the water run from his body as he steps onto the threadbare bath mat. Cold drops fall from his hair and dribble down his back, making his body shiver. 

“Does it look like I’m moving,” John’s bored voice filters through the crack in the door. 

(Oh fuck. Is this the end?)

Slowly, Jim moves towards the other room, eyes casting frantically about for something. Anything. The knife, sitting innocently on the counter, winking in the fluorescent lights. Pruned fingers reach out, silently picking up the switchblade. As he inches towards the door, he can see the man now, back to the bathroom door. He’s wearing a tan uniform, arms pointed towards the bed where John is lying in repose. 

“Marge at the front desk called me. Said you was acting suspicious. She’d heard on the radio there was a dead body found on the side of the road not far from here. Wanna tell me where your pal is?” His voice is full of bravado. Jim can’t make out his face, but he sounds young. 

“He left to get food,” John lies blithely, still reclining unconcerned on the bed. 

The officer takes one hand off his gun, reaching for the radio at his shoulder. Panic flares. 

(No. This can’t be the end.)

Gripping the knife in his shaking fingers, Jim clenches his jaw and moves quickly. The bathroom door opens with a tremendous banging sound as it connects with the opposite wall. The officer turns halfway around before the knife connects with the side of his neck. Reflexively, Jim pulls it from the muscle, stumbling back, watching the other man grasp the spurting wound. The officer’s eyes are wide and shocked, a gurgling cry escaping his gasping mouth, weak knees buckling, body wilting to the floor. 

Blood continues to spray liberally from the man’s throat as Jim moves towards him, hand outstretched numbly towards the wound (I was right, he is young. Probably my age). His eyes are terrified, desperate, as he writhes on the carpet being soaked with blood. With a floppy uncoordinated movement, the man raises his arm and weakly hits Jim’s chest. Jim fumbles for his hand, holding his fingers loosely in his own until the man’s eyes go cloudy and unfocused, and his fingers go limp. Jim lets them slip from his grip, still looking down at what is now a lifeless body. 

A sound in front of him pulls his eyes upward. John is standing in front of him. Jim hadn’t noticed him moving. Jim is shaking, he realizes, as his eyes move up the other man’s body. John’s expression is elated, a smile splitting his face. His eyes are hot as they travel from the dead body to Jim’s blood stained hands to his naked body, dripping with water. 

Slowly, Jim stands, letting the knife drop, forgotten next to his first kill. 

Silently, John extends his hand, reaching over the officer. (No going back now.) Jim only hesitates a moment before reaching out with his blood soaked fingers to hold John’s hand and be tugged over the body and into the other man’s arms. 

———

John’s rough hands are frantic in a way Jim hasn’t felt before, smoothing over his still damp skin, eyes hungry. Jim’s mind flits from the shock and churning uncertainty from moments before, quickly to arousal as he watches John shuck out of his clothes and toss them carelessly to the floor. As he tugs his shirt over his head, John shoves Jim onto the mattress, his head bumping against the sheets. Jim’s breath catches in his throat, blood rushing to his cock, body still shaking from adrenaline and fear. 

A small involuntary sound escapes his open mouth, as Jim grips his own prick to relieve some of the pressure. John follows the movement with his eyes, lowering himself slowly to the mattress. Fingers trailing up Jim’s leg, he tugs his hand away and pulls it towards him. Eyes wide, breath stuttering, Jim is tense as he waits (Please. Please do something). Without breaking his gaze, John brings Jim’s fingers into his hot mouth, sucking the blood away. 

Then.

Jim’s limbs shifting restlessly, skin overly sensitive, Jim makes a high noise as he watches John lower his head and wrap his lips around his cock. Swallowing, throat tight, as Jim twitches helplessly, hand flailing for any part of John he can reach, slapping his shoulder as he watches his lashes flutter against his cheeks. 

Suddenly, John pulls back, sucking on his own finger. Getting it wet, saliva dripping down the thick digit. Mind swimming with pleasure, Jim watches in confusion. Giving him a roguish smile, John wraps his other hand around Jim’s length and sucks him sloppily back into his mouth. Moments later, Jim feels a wet finger between his cheeks begin to rub against his hole. Jim shouts when John breaches him, sliding his finger smoothly inside. 

John pulls back with a gasp, mumbling hot against Jim’s cock: “Shh, it’s okay.” As he gently curls his finger and brushes against something inside, making Jim gasp and writhe. Between John fucking him steadily with his finger and sucking him diligently, Jim comes quickly with a surprised whimper, spilling hot into John’s mouth. 

Without giving him a moment to recover, John lunges forward and mashes their mouths together. Hazily, Jim realizes he can taste himself on John's tongue. Quickly, he pulls away and manhandles Jim’s weak body onto his side, molding his own body behind Jim. 

“What—” he starts to say until he feels John’s cock slip between his thighs. “Oh.” 

“Squeeze together,” John grunts. Instantly, Jim obeys as John starts to thrust between his legs, sticky with sweat, cum, and the remnants of the water from his bath. Jim can feel his own cock twitching pathetically as John moves against him, whispering nonsensically into his ear. “Good. That’s it.”

Jim moans at the words, reaching back to tangle his hands in John’s hair, seeking out John’s mouth over his shoulder. John comes like that, mouth claiming Jim messily, cum spurting between his thighs, with Jim’s fingers, crusted with blood, wound in his hair. 

———

They are dozing in a heap, sweat and semen sticking them together. Lazily, Jim’s eyelids flutter open, gaze immediately catching on the pool of blood and the twisted body on the floor. Instantly, Jim is awake, pushing against John’s body and struggling into a seated position. 

“Come on, we have to go,” his voice is rough, as if he had been screaming (You were). “If the motel woman called the police, they are going to be looking for him.” He jerks his head towards the corpse, carefully avoiding looking. 

John stretches, eyes still fond as they travel down Jim’s body. 

“Let them come,” he says, fingers reaching out to gently stroke Jim’s cheek. 

“What?” Jim snaps, anger suddenly skittering under his skin. 

“What can they do to us?”

“A whole fucking lot!” Jim shouts incredulously, shoving lightly at John’s chest. “You have to stop this whole — reckless fucking thing you have going on.” John is looking at him, eyes more focused now as words pour out of Jim’s mouth like water through a sieve. 

“It’s not just you anymore. You have me. And I want to live, remember? And Jesus fucking Christ I’m going to make you live with me. If I am alive, then so the fuck are you.” His body is back to shaking like a leaf, heart fluttering madly. 

Slowly, John shifts until they are sharing the same air, eyes serious and more open than Jim has ever seen them (I think I can see what is underneath now). 

A long pause where the only sound is their breathing, settling into a rhythm. Together. 

“Alright,” John’s voice tumbles into the room like a proclamation. “Let’s go.” He moves forward, eyelids sliding closed, giving Jim a lingering kiss. With a sigh, Jim slumps against him, trying to push the amalgamation of his feelings into the press of lips (You aren’t allowed to die. We’re in this together). 

———

As they peel out of the lot and travel along the dark road, they can make out the flashing lights and high whines of sirens careening towards the motel. Swiftly, John rolls to a stop at the base of the highway, lights off as the cops rush past. Jim scrabbles for a map, fingers fumbling with the papers. 

“We need to get out of state. Fast,” Jim insists somewhat hysterically, voice cracking as his hands crunch the worn paper. 

“Whatever you say,” John smiles calmly, typically relaxed in the driver's seat. “Jim.” 

“I want to see the ocean,” he blurts out, surprising himself. But now that he has said it, he knows it’s true. 

John nods, pointing the car westward unquestioningly, the headlights illuminating the cracked road in front of them. 

(Am I the monster now?)

———