9 Works by GunGun
Listing Works
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“So? How’d I do, Big Buckle Boudreaux?”
He says that old nickname with bite, all bronc fighter and a lil’ somethin’ else, just for Benson tucked away in the pout of his lips as they shape his name, teasin’ and eager for it to be reciprocated, can see it in the way he sticks his hands in the back pockets of his Levi’s.
Randy’s lucky he’s pretty enough that it don’t piss Benson clean off.
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He's at a party where he knows no one and he's forgotten about Lisa within minutes of being here and someone's flirting with him, successfully enough that Randy's just about decided to accept the offer to go for a drive when he catches Benson's eye from across the room.
Before tonight, Randy never would've called himself easy.
He ends up in a car, but it ain't driving anywhere.
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Randy can feel something chase after him as he walks around the front of the car, looks up to catch Benson’s eyes flicking away, down to his hands where he’s doing fuckall with the jumper cables. It makes Randy feel so crazy, like, was he really doing this?
His car battery is dead and Benson is nice enough to jump him.
That's how it goes, right?
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"I like scary movies," Randy shrugs, stomach flipping at the way Benson leaned on the counter in front of him, another cheap button-up uniform pulling fabric taut over biceps Randy tried not to look at— the way he grins at him, no hat to hide his eyes, glittering in interest, this new Randy new and never-before-seen.
"Oh, do ya?"
Benson looks him over from under thick eyelashes, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes sliding like a physical touch the entire way back up, considering.
“Ya don’t look the type.”
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Benson sounds like he sort of wants to leave him at a road-side truck stop bathroom, missing child forgotten nine states away from home and Randy's still trying to catch his breath, still trying to drown the image of Benson dancing with the woman in the off-white porcelain, stomach rolling. Wishes he was anyone but himself, anywhere but here.
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Not that Randy cares that Benson's twice his age or anything, but if they're gonna keep fucking, he thinks he should hold the reins, slow the horse down before it has to be taken out back and shot, put out of its misery, before he gets a heart attack and Randy's left with another body that he doesn't know what to do with.
Benson spits the bit out of his mouth, snatches the reins from his hands, and disagrees.
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Either Randy was illiterate as fuck or he was reading this exactly right.
Sure, Benson seemed like a surly sonnuvabitch but he was surprisingly gregarious when you didn’t annoy him into thinking that mopping the same four squares of linoleum was more interesting than talking to you.
Against all odds, Randy somehow stumbled his way out of the stranger turned coworker turned kind-of-friend square into some mystical fifth one: the kind of person whose throat Benson wanted to stick his tongue down.
Randy is normal about it.
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How do you change that? Randy wondered. How do you become something totally different?
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Books were an unimaginably underrated thing sometimes, Haise felt. Phrases, allusions, alliterations; can mean so little— cannot be understood to someone who couldn't even remember their own name.
Of course, that all changed when he met Arima.