@dogsm4w said: "say it again, like you believe the shit comin' outta your mouth," johnny says, amusement caught in his lazy drawl. it's too early still to make any sort of move that matters. hours until the sun goes down. hours until the sun has faded leaving only warm pavement behind. hours he gets to leisurely spend with leland until he cuts him loose to find a mark of his own. leland, who he has perched in his lap all pretty right now, johnny's attention doesn't divert much from the curve of his jaw or the look in his eyes. even when the air conditioner to their left hums in mild protest to the heat in the room. stained curtains catch in the try hard rush of air and from just outside, he can hear laughter. other tenants of this particular motel. the hole in the wall sort that truckers utilize straight off the road. the kind you bring side pieces to so they can add to the collection of stains on the rough sheets and dented beds. two rooms down, he swears there's a drug deal in the works. no one cares. no one lingers here long enough to make an impact. a sea of faces that come and go in a little dirt-filled town off the main highway. a feeding ground. a hunter's paradise. the place he's brought leland. tonight, someone else will lay sprawled out on the bed. and if leland makes him proud, they'll be bleeding out before midnight even hits. johnny continues, his thumb stroking a deliberate gentle line across leland's adam's apple and up below his chin. he tilts his head up, directs him to look at him. "guy asks you what you're doin' in a place like this." the dive bar just a hop, skip, jump away from this motel. like the owners knew what kind of bargain they'd get setting up shop near the flickering neon reds where people chase all sorts of highs. johnny leans in, tip of his nose grazing the apple of leland's cheek. his free hand seeks anchor at leland's hip, fingers pressing in an echoing mirror to the bruises he knows rest just beneath the fabric of his clothes. mine. mine. mine. "deep breath, keep your cool," he instructs. "what're you gonna say to him? he's needy 'n hungry 'n can't keep his hands off you. keep him interested. keep him talkin'."
he’d argue it's pretty hard to concentrate, when there's a thumb pressed close to his pulse. a warm palm that rests comfortably against the side of his neck — not aggressively, but present. a reminder, and a promise. it makes leland’s brain feel fuzzy on the edges. it's always kind of intense, when he watches him like this. johnny can probably feel every subtle hitch in his breath, and leland focuses on the weight of his hands. in a weird way, they steady him, when his thoughts threaten to spin out in a panic again.
lips part with the beginnings of a protest — and then purse. instead, leland sighs a little impatiently. throat humming against johnny's palm. ❝ it works on them. ❞ he retorts, with a small roll of his eyes. another test. tonight will be a test, too.
all things considered, this isn't the worst motel room they've stayed in. it’s a million times better than the shack. but they all feel like a shade of the same thing. sweat and skin, stained sheets, slightly yellow wallpaper. he perches in johnny’s lap on the room’s uncomfortable bed, and in the dull lamplight, he thinks he hears a fly zap itself on the bulb. again and again, zzt, zzt, zzt. in the sticky afternoon, the drone of the air conditioner threatens to lull him into a vague trance, and he thinks of the hundreds of nameless people that must have passed through here before them.
leland imagines they’re the same transient types he’s seen at the dusty bars and near-dead truck stops around here. part of him liked to wonder where they were headed, after they left this speck on the map in the rearview. if maybe at the end of their long travel through the silent nothingness, there's home. if maybe there's someone waiting for them, where the road gets eaten up by the horizon. for leland, it's been getting harder and harder to imagine much beyond all of this. the rigid borders he sees everywhere, encircling him on all sides. he knows he can’t ever go where they go — there's probably a million places he'll never get to see, now. and he couldn’t go home, even if he was free to. that was the bad choice he made, in a long line of bad choices. and he was bad, too. bad like the man staring back at him in the dim, sickly orange light.
but anyway. it's not the worst motel room. he's at least pretty sure no one's died in it, yet. that was going to change, if johnny had anything to say about it.
leland huffs softly, eyes still low where fingertips trace a scar on johnny’s collarbone. a pause; ❝ ... you’re not gonna leave me alone again, right? ❞ he accuses, trying not to sound like he’s whining. because — he should be able to handle it, right? he shouldn't need johnny to rescue him. leland frowns a little at himself, knuckles curling anxiously against johnny’s chest ❝ what if i can't do it? what if i mess up... ❞ he murmurs, worry bleeding through despite his best effort. really, he doesn’t want to do any of this. he never wants to do this, he wants to stay here — but it’s not like he has a choice.
he doesn't want to mess up again. like that first time.
of course, he hadn't been prepared for it, when the burly trucker type of all people scooted a seat closer to him at the bar. must have thought he was easy prey or something, looking out of place and nervous like he did. leaned in even closer and slurred drunkly that he was pretty, like a girl. leland didn’t know what to say to that — everything he’d rehearsed had flitted completely out of his brain. but he remembers the man's mouth tasted like cheap beer when they kissed in the hallway, the man crowding him into a wall, pushy and overwhelming. gross breath hot against his cheek, and leland trying desperately to remember what he was supposed to do. it felt dirty. the man’s hands were blue-collar calloused, and he wasn't as nice to leland when they were alone.
it didn’t go like it was supposed to. it's practically ingrained in his skull — how the man pushed him down to his knees hard on the sticky bathroom tile, before leland could even remember to go for the switchblade in his pocket. suddenly he could barely react, suddenly he wanted to disappear into the floor. wanted johnny to come save him. but he was nowhere. it was worse, knowing he wasn’t strong anymore — not like he was all those months ago. muscle worn down a bit from weeks wasting away in a damp basement. and it came as a cold reminder, when the man caught his wrists easily, as he tried to scramble away from him — and leland could swear he'd started crying, at that point. could swear he was about to throw up from being so scared. so wildly out of his depth in a situation johnny insisted he was ready for. he wasn't ready. he's not ready now. if he thinks about it too long, he'll be fucking sick.
that guy was his first real mark. that guy ended up dead in a blood-spattered bathroom stall. because johnny was late. and leland had to sink or swim.
maybe it's bad to say, but — it was probably better guys like that died, though— instead of the girls johnny liked to point out at the start of the night. the ones he urged him to go up to. said they would be easier. leland knew what he meant by that, and hated it. hated him. it wasn't supposed to be easy. any of it. so leland doesn't ever think about choosing girls, when johnny forces him to choose. tells himself what he does to cruel men is somehow less horrible. like ones leland could tell wanted to shove into him with their hands and hurt him. after all, what did it matter to them? they were only passing through, right?
they usually reminded him of johnny. rough like him. mean like him.
for once, knelt over the body he'd riddled in panicked stab wounds on the bathroom floor, he felt wildly, sharply, in control of something. like some sick part of him was exactly what johnny wanted him to be, in that moment. was there any way to admit that somewhere past the numbness, and past the cold horror — it had felt kind of good? without sounding fucking insane? that it felt good when johnny kissed the blood off his mouth and praised him for what he’d done? no — he thinks. no amount of trying to justify it made any of what they’re doing here more right. even if his targets are lowlife nobody scumbags. even if men like that hurt people, too.
truth is — he's still the way worse monster, here. closer to the kind johnny is than any of these men could ever be. and that’s why he deserves this.
johnny’s hand on his hip squeezes like a prompt, and leland's focus narrows to where fingers press to tender bruise. a familiar blooming ache. leland’s still quiet for a stubborn moment, before his lips press into a thin line of irritation. ❝ fine, ❞ he relents, exasperated, lowering his eyes. shifts uncomfortably, feeling his cheeks burn as he hesitates to find the right story to string together. tries to make himself someone a little more convincing than his plain old self.
❝ i'm, uh... ❞ his mouth feels dry, his face hot under johnny’s relentless attention. deep breath. he tries to release the tight feeling in his chest, and ends up just feeling a little nauseous. leland tries to soften his gaze, trailing a slow deliberate look along the sharp cut of johnny’s jaw, up to meet his eyes. ❝ ... not really from around here. ❞ leland tilts his head, and what he hopes is an easy smile curls on his lips. don't try too hard. don’t overthink it. ❝ ’m trying to get to california, actually. looking for a ride. ❞ he drapes his arms around johnny's neck lightly, wiggling just a little more flush. fingers playing with the hair at johnny's nape. this kind of thing usually works on him. leland’s eyes narrow slightly, going for playful; ❝ why? do i look out of place? ❞