Quentin scowled as he pulled out his beaten and weathered road atlas one more time. He wasn't sure why he was bothering, the stupid map was going to say the same damn thing it had said the last time. From Sioux Falls, he was to take I-90 to Rapid City. It was a straight shot, for fuck's sake.
How the hell had he gotten lost?
The only explantion he could come up with was that sometime after he'd driven across the Missouri, he'd gotten off at US-83 to get something for lunch. And then somehow, he'd gotten turned around, and now he was just burning gas and getting absolutely nowhere.
Twenty miles and not a soul to show for it.
Which might have been why Quentin was so shocked when his headlights caught a slim figure standing on the side of the highway, thumb stuck out and other hand stuck in a pocket of baggy cargoes. Had he not been so lost, or by himself, or really on some half-assed road trip to forget his own pain; he wouldn't have even contemplated stopping.
But, since he had no fucking clue where he was, it didn't seem like such a big deal to stop and pick the guy up. Plus, as Quentin hit the brakes and coasted to a stop, the kid looked rather pathetic as he picked up an old faded duffel bag and jogged to catch up to the car.
"Hey Mister, give me a ride to Rapid City?" The kid asked uncertainly as he leaned on the passenger window.
"You know how to get there?"
"Yeah." The kid quirked a confused eyebrow even as he opened the passenger door and slid in.
The duffel bag went in back and Quentin turned to him. "Okay, so how do I get there?" It was hard not to be surly about it, but honestly, he'd been going back and forth on this damned road for well over five hours now. And as fascinating as pine trees and bushes weren't, Quentin was ready to actually get on his way. Or at least, drive with more of a purpose.
If his parents were here right now, they'd be laughing at him. The whole point of his traveling across America was to wander aimlessly and find himself along the way. All he'd been able to do so far was run from one city to the next, his own fears nipping at his heels and spurring him on.
"Well, you're headed the wrong direction, for one. For two, we aren't on the right road, unless you're wanting to make a stop in Pierre. Which, trust me, you don't. There's nothing in Pierre." Since he hadn't actually taken his foot off the brake yet, Quentin turned off the car for a moment and turned to face his hitchhiker.
The kid had shoulder length hair that was tied back in a ponytail and a red bandana rolled up and holding bangs off his face. He didn't have a winter jacket, which surprised Quentin because this time of year, while it wasn't quite winter yet, was still frigidly cold. He did have an army green canvas jacket on, with some layers of long sleeved shirts underneath. His shoes were old, scuffed and full of holes, but it didn't seem to affect him any. "You have a name, kid?"
"Max, and I'm probably the same age as you, kid," Max grinned sharply.
"Fine." Quentin started the car back up, hitting the gas before wheeling it around. "Don't you know that hitchhiking is bad for your health? Someone's gonna kill you one of these days if you keep it up."
God, who had appointed him sanctimonious prick of the Midwest? He winced even as the words came out of his mouth. Maybe it was a side effect of no one seeming to believe that yes, a seventeen year old orphan was perfectly capable of looking out after himself.
"Yeah, it sucks when that happens, so I avoid it." The sarcasm wasn't lost on Quentin as Max made himself at home, kicking off his shoes. Feet came to rest on the dash and in light of the fact that he'd just reprimanded the kid as if he were some forty year old fart, Quentin couldn't quite bring himself to demand that Max get his feet off his windshield. "How on Earth do you get lost on your way to Rapid City? It's a straight shot from Sioux Falls."
"Shut up," Quentin growled. "I got off to grab a bite to eat and I must have gotten turned around."
"And you couldn't read the road signs? You suck at this, maybe you should let me drive."
"Fuck no." Quentin snorted. Right, like he was born yesterday or something. He glanced briefly in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse at himself even as he could see that they were the only ones on the road this late at night. He supposed he must look like some rich snot with no common sense.
His parents' BMW was only a year old, and while he'd packed his most casual clothing, he was still wearing a cashmere sweater and a pair of rather pricey designer jeans. Even his sunglasses, which were currently pushed up on top of his head in his spiky brown hair probably cost more than Max had probably seen since he'd run away from where ever home was.
"Your loss," Max shrugged, reclining the seat and pulling off his jacket to use it as a pillow.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking a nap. What's it look like, genius?"
"You know, you're pretty mouthy for someone who's relying on charity," Quentin reminded him darkly as he set the cruise control. Honestly, it was all he could do not to snap at Max and tell him to sit up straight and stop slouching. He didn't even seem grateful that Quentin had been kind enough to pick his sorry ass up before it started snowing, which was what it was doing as big fat flakes fell and melted on the windshield.
Max lazily looked in his direction, an eyebrow flicking upward. "Would we be more even if I sucked you off then?"
Quentin opened his mouth and then closed it. And then repeated the process twice more before squawking indignantly. "I'm not gay!" It was a lie. One he wasn't even sure why he'd bothered with. And it of course sent Max into a set of snickers.
"Relax, Princess, you don't have to be gay to enjoy a good blow. Mouth's a mouth, isn't it?" Even out of the corner of his eyes, Quentin could see the wolfish gleam in Max's eyes. And before Quentin could stop him, a hand had snaked it's way across the gear shift, landing rather deftly in his lap before nimble fingers started in on his belt.
"Get off me!" The car swerved slightly as Quentin smacked Max's roaming hand away. "I don't need you to blow me or do anything but sit there and tell me how the fuck to get to Rapid. Keep your grabby hands and diseased mouth to yourself or I'm pulling over and leaving your ass right here."
"Suit yourself." Max leaned back, unperturbed by the direness of Quentin's threat. "There's the turn off for I-90 west."
And damned if that wasn't exactly what it was. Quentin glanced at it flabbergasted. How the hell had he missed it? "Thanks," he muttered reluctantly. Max grunted absently, but Quentin could see that he was already settling in for a nap.
Grumbling to himself, Quentin decided that it had to be some kind of chemical malfunction in his brain that had convinced him to pick up a total stranger. A hitchhiker. His parents would be rolling in their graves if they knew.
Served 'em right. They shouldn't have left him so achingly alone in the world.
It was about two and a half hours later when Quentin pulled into a rest area, thorough fed up with driving on that thing South Dakota called a road.
Well, maybe that wasn't exactly fair to the illustrious state of South Dakota. They certainly could do nothing to stop the skies from dumping a bitch load of snow on everything. It just sucked that it had taken so long to get less than fifty miles.
Pulling into a spot closest to the little rest area building that wasn't a handicapped spot, Quentin switched off the engine. The guage said he still had about half a tank, so gas wasn't so much a worry. It was just that he couldn't take the careful painstakingly slow driving anymore for the night. They were stopping until at least dawn.
"Wha?" Looking over, Quentin noticed that Max's eyes were not brown as he'd originally assumed, but in fact more of a hazel green as the kid blinked at him owlishly. "Where are we?"
"Some rest stop between Murdo and Kadoka as far as I can tell." Quentin took the road atlas off the dash and tossed it carelessly in the back seat before undoing his seatbelt. "We're spending the night here."
"In the car?" Max asked skeptically. Quentin snorted. Some well-seasoned hitchhiker he was turning out to be. Maybe he was just all talk. He almost wanted to ask Max for a blowjob right then and there simply to watch the kid try and weasel out of it now that Quentin had gotten a firmer grasp on the situation.
"Nope, I got sleeping bags in the trunk. We'll just sleep in the lobby."
Getting out of the car, Quentin was almost bowled over by the cold and the wildly swirling snow. Damned weather. Damned Midwestern snowstorms.
"You sure this is a good idea?" Max slouched his way to where Quentin was getting the gear out of the trunk. The ragged duffel bag was slung carelessly over a shoulder, and getting a closer look, Quentin could see that there were more than a few holes in it and the zipper had long since broken, exposing Max's worldly possessions to the elements.
"Yes," he grunted tersely, before heading to the door. Once inside, he brushed the snow off and shook it out of his hair, surprised when his sunglasses when scattering across the floor.
"Well, it's not exactly the Hilton," Max said skeptically as he dropped his bag on a small counter opposite a huge glass window.
"It's warm and we don't have to pay for it. You know, for a hitchhiker, you're damned picky."
Max shrugged again, and it was beginning to grate on Quentin's nerves. He wished he could be so nonchalant about everything, including spending the night with a complete stranger in the middle of nowhere. "Most of my trucker rides had places to sleep in their rigs and those motherfuckers drove through everything. It's just a little snowstorm."
"Right. Just a couple of feet," Quentin growled back, sarcastically, for all the good it did him. Max just nodded amiably.
"Aren't there supposed to be security guards or something to stop people like us from doing this shit?" Max took the sleeping bag that Quentin shoved at him.
"In this storm? I imagine they're at home dreaming of donuts." Quentin ignored Max in favor of rolling his bag out. The tile floor probably wasn't going to be the most comfortable thing ever, but it could be worse. "You just gonna stand there like an idiot all night?"
"Maybe," Max chirped cheerfully before rolling out his bag disturbingly close to Quentin's.
Ignoring him was probably Quentin's best bet, so he did just that as he toed off his shoes and lay down. Pulling a small notepad out of his shirt pocket and a pen out from behind his ear, he decided the best course of action was probably to plot where to head next after Rapid. He'd see Mt. Rushmore and Crazyhorse, probably stop at a tourist trap or two and then head on towards Denver. He wasn't quite sure what the hell there was to do in Colorado.
He could probably ski this time of year, but really skiing was something one did with family or lovers. Having neither, it held little appeal to Quentin. He could always drag Max's ragamuffin ass with him, but he figured that if he made it to Rapid without strangling the kid, it would most likely be best to leave him there before he did.
Or before he got attached.
"So what's your story?" Glancing over, Quentin found Max lounged next to him and looking at him with undisguised curiosity.
"What makes you think I have one?" he asked before chewing on his pen thoughtfully.
"Right, you're just traveling across the country in the middle of winter on this sad little journey because you're just that much of an adventurer," Max scoffed.
"You never know, I could be," Quentin mumbled around the pen. "What makes you think it's sad?" And he stopped to ponder on how sad it was that he was affronted by a homeless kid's perception of his road trip. It was lame, really. He didn't have to spill his guts to some hitchhiking brat with no common sense at all.
"I'm sorry, of course it's a happy affair. That's why you brought your friends and family along. Although, I think you've managed to misplace them as well as your sense of direction." Rolling onto his back, Max tucked his jacket under his head as a pillow.
"Hey, I don't need a bunch of idiots holding my hand, okay?"
"Whatever you say," Max whistled condescendingly. Quentin's hackles raised.
"Besides, that's pretty rich coming from someone like you. What the hell are you doing, anyway, hitching in the middle of nowhere, in winter no less? You have a death wish?"
"Not particularly anymore," Max turned to the side, and huge grin on his tanned face. Really though, Quentin didn't get the joke.
"So what's your story?"
"Oh, you know, same old tale of woe. Parents are assholes. Father's a drunk, Mom's addicted to crack, had more kids then they knew what to do with. I lit outta there at fourteen, determined to never see them again," Max shrugged indifferently.
"And you've been hitching ever since?" Quentin raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"Well, I tried a couple of big cities. Minneapolis, then I hitched to Chicago. Managed to find the cesspools in both and decided to try my luck out west. So I hitched a ride back through Minnesota to get here. The plan was to head to California. But I guess I'm pretty stuck here."
"I suppose I could take you to California," Quentin heard himself grudgingly offer. Of course, once he had, he wished like hell he could take it back. He didn't want anyone else along on this ride. He was supposed to be finding himself. Finding his purpose or some such bullshit.
"Really?" Max looked skeptical. "You think you can?"
"Only if you're not an ass about it," he snapped back, wanting to hit himself as he realized that Max had practically handed him an opportunity to back out and he hadn't taken it.
He was not supposed to be picking up stupid, cute and sluttish hitchhikers along the way. Max was not going to help him figure out what to do with his life or his riches now that his entire world had been yanked out from under him.
"So, where do your parents think you are right now?"
"Mind your own fucking business and go to sleep," Quentin snapped, rolling over, "or I will leave you here."
"Not like you're the only ride that goes through here, you know. It's a rest stop. I imagine that if a hitchhiker hung out here long enough, someone would pick him up."
"Right. Chances are they'll take one look at you and go running for the hills," Quentin returned unkindly. He got no response to that and the silence dragged out between them. At first, Quentin was more than happy about that. But as the time wore on, it grated on his nerves, particularly since it was obvious that Max was still awake. "God! Fine, they're dead, all right?"
"Excuse me?"
"My parents, asshole. You wanted to know," Quentin snarled turning back around to face the kid. "They're dead. Freak accident."
"Huh. So your guardians don't mind you screwing around as you roam around the country?"
"Fuck you, what makes you think I didn't just runaway like you did?" Max laughed as Quentin put the suggestion to him.
"Right, because all runaways managed to getaway with wads of cash and a BMW? We should all be so fucking lucky." Max snorted in mirth. "Besides that, you don't have the look about you."
Quentin rolled his eyes. Obviously there was some runaway mystique that he was apparently lacking. Showed what the brat knew about it all. "Whatever. They left everything to me and then put by asshole of an uncle in charge of it all until I turn twenty-five. Which means that most of it will be gone by the time I'm twenty. Doesn't matter anyway."
Because honestly, there wasn't a hell of a lot that mattered. His parents had been absentee parents at best. Always flitting around the world from one place to another. Leaving him with nannies that didn't speak a word of English, with friends they'd known days at best, or just flat out forgotten him and left him to fend for himself until someone reminded them that they had a child.
"So what exactly was your big plan? Drive around aimlessly until you ran out of money?" Max looked at him skeptically.
"Maybe? No. I don't know. I just didn't want to be there anymore." Quentin shrugged sullenly. "My goddamned uncle wanted to put me back in private boarding school, but I've had enough of those assholes, and I don't see the point in going if it's only going to be another year of avoiding one rich prick after another."
Truth be told, he hadn't seen the point in doing much of anything. It wasn't like he'd been happy before his parents' untimely demise, but there had at least been the illusion of normality. With them gone? Well, there just wasn't much of a fucking point to anything.
"You know what you need?" Max startled him out of his thoughts. "You need to get laid."
"Are you masochistic or something?" God, did the kid not think with anything besides his pants? "Look, it's not that you aren't cute. Cause in your own bizarre way, you are. I'm sure you know that. But get real. Do I look stupid? I'll fucking drive you to California already. You don't have to keep coming on to me. Just make sure we get there in one piece."
"Yeah, you definitely need to get laid. Might remove that huge stick shoved up your ass." Growling, Quentin whirled around only to find Max colliding with him as the kid pounced and pushed him to the ground. There was a moment of panic as Quentin's stupid mind went through all the other times he'd found himself in such a position with people pushing him around, pushing him down and holding him there knowing that no one would come looking for Quentin or be concerned with his safety until long after they'd done what they'd wanted to him.
"Ah, I recognize that look," Max said softly, rolling off him just enough for Quentin to get his breath back and calm himself slightly as Max petted a cheek rather annoyingly.
"What look? I don't have a fucking look."
"Right, and no one's tried to jump my bones without my consent in the entire three years I'd been hitching across the country," Max snorted in disbelief. "But suit yourself."
"Just go to sleep." Growling, Quentin shoved Max off, but the words lacked any kind of bite.
Shrugging yet again, Max rolled over and let his eyes slide shut. Quentin tried to do the same, but sleep was elusive and much later he found himself still up and cautiously reaching over Max's cheek to pull back some of the silky black hair. His cheek felt velvety soft too.
It had been a while since someone had been genuinely nice to Quentin. And in spite of all the hissing and spitting he'd done, Max hadn't lost his temper once. He hadn't even snapped back.
Bizarre. Cautiously, he slid up against Max's back. When Max didn't move, he cautiously threw an arm over the kid. Still nothing. For a hitchhiker, he certainly slept like the dead. Quentin would have thought that sleeping that way would be detrimental to one's health in that kind of life, but he supposed he wasn't exactly well versed in it. Pulling Max gently back until the kid was settled comfortably in his arms, Quentin decided that maybe there had been something to all the books, movies and songs he'd listened to and read over the years.
At the very least, holding Max seemed to stave off the lonely ache in his soul.
Quentin woke to someone's tongue shoved down his throat. At first, he tried to shove them away, but they were persistent, and not exactly bad at what they were doing, so Quentin cautiously gave in. The tongue was followed with a couple of playful half kisses and then one rather well placed grope, and Quentin was wide awake.
And staring into a mischievous Max's eyes.
"I figured you weren't as cold a bastard as you let on." Then Max had the gall to wink knowingly. Scowling, Quentin shoved him away.
"What the hell, man?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but it was mostly for show. Really, the kiss hadn't been so bad, and if they'd been other people in different circumstances, Quentin might have even tried to follow through.
"Hey, you held me all night, bub, not the other way around," Max chuckled, and Quentin glared even as he felt his face flush. Then he turned to gather his bag up only to find a security guard lounging at the front door.
Whirling around, he grabbed Max by the front of his collar and dragged him up close, whispering harshly. "You kissed me in front of the fucking security guard? What the hell were you thinking? Couldn't you do something useful like warn me that he's fucking there? How the hell are we going to get past him?"
"Relax, Princess," Max scoffed, "he's not going to give a rat's ass that we're here. Just get your stuff together and let's get out of here."
Not entirely trusting Max, Quentin nonetheless followed his advice, feeling the nervous sweat dripping down between his shoulder blades as the walked out of the building and towards the car.
Sure enough, though, Max was right. The guard did nothing. Didn't stop them, or give them a look, or even demand to know what the hell they were doing, sleeping in the rest area building.
"Weird," Quentin commented to himself as he brushed the snow of the car. Hopping in, it took about ten minutes before it had warmed up sufficiently to melt the layer of ice off the windshield to the point where he could see out of it.
Max, cool handed soul that he seemed to be, was completely unsurprised by any of it. "So, we're off to Rapid now?"
"Off to Rapid," Quentin confirmed.
Six hours later, Quentin wanted to kill something. Or someone. "I know we've seen that same fucking billboard for Wall Drug before. Goddamn! We're going to that fucking town, if just so I can burn the whole fucking thing down," he ranted.
Max, on the other hand, was nothing but amused by it all. "Come on, you have to love Wall Drug. I mean, the advertising alone," he trailed off, chuckling.
"It's nothing but a goddamned tourist trap."
"Oh come on, what else is there in South Dakota? Let the people have their fun."
"I've fucking seen that goddamned billboard six fucking times!" Quentin yelled as it passed by yet again. Max just laughed and reached over, patting Quentin's knee affectionately. Blushing, Quentin decided to ignore it.
Another ten hours later and not only was Quentin cranky, he was getting thoroughly discouraged and confused. "It can't possibly take this long to get to Rapid, no matter how bad the roads are."
"Well, that sign says we're still on I-90," Max pointed out as they went by it. For someone who had been stuck in a car for sixteen hours with Quentin ranting and yelling for seven of them about the inane stupidity of places like Wall Drug, Max was remarkably unperturbed by the whole experience.
"Still, don't you think we should be there by now?"
"I haven't seen any indication that we're getting close," Max shot him a pointed look. Confused, Quentin glared back.
"What are you trying to say?"
"Nothing," Max sighed. "So, besides not wanting to go back to boarding school, why else are you running away from yourself by scrambling across the country like a mad hare?"
"I'm not running away from myself," Quentin snapped back, knowing as he did so that that wasn't the truth. "Besides it's not like anyone would fucking care if I fell off the face of the planet."
"Oh come on, that can't be true."
Quentin shot Max a disdainful glare. "Oh right, I'm just so special that people are lined up for miles simply for the pleasure of caring about me. Get fucking real, man. I don't care if I fall off the face of the planet, why the hell would anyone else?"
"Huh, well, I would for one."
Quentin spared him an incredulous glance. "I don't need your pity."
"No, cause let me tell you, you have plenty of that for yourself."
"Fuck off!"
"Look, I didn't say it was without its reasons, asshole," Max shot back, getting his back up for the first time in the trip it seemed. "But you're not the only person on the planet with problems, okay? You're not the only one who feels worthless or forgotten or unloved. I spent three years hitchhiking. You think I did that with friends? That I have people who go with me who love me or care about me? You fucking get real." Max glared, folding his arms over his chest before turning and mutinously staring out the window at the passing scenery.
The silence dragged out between them until Quentin finally couldn't take it anymore. "Look, I'm sorry," he hesitantly reached out, awkwardly patting Max's knee. Max seemed to take that as some kind of cue, because he grabbed Quentin's hand, lacing his fingers in between Quentin's.
"It's almost behind us," Max murmured soothingly, although Quentin had no clue what the hell he was talking about.
"I've seen that sign before," Quentin burst out, his skin turning cold as he recognized the same sign that Max had pointed out hours ago to indicate that they were still on I-90. "What the hell is going on?"
"You have to remember or we're never going to get anywhere," Max told him in a comforting voice, but it was hard for Quentin to feel comforted.
"What the hell is going on? I know that I've seen that sign for Wall drug. It's the same exact sign, isn't it? Not one that just looks the same farther on down the road."
"Yes."
"We've been driving over the same track of land over and over," he said slowly, looking over at Max who was nodding solemnly. "But I haven't gotten off the highway once and I've never turned around."
"Yeah," Max answered again.
"I've been on this road before," he realized suddenly as the scenery looked familiar for reasons other than the fact that they'd been looping for the last eighteen hours nonstop. "I've been on it in the middle of the night."
"During a snowstorm," Max added quietly, but Quentin barely heard him as the bits of memory slowly filtered in with bizarre clarity. The events themselves didn't make any sense, though.
"I deliberately drove on the other side of the highway. I avoided the smaller cars cause I didn't really want to hurt anyone else all that much. So I picked a big rig."
Wild eyed, he looked over at Max who nodded placidly. "One that was headed East on I-90."
"And I sped up, not even once tapping the brake, before plowing into head on into it. Which means that right now I should be," he trailed off, unable to say the word out loud.
"Dead?" Max said cheerfully. "Most certainly."
"And you?" he finally managed to get past his throat as he slowed the car down and pulled off on the side right in front of the damned Wall Drug sign.
"As a door nail," Max returned, still calm about the whole thing. "But since I was already mostly dead at the time of the accident, my passing was a little easier than yours. I've had more time to figure it out, don't worry."
"You were in the rig."
"Nasty little fucker, that truck driver. Just be glad you took him out and not some of the other ones. Sometimes they can be really sweet, you know?"
"Did he?" Quentin really didn't want to finish the question. Or get the answer. He was pretty sure it would give him nightmares. If ghosts could even get nightmares.
"Oh, he had serial killer written all over him. I was gonna die, anyway. You just saved me a shitload of torture to get to that point."
Quentin tried to process it all as he put his hands on the steering wheel and looked at the sign straight ahead. Cars raced by, and it suddenly occurred to him that not one of them probably saw him, or if they even saw the car, they probably didn't see anyone inside it.
"So, I really can't take you to California, huh?" For some reason, that really saddened him. Maybe he hadn't been the nicest to Max, but he'd been a good companion. And in the deepest part of his heart, Quentin could admit that he wasn't against getting to know Max better.
"Oh, no, I think we can go now." Looking over, Quentin couldn't help but be confused.
"How?"
Max laughed, before reaching over and grabbing the front of Quentin's shirt and pulling him close. His lips brushed over Quentin's, and even though he was confused, Quentin still found himself responding to the soft sweet kiss before Max let him go with a playful shove. "All you had to do was realize what you'd done and you'd be free of the past. We're pretty much free to do whatever now, as far as I can tell. So, what do you say?"
"I say California has to be warmer than this."
The End