It was a rhetorical question. He knew very well how they’d ended up here. Lack of money, lack of gas, lack of food. The last couple of bucks they possessed had been handed over to a bald, greasy guy in exchange for the keys to a pair of rooms. Two twin beds in each room, and no possibility of a cot. James had threatened to sleep in the van, but the heavy clouds rolling in from the west changed his mind.
The Mississippi was to the west, Kirk knew, and the Tallahatchie to the northwest. It got boring sometimes in the van, and he studied the maps. He was probably the only one who knew where they were, just a little to the west of Tupelo, birthplace of Elvis. Kirk laughed at the thought. He wondered what Elvis would have thought of them, tucked away in a highway motel to hide from the lightning. Bunch of long-haired miscreants, that’s what he would have thought. Kirk was inclined to agree.
James paced out of the bathroom, irritable. Bored. It didn’t take much to annoy James these days, and he and Lars were fighting again. Cliff had given him that look when Lars had handed out the keys. The God Please Don’t Make Me Put Up With Him look, and Kirk had caved. He usually did. He tried to keep the peace as best he could. It usually failed.
Outside, there was a crash of thunder, and the panes in the windows rattled. Kirk exchanged a glance with James, both of them startled by the sudden violence outside, but neither willing to admit it. Kirk looked away first, reached down to flick on the television. The room was small enough that he could reach it easily from the foot of his bed.
Nothing but static, no matter what channel he tried.
“TV’s dead,” he announced. James didn’t answer. He was leaning against the wall, hands jammed into his pockets. Thinking about something? Yeah, thinking about beer. Kirk would have bet his left hand, and he would have kept it.
“Anything to drink in the van?” The automatic solution to all their problems, liquid amusement. But Kirk was forced to shake his head and grimace. There wasn’t even a soda in the van; they’d knocked out everything in anticipation of hitting a city soon. It would be a dry night.
James grimaced back, obviously thinking the same thing Kirk was. Shithole roach motel, no television. Even if there was a bar, they couldn’t walk to it. The rain was pounding down outside now, a hard, fast Mississippi rain that churned the dirt to mud and battered anyone stupid enough to venture out in it. The van was useless, too, nearly out of gas and likely to get bogged down or hydroplane off the road.
“We can work on some songs?” Kirk offered doubtfully. As expected, James shook his head curtly. James didn’t work on songs. James didn’t collaborate at all, really, and Kirk was used to it. That didn’t mean it wasn’t irritating, just that he’d grown accustomed to being irritated with James.
“Cards?” Another head shake. “Movie game?” Head shake. “You could rub my feet.” That earned him a glare and he grinned. At least James was listening. “We can’t sit in here all night and stare at each other,” he said reasonably. “And I know you’re not tired, and neither am I. So…”
James’s lips thinned and he flung himself onto his uncomfortable bed. Outside, the rain thundered down, battering the motel. The humidity was starting to get to Kirk. It seemed to creep in under the crack of the door, seep in through the window. He felt bogged down, claustrophobic, restless. It was like the lightning had charged the air and set every nerve in his body on edge.
“James..” There was an almost panicked edge to his soft voice. If he didn’t do something, he’d run out into the rain and lose himself.
“Hey, you okay?” James asked, propping himself up. His eyes were narrowed with concern, a pretty rare occurrence lately. Kirk could only shake his head, the whites of his eyes showing, and James bared his teeth in a grin. “Scared of the lightning? Sissy.”
“Not scared,” Kirk protested. “Just…” There were no words. James understood. That was one of the nice things about James; the fact that he peddled words made him more aware of silences.
“C’mere, man, it’s fine.” The invitation wouldn’t come twice, and Kirk flung himself onto James’s bed. He was ashamed, a little, but as he huddled close, he could feel the tension in James’s shoulders. He wasn’t the only one, then. “Fucking freaky storm…”
“You sure we can’t play cards?” Kirk murmured, proud that the tremble in his throat didn’t quite reach his voice. He wondered how Cliff and Lars were holding up. Fighting like a pair of bitchy cats, probably. Cliff could be a pain in the ass when he got bored, and Lars… well. He was Lars.
“Cards are in the van,” James said. He shifted, leaning back against the headboard, and Kirk followed automatically. It wasn’t until he was fully pressed to James’s chest that he realized what he’d done. James evidently also took a minute to register it, because he stiffened slowly under Kirk, muscles tight against Kirk’s cheek.
He could hear James’s heart thundering against his ribs, matching his own quickened pulse. Matching the torrent of rain outside, and the flashes of lightning and the vicious cracks of thunder. Fuck that, he could feel it, leaping against his cheek. Muscles fluttered under his fingers as he shifted, drawing back slowly, terrified of what James might do, what James might say.
“Sorry…” And James cut him off with a gesture. Blunt fingers tangled in Kirk’s messy hair, pulled him forward again. James’s breath was like the air, hot and humid against Kirk’s cheek, and they both shuddered slightly. It’s the storm, Kirk thought wildly. It had to be the storm. He wasn’t… James wasn’t…
His blood throbbed with the thunder and he leaned forward, shivering, drawn in by James’s hand in his hair. He noticed, with a detached wildness, that his hand was darkly elegant against his friend’s shoulder, and then their lips touched and he didn’t notice anything but the way James bent his head back, the way James’s rough skin felt against his own. James seemed hard, angles and lines and stubble like sandpaper, but it was good. Better.
Kirk moaned and James met the sound with a hungry growl. Their teeth clashed, clumsy and awkward, but neither of them pulled away. Everything seemed to rush, to blur together in a mess of roughness and sound. James and the storm, inseparable in Kirk’s mind now, thunder and hands and humidity and a driving need for something…
It took Kirk several seconds to realize that the pounding he heard was neither his own blood nor the storm outside. “J-james…” His voice broke the moment, and James jerked back, eyes wide. “The door…”
It was Cliff, soaked to the bone and smiling. James stared at him for a second, then stepped aside to let him in. Kirk, back on his own bed after a brief, nervous scramble, turned his face to the window and listened to the rain slash down against the parking lot. The claustrophobic panic had lifted, replaced by… something else. Something that he wanted to explore further. Cliff needed to go. He was a jarring intrusion, his mere presence sending jitters down Kirk’s spine.
“…so anyway, Lars starts screaming like a fucking banshee and I had to bail.” Kirk barely heard Cliff speaking. Go. Just go away and leave me… us. Leave us alone. “Did you know there’s nothing to drink in the van? Fucked up. I found some cards, though. You wanna play cards?” Kirk caught the sideways slant of James’s eyes and the faint amusement in the quirk of his lips. There was a certain amount of promise in his stance. Maybe later, it said. When Cliff is gone. Fucking Cliff.
“Yeah,” Kirk sighed, sliding off the bed and curling his legs under him. “Yeah, let’s fucking play some cards…”
