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When thinking of describing Benson, Randy knew he should not use the word “nice”. And yet, despite all the wrong things Benson has done today–wrong, horrible, psychotic things–, Randy can’t help but think this is nice as he is sitting across from Miss Beard. Talking to her, hearing about her life, her daughter, he feels like he can breathe again. His shoulders have dropped, his jaw’s unclenched, and he wonders for a moment if that is how most people feel every day: not constantly on edge, buzzing with the electrical anxiety that usually courses through his veins. Randy wonders, for the first time since second grade, if guilt had truly been worth it. Randy’s twisted sense of justice had him suffering in silence for close to fifteen years, and what good has that done to anyone?
So, no: Randy should not be thinking of Benson as “nice”, yet he is. Despite everything, Benson actually seems to care when it comes to Randy.
And it only took three dead bodies for Randy to realize that.
Miss Beard smiles at him again and reaches for the tea tray. Randy wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Do you mind if I go check on my friend?” he asks, voice clear and steady. That surprises him; he’s usually so quiet, hearing himself this loud is almost startling.
She smiles, nods once and disappears into the kitchen. Randy stands, brushes his pants–no, Benson’s–and notices the cell phone, left unattended, in the middle of the coffee table. He grabs it quickly, trying not to think too much about it, and drops it inside a pocket like the damn thing is about to burn his fingers.
In front of the bathroom, Randy hesitates. The familiar terror he’s felt all day is back, gnawing at his insides. Still, he raises his hand and knocks twice. “Benson?”
For a moment, nothing happens. Randy thinks Benson hasn’t heard him, maybe, or is just ignoring him. He’s about to knock again, maybe louder this time, when the door slides open. A hand shoots out to grab Randy by the shirt, pulling him in. Everything happens so fast; Randy doesn’t have time to react, just lets himself be handled by Benson until he feels the hard press of the wall at his back. Benson’s fingers find his throat, circling it, and Randy can only think Miss Beard we’re in Miss Beard’s house.
“Not here,” Randy breathes out.
That’s all he can get out before Benson starts pressing. There’s so much he wants to add: please Benson not here not when my second grade teacher can hear everything please don’t involve her into whatever this has turned into since this morning please let’s just leave I’ll be good I’ll listen to you let’s go you can do whatever you want with me just not here while she’s there please Benson please please please ple–
The pressure stops, but Benson doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He just looks at Randy’s face. After what feels like an eternity, Benson exhales. “Wrap it up. We’re leaving.”
He all but drops Randy back on his feet before exiting the small bathroom. Randy swallows hard, a hand coming up to massage his throat. ‘Not here,’ he had said. Did Benson understand what those two words had meant? Had he understood everything Randy had tried to input behind those quiet syllables? You can hurt me, if it makes you feel better. Just not here. Not with people around.
Hurt me when it’s just the two of us.
They’re back on the road shortly after. The sun is going down, slowly but surely. Benson’s fingers are tapping the wheel, no real rhythm behind the movements, and Randy is looking straight ahead. He doesn’t know what else Benson has gotten in store for him–for them. He half-expected Benson to bash his head in as soon as they’d reached the car, but he’d kept his hands to himself, simply looking over his shoulder to make sure Randy was getting inside the car. So when Benson parks the car in front of a liquor store, Randy can’t help but frown.
Benson points a finger at him. “Stay.”
He’s out the next second, not even turning back to double check. Randy thinks of running then. But the liquor store is located at the end of an abandoned road, not unlike the gas station they had stopped at this morning. Benson still has his gun on him, and Randy knows he wouldn’t hesitate using it on the clerk if he suspected Randy was even thinking about making a run for it.
But Benson isn’t paying him any attention. He’s inspecting the store aisle by aisle, maybe looking for something specific, maybe unsure of what he wants. Not even glancing at the car to make sure Randy has stayed put. And Randy thinks he should at least want to run away. Instead, his hand finds the bruising skin on his stomach, where Benson punched him earlier, and presses into it. He winces but keeps pressing, nails digging into the fabric on the shirt he’s wearing, until his eyes water and he can’t stand the pain anymore.
After Benson has smoked a cigarette, leaning against the car, they leave the liquor store but don’t get too far. Benson follows the road alongside the abandoned field until they reach a wooded area. Benson puts the car in park and kills the engine. In the dying sunlight, he looks more tired than he has all day. More vulnerable. Except for when he was punching the–
“Ever been drunk, Randy?” asks Benson, interrupting Randy’s train of thoughts (as if he had known what he had been thinking about, because Benson always seems at least a step ahead of him).
Randy must’ve been lost in his thoughts a little too long, because Benson snaps his fingers at him. “Come on, I asked you a question here.”
“No, Benson.”
He’s had a beer (which he didn’t care for) and wine (which he did enjoy) before, but he’s always kept his drinking to a minimum. Only one drink at a time, never enough to be tipsy, just enough to join in a little. When asked, of course. Never on his own.
Benson opens the bottle he’s purchased and hands it to Randy. “First time for everything.”
There’s no point in refusing him. So Randy grabs the bottle and takes a swing of it. He has no idea what he’s agreed to drink, but the liquid burns terribly in his mouth and down his throat, and he has to put a hand to his lips to prevent it from coming back out. Next to him, Benson laughs, slapping a hand on his back. “Attaboy!”
Randy takes another drink before handing the bottle back to a still chuckling Benson, who barely reacts to the liquid fire he swallows. “Wonder what kind of drunk you’ll be.”
Randy frowns. “What?”
Benson takes another swing from the bottle, grimacing a little. In the growing darkness, his lower lip shines wetly, and Randy would like to wipe it off with his thumb for him. But he does no such thing. “I hope you’re a happy drunk, Randy. ‘Cause I’m not.”
He doesn’t elaborate and Randy asks no further questions. He just takes the bottle when it’s handed to him again and drinks. In no time, he knows the alcohol is working. Whatever anxiety he was still feeling evaporates, leaving a warmth at the bottom of his belly he does not hate. The more he drinks, the more that warmth spreads throughout his limbs, and the more relaxed he feels. The constant chattering in his head has quieted down, leaving him content and comfortable. With a sigh, Randy leans back in his seat, dropping his head to the side, and lets a finger trace a path until it reaches his stomach. He barely winces when he presses into the bruise now, but Benson doesn’t miss the way his face reacts to the pain. “Show me.”
And Randy, just too happy to do whatever Benson asks of him when he feels oh so warm and relaxed and calm, lifts his shirt a little higher than needed. Benson’s breath catches audibly in his throat. “Shit,” he says, hand already reaching for the bruised skin.
His touch is more gentle than Randy’s; than what he needs. Benson’s fingers dance around, barely touching, until Randy has enough and grabs Benson’s wrist and presses hard. A little too hard, maybe, because his eyes well up with tears and he has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from screaming.
Benson’s other hand finds his cheek and wipes a tear away, a mirror of this afternoon. But this time, Randy leans into the touch, and finds Benson’s gaze. They look at each other for what feels like an eternity, unmoving, until Benson cups Randy’s face with both hands. Randy sighs and melts into the touch. “Please,” he breathes out, unsure of what he’s asking.
But Benson hums, then nods. There’s understanding in his eyes. “Come here.”
He doesn’t wait and grabs at Randy, pulling him towards his lap, and Randy follows. He settles himself on Benson, legs apart, knees beside Benson’s thighs; facing him, Randy feels the steering wheel biting into his back as he leans into it.
Benson’s hand settles on him again, his thumb brushing the hollow of his throat. More of a suggestion than anything else. Randy raises his chin slightly, allowing it. Welcoming the predator, accepting him. Offering himself as prey. As he’s been this morning, powerless, waiting for Benson to shoot.
Benson looks up through his eyelashes, finds Randy’s gaze and holds it there. For a moment, Randy forgets everything that happened, everything that surrounds them. All he can see–all he can feel–is Benson.
“Do you want it to hurt?”
The question has no bite, no judgment behind it. It is genuine. Randy appreciates it. Sitting like this on Benson’s lap, he already feels vulnerable enough. If Benson were to mock him, he doesn’t think he could take it–not right now, anyway.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please make it hurt.”
Benson’s tongue darts out to lick at his lip. His hand circles Randy’s throat, lazily, just holding him there. “Say no now. Say no and it stops. I’ll stop.”
Randy stays quiet. He places his hands on his own thighs, steadying himself, and waits. Benson swallows.
“You say stop and I stop. Okay, Randy?”
Randy nods. “I say stop, you stop,” he repeats.
“You decide.”
“I decide.” Then Randy swallows, closes his eyes and nods.
The pressure on his throat is desperate. It knocks the wind out of him. Benson’s nails dig into his skin. There’s that familiar panic alarm ringing inside Randy’s head, but he ignores it as much as he can. Instead, he leans into Benson’s touch, mouth open, air lacking but not all gone. There’s pain, there’s fear, but it’s not enough for Randy. Not right now. He can’t put his finger on why he needs Benson to hurt him right now (his thoughts are too jumbled), and anyways, Randy doesn’t think he wants to figure that out. So instead, he opens his eyes to find that Benson’s are still fixated on him, unchanged, and says a single word: “More.”
And Benson obeys. He squeezes harder and Randy feels lightheaded. His vision is blurring, faster than he thought it would, and he can’t stop his hands from reaching upwards despite himself. He knows he shouldn’t be touching Benson; all day, Benson had been the one touching up. Calling the shots. Crowding Randy’s space until, impossibly, he had felt even smaller than before. But Randy can’t help it. He needs an anchor, or else he feels he will drown. Randy settles again once his fingers dig into Benson’s arms, and the soft feeling of the cardigan is such a stark contrast to the pain he feels that, despite himself, despite everything, something warm other than the alcohol stirs in his lower belly. And that, more than anything else, scares Randy enough to throw in the towel.
“Benson…”
The pressure is gone in an instant and Randy takes in the biggest gulp of air he has ever taken. He folds slightly, feels himself falling forward, but Benson is there for him. His hand still holds him in place, his fingers steady but not punishing. His other hand finds Randy’s leg and rubs circles on his thigh, digging into his pants. “That’s it, Randy. Breathe.”
Randy obeys. He fills his lungs with air like he’s never had enough to breathe before. He gapes aimlessly until he feels his heartbeat slowing down, until the panic recedes. Until that twist in his gut quiets down, goes out like the tide.
Randy blinks two, three, four times, and realizes that he’s been crying again. He feels his tears rolling down his cheeks but before he can wipe them away, Benson pulls him closer by the neck. Randy gasps, grabs at the sweater a little harder. “Benson?” asks Randy. And then Benson’s face is against his, warm, so warm, and the pull is back, dragging him closer to Benson.
Randy feels the tickle of Benson’s mustache against his cheek, quickly replaced by his mouth, his lips, his tongue. Randy twists a little, shifting closer, as Benson laps his tears until he reaches his eye. “Pretty,” he murmurs, his breath hot. “So fucking pretty.”
Benson kisses Randy’s right where his mouth landed, at the corner of his eye, and Randy can’t help but groan at the contact. Benson smells of cigarettes and booze, and Randy’s head starts spinning again, even though Benson is not choking him anymore.
Benson has told him that nothing good comes from not reacting at all. So before Randy can think, before he can doubt himself, he turns his head and presses his lips against Benson’s.
The kiss can barely be called that. If anything, it’s too short and clumsy, and has Randy pulling back almost immediately. “Oh, god, Benson, I’m sorry, I–”
But Benson’s hand finds the back of his neck right away, steadying Randy. He shushes him quietly, then rests his forehead against Randy’s, eyes closed, until Randy finds himself breathing more normally again. He hadn’t even realized he had started panting again. “Fucking hell.”
That’s his only warning before Benson kisses him–Benson is kissing him. Randy kisses back, opening his mouth for Benson to slide his tongue inside. A hand is back to cup his face, the other finds his waist, and Randy lets out a moan into Benson’s mouth. He can’t help it. He presses even closer, fingers crawling up up up, like he’s trying to climb inside Benson. And maybe he wants to.
Benson sucks on his tongue and Randy thinks he can see stars. Kissing has never felt this good to him and, despite his limited experience, he knows Benson is really skilled at it. So when Benson pulls back, Randy can’t take it. “More, please, Benson, more.”
That earns him a chuckle. “So demanding. Can’t even fucking breathe and he wants more.” Benson’s hips rise up to meet his, and Randy thinks oh my god before meeting him, rolling slowly, and Benson’s tongue is licking inside his mouth again, and oh–
Randy’s thigh vibrates.
They both freeze.
Randy’s hand snakes down, but he’s too slow. Already, Benson is fishing out Miss Beard’s phone from his pocket. He looks down at the incriminating object, brows furrowed, before looking up at Randy again. All traces of warmth are gone from his face.
“Benson, I–”
The door opens and Randy is thrown out. He falls on his ass, stunned, and looks up to see Benson making his way towards him. He drops the phone at Randy’s feet and cracks his neck.
“Benson, wait, please, I–”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Hands dart out, grab Randy’s shirt at the collar and lift him up before smashing his back against the car. Randy’s breath leaves his lungs once again, but this time, the pain is not comforting. If anything, it tastes like ashes.
Something cold is pressed underneath his jaw, bruisingly hard, and Randy realizes it’s the gun. “Didn’t think I would notice?” snarls Benson. “Well, I fucking did, Randy. I. Fucking. Did.”
“I’m sorry, I–”
The punch lands right on top of his bruise and sends him to the ground. Randy wheezes. “I told you to shut the fuck up, Randy. So shut up!”
Benson is pacing around, just as agitated as he was right outside the school. Right before he beat up that man for… For what? Randy doesn’t think it matters anymore.
Just as suddenly as he had started, Benson stops his pacing. He turns to face Randy, raises his hand again, and points the gun at him. “Turn around. Get on your knees. Now.”
Randy knows better than to plead his case again. So he obeys Benson. Randy closes his eyes when the cold metal finds him again, the gun digging into the back of his neck.
Randy wants to argue–for once in his life, he wants to fight for whatever the thing between Benson and him is. But Randy has also seen what Benson’s impulsivity can lead to and, despite himself, despite everything that’s happened today, he is afraid. So Randy keeps his head down and stays quiet.
“Don’t fucking move, Randy. I swear to god, if you move, I…”
Benson doesn’t finish his sentence. He lingers behind Randy, hand shaking, for a long moment. In the quiet of the night, all that Randy can hear is the fast breathing of Benson behind him. He closes his eyes and waits–for what, he’s not sure. For another hit, for a bullet, for something to happen.
Steps retreat. A door closes. The engine roars to life. When Randy finally dares to open his eyes, he sees the Chrysler turning around and leaving him behind.
Next to him, the phone vibrates again. Dazed, his hand shaking, Randy reaches out. He presses the answer button.
A voice he recognizes too easily says his name. “Randy?”
“Miss Beard?”
“Is everything alright?”
Randy exhales wetly. “I, hum, I don’t…”
A pause.
“Randy? Honey, what’s wrong? Where are you? What happened?”
Randy looks at the car disappearing. He leans his forehead against the ground and sobs.