Warning: This one doesn't have much in the way of dialogue, as it was originally meant to be the first half of one story. But then it got kind of long for part of one story, and the ending seemed like the ending, if you take my meaning, and so it doesn't have much in the way of dialogue, which may disappoint you if you-- like my friend Joe Dawn-- are a dialogue whore.

If you will bear with me, however, I can promise you that part two is loaded to the nuts with Dialogue Goodness, as Stuart and Vince are barely separated in it and are generally fucked off at one another throughout. I can also promise you that part two won't be eleven months in the making, as it's been nagging me to write it all along.

World's Biggest World

One: Two Sleepy People

by Mallory Klohn

One thing Stuart had discovered early on in his travels with Vince was that there were myriad guide books devoted to the subject of obscure points of scenic interest around the world: quirky roadside attractions and scary novelty shops, museums for the deranged, enormous monuments to things that never should've existed in the first place...

These places were eclectic and almost as numerous as the guide books that advertised them, and each and every one boasted a small but dedicated group of fans-- zealots, really-- who would defend unto death the glory of such places, claiming that they possessed a certain cultural relevance, a certain beauty, a certain necessity.

The Pouce Coupe Last Chance Gas was no such place.

It was a large, boxy building that stood adjacent to the acres of greasy tarmac and fuel pumps that made up the Gas portion of its name. The lights above the tarmac were aggressive and malevolent, far more than might be needed to roast a frozen turkey to juicy, golden perfection in fifteen minutes or less.

Given that it was the only thing he'd seen in eighty miles or more that was neither road nor trees, it had seemed bleak enough before he'd given it his full attention. Now it resembled nothing so much as an Orwellian institution of some sort in which people were punished for self-abuse, thought crimes, and deviant behavior. Only the stiff banner above the double doors advertising two-4-one Doozy Dogs offered any relief from this forbidding image.

Self-abuse, thought crimes, and deviant behavior were Stuart's Holy Trinity, and he was disinclined to inquire after the nature of the Doozy Dogs besides, but they were nearly out of petrol, and god only knew how long it would be before they happened upon another filling station.

Some streets were paved with gold; he couldn't swing a dead cat without striking a club or a shop or an art gallery or a fabulous restaurant, and if he swung it the other way, he struck some fantastic bloke who'd been waiting for Stuart all his life.

And some streets weren't paved at all; some streets were poorly lit Dirt Roads of the Damned that stretched for nine or ten thousand miles and hadn't even a filthy rest stop to recommend them. Swing a dead cat in a place like that and he might strike a mailbox meant to resemble Graceland or he might strike some huge serial killer type who wanted to know what in hell Stuart thought he was doing with the spoils of his day's hunting.

Stuart glanced at Vince, who was fast asleep in the passenger's seat. His hair was mashed against the window and his jaw was slack, but he looked quite sweet just the same. Even if they did nothing all day, just drove and drove because there was nothing but twelve hours of road between one place and the next, still Vince collapsed at the end of the day as if they were competing in the Iditarod.

He just slumped wherever was closest, muttering to himself like an old dog, and the rest of his face might smooth out and soften as he relaxed-- he might even smile, heaven forfend-- but he always, always had that little crinkle between his eyebrows, as if even sleep couldn't rob him of the ability to fret.

More than once Stuart had tried to imagine what he dreamed about, whether his unconscious life was as fraught with peril as his waking one. Make Vince the leader of his own island paradise peopled entirely by gorgeous, oiled, adoring men, and Vince would start worrying about their dental plan and whether or not they had adequate UV protection.

He was quite sweet, for all that he'd be a holy terror if Stuart dared wake him.

But he might want Stuart to wake him, at least for as long as it took to have Stuart snap a photo of him, knee-deep in snow beneath a genuine Last Chance Gas sign. Vince, he'd learned, couldn't resist things that he'd never believed really existed.

Whether it was pickled mutant fetuses, castles constructed entirely of suspect luncheon meats, or the battle of the World's Biggest Chairs across small-town America, Vince could be relied upon to whip out one of his ubiquitous disposable cameras at a moment's notice to demand that Stuart snap a photo of him standing next to whatever ungodly monument they'd encountered.

That Stuart gave in every time with small complaint was, in his opinion, even more humiliating than was paying admission to see the Image of Christ Potato. But he'd done that as well.

Vince had so much to answer for.

"Vince," he murmured, stroking Vince's cheek with the back of his hand. Vince only sighed. "Oi, Vince."

"Piss off," he mumbled.

"It's a Last Chance Gas, Vince," said Stuart. "In the arctic. They're probably selling tiger testicles out of the fucking ice cream cooler."

"I don't give a toss," he said, batting feebly at Stuart's hand.

"I have to go in," said Stuart, jostling his shoulder. "Do you want anything?"

"I want you to shut your face and leave me alone." He still hadn't opened his eyes. In spite of everything, Stuart hadn't managed to wake him yet, not completely.

"All right, fine," he said, snatching a blanket off the back seat and draping it over his friend. "But if anything happens to me in there, it's your fault."

Vince was already asleep again. Stuart decided to let him be; they were bound to find at least a hundred filling stations even more terrifying than this one before they were done, and any road, it was fucking cold outside.

He didn't feel it in the Jeep so much, but it had really asserted itself when he'd stopped to have a piss on still another faceless stretch of the highway. Then he'd felt that he could've frozen solid, immortalized as Man Having Piss like one of the figures at Pompeii. An extremely popular figure, of course, but that would've been small comfort to him.

Coaxing Vince out of the Jeep would've been easy after that ugly moment when Stuart shook him fully awake and Vince looked at him like he was the devil incarnate. He'd gotten off lucky with Vince this time; it hadn't been the first time Vince had communicated his displeasure with whichever fist was most convenient before he remembered himself.

Sometimes he punched, though. Sometimes his aim was better. So far Stuart had been that much quicker than Vince, but even Stuart's luck couldn't hold out indefinitely.

No, it was that later moment-- when Vince was outside, camera in hand, when he lost all sensation in his extremities, when his breath froze in his throat and ice began forming on his eyebrows-- that Stuart truly feared. Then Vince would've suspected Stuart of waking him specifically to engineer a bad death for his friend, and no matter what Stuart said to him, the matter would never, ever be closed.

He remembered everything, Vince.

Stuart often fantasized about Vince being struck down by Alzheimer's disease in his dotage, but he knew enough about the condition to remind himself, time after miserable time, that Vince was more likely to forget the later events of his life than the earlier. At age seventy-six, he might not remember Stuart from one moment to the next, but by god, he'd remember the time he'd been roused out of peaceful slumber to freeze his balls off in Hell Has Frozen Over After All, British Columbia.

Steeling himself against the bitter wind, Stuart leapt out of the car and slammed the door shut. He was frozen half to death nearly instantly; he supposed they ought to've picked up some cold-weather gear somewhere along the line for just such an occasion, but although both he and Vince knew that there were places in the world where a person could die of exposure in ten seconds or less, neither of them had ever imagined that they might actually visit one.

As soon as the Jeep's tank was full, he sprinted for the shop, muttering and cursing, rubbing his hands together furiously enough to start a fire. His cheeks were stiff, his hair was full of static, and his eyes were watering; he felt like he'd had a bad curry and had only seconds to make peace with his loved ones before he was called before God to defend his many, many indefensible acts.

Still, all was forgiven and forgotten when he was safely inside and he got a good look at the bloke manning the tills.

He was nice; his hair was dark and shaved down almost to nothing, and he was a bit on the thin side, a bit bland, but nice. There was no telling how much nicer he'd have looked in a real shirt, any shirt other than the shiny brown polyester tunic that hugged his frame so affectionately, but he could only be improved, and that was good enough for Stuart.

He'd been slumped over some magazine spread out on the cash desk, obviously bored stupid and praying for an armed robbery to relieve the monotony, but when he saw Stuart framed in the doorway, he pulled himself up to his full height-- six-foot-something-- and tried without much success to suppress what was probably the only genuine smile he'd displayed in the workplace since his first day on the job.

Once he managed to get that under control, what was left was an expression of unabashed, unbridled lust, tinged with just the right amount of apprehension. It was a look that Stuart knew well, one he cultivated shamelessly. Just thinking about that look made him hard sometimes. Seeing it on a bloke he fancied gave him a fantastic, natural high.

Stuart almost felt sorry for him. He didn't know where in hell Pouce Coupe was in relation to the rest of the world except to say that it was a long, long way out of town, but handsome had to be in short supply. Stuart's arrival on the scene must've been devastating to the poor sod.

That thought made up Stuart's mind for him.

It no longer mattered that the fluorescent lighting was so very unpleasant, that the shop smelled of bleach and mildew, that the music hissing its way out of the cheap speakers on the tops of the drinks coolers was some sort of hellish up-tempo honky-tonk version of Here, There, and Everywhere. All that mattered was that this bloke was nice, and he was cruising Stuart, and Stuart was hard, so fucking hard.

He couldn't say that he'd never forgive himself if he only paid for his petrol and walked out. He could always have a wank in the car, and he'd most likely forget the clerk before the Jeep cleared the tarmac regardless; Vince might remember the pointless minutiae of his life, but Stuart would never be troubled by thoughts of that polyester tunic again, even in his worst nightmares.

But there was Vince to consider, out there in the car, snoring his life away. After a point, he couldn't sleep in any kind of light; he was like a child in that. He wouldn't last long with those fluorescents blasting the Jeep, and then he'd come looking.

Long enough, though.

Smiling seductively, Stuart prowled toward the clerk, holding his gaze, drawing him in. The clerk swallowed convulsively, his eyes going wide. Apparently he'd realized-- quicker than some-- that he wasn't hallucinating, that Stuart's demeanor wasn't especially that of a man who meant to ask whether he mightn't be able to just pay for an ice scraper since he hadn't bought enough petrol to get one free with his purchase.

The sad thing was, he still thought he had a choice to make.

When Stuart reached the counter, he leaned over it teasingly, let himself become the clerk's whole world, just for a while.

"I'm Stuart," he said, as if this should've explained everything. "You busy?"

*** *** ***

When Vince woke up, he was aware of three things at once: the Jeep was stopped, it was very cold, and he was alone.

This was exactly why he hated sleeping while Stuart drove. Things like this. He might fall asleep at half-three in the morning on their way out of Chicago, or Sydney, or Vienna-- Stuart seemed to be in charge of leaving places, and Vince in charge of arriving-- but he always seemed to wake up in some weird and scary place that Stuart had chosen specifically to punish him for falling asleep.

Until he and Stuart had left Manchester, Vince had had no idea that there were so many forsaken meat-rendering plants and burned-out flophouses in the world. Stuart found such places as if they were in a guide book somewhere: Hellish Nightmare Spots on a Shoestring.

It wasn't like Stuart to leave him alone, though. Not in a new town, any road. Not for any length of time. They'd been traveling for less than two months, but they'd come to rely on one another quickly, if discreetly. As Jim Morrison sang, people are strange when you're a stranger. It was as important to them to know where their friends were as who.

It was hard to say what had awakened Vince. It might've been the cold; his breath was coming out in visible puffs, and the windows were lightly dusted with snow. It might've been the noise; even now, the sound of a nearby train was so loud that it was hard to concentrate.

Even so, it seemed to him that the most likely culprit was the blinding fluorescent light that flooded the car and everything around it with the intensity of an entire armada of Hollywood UFOs. No living creature could've slept for long with that harsh and aggressive light assailing them, least of all Vince, who had a budgie's sensibility where light and sleep were concerned.

The Jeep was parked on the greasy tarmac of a remote filling station. The building that adjoined it was fairly large, probably because it was so remote. There was absolutely nothing else but empty road as far as Vince could see. No lights off in the distance, no road signs advertising another, nicer place. Just this filling station, the bloody Pouce Coupe Last Chance Gas, a Last Chance Gas to end all Last Chance Gases.

Vince had no clue where in hell Pouce Coupe was, except that he was fairly sure it was somewhere in Canada-- they'd been in Canada when he'd fallen asleep-- and that it had to be a northern town. Where else could you hope to find a foot of snow on the ground in mid-April?

He supposed it could happen in Alaska.

Oh, Christ, what if Stuart had dragged him into bloody Alaska?

The fact of the cold car seemed ominous to him, no matter how frigid it was outside. Had Stuart been a normal person, Vince wouldn't have thought anything of it. How much trouble could a normal person get into at a filling station in a sleepy nowhere town in the middle of the night? What was the worst that could happen then? They'd buy the wrong flavor of crisps and call it a night.

Stuart, though...

Vince popped open the glove box. Stuart's gun was still there, gleaming, nestled in among road maps and serviettes and sugar-free gum. He couldn't have been too worried, then. Not that he ever was. Vince was almost positive that Stuart had only bought the gun in the first place because he enjoyed fucking with people so very, very much.

He wasn't a scrapper, Stuart. He was much too vain for that. If he wanted to strike out against someone, he preferred to manipulate events from behind the scenes. There was no revenge the equal of one that nobody could ever pin on him. It was enough for him to know he'd done it, and sod everyone else. Blowing up Mrs. Perry's car had been a deviation, but not one he regretted.

Even now, Vince saw that look in Stuart's eyes from time to time, that wild, furious look that said he might do something mad and terrible at any moment. He needed Vince to temper that, and always had done.

Sighing, Vince grabbed the gun, steeled himself, and got out of the car. It was cold outside, astoundingly cold. When he inhaled, the air froze in his throat, and when he exhaled, his breath hung in the air in little cartoony puffs for far too long before it dissipated, as if it was considering freezing solid and crashing to the ground.

It crossed his mind that he'd have frozen to death eventually if he hadn't woken up and Stuart dallied a little too long. That horrible lighting had saved his life.

Nasty thought, that.

And he knew exactly how Stuart would've reacted if he'd come back to the car god knew when and found Vince dead, frozen solid. He would've just stared at him for long seconds, stared at him and snarled "For fuck's sake!"

He'd probably be relieved; it'd save him having to shoot Vince and toss him out of the car while they sped along the Autobahn, finally driven beyond endurance by Vince's unfortunate obsession with the Mr. Potatohead Silly Suitcase that Stuart had given him when he'd complained that he was sick of the fucking license plate game.

"Bastard," he grumbled, shoving the gun into his waistband, zipping his jacket up to his throat. He'd been standing outside less than thirty seconds and already his face was numb from cold. Unless Stuart was dead or dying, Vince would make him pay for this. Oh yes.

The filling station shop was deserted. No customers, of course, but no clerk, either. Just a vast assortment of unwholesome snacks and beverages, a bank machine, a bashed-up Popeye game, and an unmanned cash register.

Vince was particularly discomfited by the cash register.

Even in places like this, armed robberies weren't unheard of. They probably happened oftener in places like this, thousands of miles from the nearest police station. Shoot the clerk, dump him in a snowbank, and who's to know before the spring thaw?

"Hello..?"

Nervous now, he peeked over the cash desk. There was nothing. He crept up and down the aisles, checking the windows on every return trip. He thought about trying the toilets, but they were outdoors, there were no keys of any kind in evidence, and anyway, he wasn't keen on filling station toilets.

This left him with only one option: the closed door at the back of the shop with the NO ADMITTANCE sign on it, hung ever so slightly askew.

More than anything, Vince wanted to pretend that he hadn't noticed that door. It was a don't-open-that-door sort of door, the sort of door behind which one never found anything but gory death, bloodthirsty creatures from outer space, and terrible one-liners. While Vince stared at it, it stared back, marked with the smudged fingerprints of its past victims, mocking him with its diabolism.

And then, out of desperation as much as anything else, a second possibility suggested itself to him-- worse in its own way than the first.

Even in towns like this one, people hardly ever scheduled women for the graveyard shift anymore. So it had most likely been a bloke working the till and guarding the pumps, a lonely bloke, of course, because who in god's name even passed through a place like this at such an hour?

He mightn't have been completely unattractive, and as much as it pained Vince to admit it, there were times when any bloke who wasn't completely unattractive was good enough for Stuart. It wasn't altruism, of course, and it wasn't perversity, though there was no denying that Stuart's streak of perversity stretched nearly as far as did his streak of self-interest.

It was just that in the right mood, Stuart really would have nearly anyone. In that mood, looks were as unimportant to him as were such other minor details as what a bloke did for a living, or how he felt about the conflict in the Middle East, or his name.

Vince didn't have long to mull it over; the awful, unavoidable truth assailed him like a slap in the face: Stuart was shagging some sad Canadian convenience store bloke while Vince was meant to be sleeping, and oblivious. He was in there now, that undoubtedly filthy, shabby little room, shagging that bloke senseless. He'd probably let the poor sod think that it was the only way he could cover his petrol charge, just to amuse himself. Give the twat a good story for his ice fishing mates.

Something in Vince resisted the idea, though; something refused to believe that his best friend had abandoned him to a bad death while Stuart himself was indoors, warm, and having it off with a skinny, inbred mutant who'd send him off after with a telephone number and an armload of overpriced thirst-quenchers and Pop Tarts.

"Hello..?" Vince tried again. "I'd like to pay for... eh..." His gaze landed on a box of tiny blue light bulbs. "These light bulbs. Cor, they're a bit pricey, aren't they? That's the trouble with convenience stores, you pay for the convenience."

Still nothing.

"Bloody hell." Swallowing hard, he took one last look around the shop to reassure himself that he wasn't being watched. Then he strode right up to the door and had a listen.

"Ohh," Stuart moaned obligingly. "Ohh, fuck, fuck!"

Vince was disgusted with himself. He should've let well enough alone, should've twigged, gone back outside and waited for Stuart, or fucked off with the Jeep and left him there.

Whoever had said ignorance was bliss hadn't said it for nothing; it was, if not on the same level as getting a sound shafting from a bloke who was absolutely committed to the moment, as Stuart clearly was.

Stuart wouldn't have left him outside if he'd been looking at porn-- not that he was likely to find gay porn in a filling station shop in bloody Pouce Coupe anyway-- or watching telly with the clerk, or engaged in a hostage situation. For a shag, though, Stuart would leave Vince stranded in the desert with nothing but his fags for company.

Not even that, if the shag was a smoker.

Fair dues, it was a bit dodgy as value systems went, but Stuart was faithful to it. And it was faithful to him; who else but Stuart could've found a shag in the middle of the Canadian arctic wilderness?

"Bastard."

After he'd been fuming a while, he realized that he was letting himself in for a world of pain and degradation if Stuart caught him standing there like that. Still, he listened a little longer. It was a lovely sound, Stuart moaning. He had a way of doing it, so abandoned, so ecstatic, it was like he knew he sounded sexy and he got off on it himself.

Some blokes were embarrassed by the sounds they made, but not Stuart. Nothing embarrassed him. He'd probably have shagged the clerk in the Jeep with Vince sleeping peacefully beside them if it hadn't been so bloody cold outside.

There were times when Vince thought he must've been mad to leave with Stuart like he had. Not mad to leave, but mad to leave with Stuart, knowing full well what he'd be subjecting himself to.

Every so often Stuart would tantalize him with the possibility of a shag-- just a hint, just a suggestion, but he was sincere enough for all that it was painfully obvious that he never expected Vince to accept, that he wasn't bothered either way.

Still, he could pick a moment. He always said at the perfect time, when everything was brilliant and Vince really wanted it, more than anything, when he'd have risked everything, shagged Stuart in front of god and everyone, his mum, Petula Clark, the Dalai Lama, everyone.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that Stuart was only asking because he couldn't find a better bloke and there was nothing on telly, and Vince didn't want that.

Stuart never put up an argument when Vince turned him down or brushed him off. He just went about his business, still not bothered in the least, shags seemingly falling out of the sky whenever he fancied one. And Vince made a kind of peace with that, as he always had.

Fate had made no such concession. It took every available opportunity to kick Vince in the goolies, just to remind him that he wasn't half so resigned as he liked to believe, that he wasn't a big person at all, but a tiny, tiny man-- practically a troll, really-- bitter, angry, frightened of his own shadow, and thoroughly unwilling to take a risk with his shoelaces, let alone the man who meant more to him than anything.

And then Vince would remember that Stuart only made his offers so many times before he just stopped offering. Vince had a matter of weeks-- if that-- to make up his mind, where Stuart had had sixteen bloody years to do the same. There was no justice in life. None whatsoever.

Take now, for instance. Vince was trapped in a convenience store in the dead of night with a stiff neck and an atomic hard-on, listening outside a door like a pervo while Stuart got shagged, and all he got was skin cancer from that horrible fluorescent light. He saw no reason why it should be a total cock-up for him, though. After casting one last doleful glance at the door, he nicked a carton of fags and a massive Cadbury Fruit n' Nut bar and walked out of the shop without paying for either of them.

Vince Tyler: Renegade Shoplifter. He started feeling guilty about it before he even made it back to the car.

After he'd warmed up a bit and had a smoke, he realized it was a lovely night. The air was clean and crisp and there were more stars in the sky than he'd imagined even existed. The train had finally passed into the night sometime during Vince's ordeal in the shop, and the ensuing silence was scarcely penetrated by the quiet rumble of the Jeep's engine.

In his mind, he could still hear Stuart's cries.

He wondered how the scene had played out: whether the clerk really was a skinny, inbred mutant or just someone imminently corruptible, how Stuart had pulled him, who'd been doing the fucking. Had they had to shove a lot of marshmallow Sno-Balls and outdated jerked products out of the way to make proper use of some sort of scarred utility table, or were they going at it on the floor?

Sighing heavily, he reached between his legs and shifted himself a bit.

He'd always devoted far more time to thoughts of Stuart's sex life than was good for him, but it was much worse now, now that his own sex life was near enough to nonexistent as made no difference. He hadn't copped off on anything approaching Stuart's scale in Manchester, but he'd managed it occasionally.

Stuart hadn't slowed down at all since they'd left, but most of the time when Vince was being cruised, he was too busy just absorbing things to take any notice. Stuart seemed to delight in pointing these blokes out to Vince after they were long gone.

Of course, Vince being who he was, it was all too possible that if Stuart had found some semblance of decency in his soul and tried to give him a gentle push, Vince would've ignored the bloke anyway.

He's nice, Stuart, Vince might've said, but look at this statue of Beethoven. They say it weeps blood on Andrew Lloyd Weber's birthday, but I think it's clam cocktail.

Men came and went, many of them more or less interchangeable, but there was only one World's Biggest Anchovy, and nobody at home would believe there was even one if he didn't have photographic evidence to back up his story.

*** *** ***

Stuart could feel Vince glaring at him before he even cleared the doorway of the Last Chance Gas. In spite of everything, he hadn't expected that it'd take him so long to talk the clerk into a shag. Nearly ten minutes, all told, the twat.

He'd seemed worth it, though. So grateful, so enthusiastic, Stuart could've done next to nothing-- just unfastened his trousers, not even shucked them-- and it would've been good enough for him.

He'd seemed worth it, yeah, but that was before Stuart had known that Vince was awake.

Vince had a way with a good, sound bollocking; he could go on for hours. Always before, shutting him up had been as easy as fleeing the scene, hanging up on him, kissing some bloke he fancied. Now they were together all the time, and no matter how wide Vince's focus seemed at times, it narrowed down to a tiny pinprick when he felt wronged. Stuart might distract him for a while, but he'd pick up the original thread of his conversation eventually, and never mind that Stuart refused to apologize to him.

He wasn't sure that Vince didn't prefer it that way. As long as Stuart never apologized or offered any sort of reasonable explanation for his behavior, Vince was free to bitch about it for as long he liked without a trace of shame.

Stuart grinned at him now, sure it would infuriate him, and he wasn't far wrong: Vince rolled his eyes and sighed explosively enough to fog the window. Grinning even more broadly, Stuart hopped into the car and slammed the door shut, shivering.

Vince was still scowling at him, but now that he was close enough to see that Vince's hair was still mashed flat on the side that had been pressed against the window, that he was a bit groggy, that he was completely turned on, it rather spoiled the effect. There were reasons for that scowl, and some of them might've been Stuart's fault, but they weren't all his fault.

"You're awake," he said.

"You're a cunt," said Vince. "I could've died out here."

"Nah," he scoffed. "I covered you up."

Vince glanced down at the floor where the blanket lay trampled, his expression all surprise. Evidently he'd forgotten about it while he'd been working himself up into a froth. Now he scooped it up and wrapped it around Stuart's shoulders.

"You could've said," he muttered, yanking the ends around Stuart's throat perhaps a little too tightly. "Left a note or something."

"No time," Stuart said. Vince was scowling again. "Listen, Vince, he had this button. Pinned to his shirt." He met Vince's eyes in the darkness and smiled lazily. "It said ask me about our full-service pump."

"And you asked him," Vince said fondly. "Where the hell are we, anyway?"

"How the fuck should I know?" He glanced back at the shop. The clerk had already resumed his post behind the cash register. Now he was staring at the Jeep in a fashion which gave off the strong suggestion that he could be persuaded to join the two of them without much difficulty.

Of course, if the rest of Pouce Coupe was anything like this, he probably could've been persuaded to join just about anyone without much difficulty, so long as they were leaving, and soon.

Guilt was starting to nibble at Stuart, and he resented it.

"I could ask him," said Vince.

"No, you couldn't. He thinks you're autistic. Like, Rain Man autistic."

Vince didn't so much as blink at this. "You could write him a note and I could take it in."

Stuart gazed at him evenly. "You really wanna do that?"

"I want a bed," he groaned, leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes. "That's all."

"Well, we can't ask him about hotels, if that's what you're thinking. He wanted us to wait for him in his trailer. It's a double-wide."

"And what was I meant to do?" he demanded. "Memorize the telephone directory and count toothpicks while the two of you decided whether the love that dare not speak its name should be called Billy-Ray or Bobby-Joe?"

He flicked an impatient hand at Vince. "Just get us out of here, all right? We can sort it out while we drive."

Vince made himself comfortable and lit a fag.

"For fuck's sake," Stuart snapped, "look at him, he's gonna come pelting out here any minute. If you won't start the bloody car, then get the fuck out of the way so I can do it."

"Made an impression, did you?"

"Look around you, Vince. How often d'you think he cops off? Even you have better luck than him."

"Piss off," he said, cuffing Stuart in the shoulder.

"Drive."

Sighing loudly, Vince did as he was told, gunning the engine more than was strictly necessary.

"And turn left," Stuart added. "I saw a sign a little way back, said there's supposed to be a motel about twenty miles away. Probably has Magic Fingers on the beds. Give you a thrill."

"Thanks," he said sincerely.

Stuart waved him off. He felt more magnanimous with every inch Vince put between the Jeep and the filling station. "We've got loads of time, haven't we? Anyway I don't fancy sleeping in the car any more than you do." He spotted a huge Cadbury Fruit n' Nut bar on the dashboard and nabbed it when Vince wasn't looking. "Where'd you get this?" he said absently while he tore it open.

"I nicked it," Vince said proudly. "From your boyfriend."

Stuart grinned. "You never."

"I did. Practically snatched it right under his nose. I'm on the security camera and everything."

He poked Vince in the belly. "You're handicapable."

"Oh, fuck off," said Vince. "Why'd you have to tell him I was autistic, anyway? You can't expect me to believe that you had to lie to him to get shagged. You don't have to lie. I have to lie. You don't have to anything."

"He was talking threesome."

"Oh, and what? You thought Oh no, not for Vince, he's already scandalously oversexed as it is?"

He shot Vince an irritated look. "I didn't think you'd be up for it, did I?"

"I wouldn't be up for it," he said peevishly. "Threesome with a lonely filling station attendant, it's straight out of a porno. It's embarrassing. But you could've asked, for Christ's sake."

"Right, yeah," Stuart said. "Oi, Vince, wake up, you fancy a threesome? No? Well, carry on, then."

For long seconds, Vince said nothing, just glared impotently at the road ahead, brooding. Eventually he said, "You don't have to get sarky."

*** *** ***

Vince rolled over in bed for what seemed like the thousandth time that night, jabbing his pillow with his fist as if he blamed it for everything.

The atomic hard-on was back.

It had subsided by the time they'd made it to the motel-- a manky little ten-room place with no restaurant and no telly that hadn't been redecorated since 1976 and had the cheek to call itself Paradise Towers-- but as soon as he'd fallen into bed, the atomic hard-on had returned with a vengeance, and once again, it was all Stuart's fault.

Stuart had had a shower as soon as they'd set their bags down-- he hadn't even asked Vince whether he might like to shower first, the bastard-- and then he'd emerged from the tiny bathroom like a spokesperson for the carnal arts, naked and smelling fabulous. He'd barely spared Vince a glance before he'd crawled into bed, and he'd fallen asleep almost instantly, only to squirm about and toss the duvet onto the floor, exposing his every twitch and tremble to Vince's prying eyes.

It wasn't the first time Stuart had done this to him, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. If Vince couldn't manage to fall asleep soon, he'd see it all: Stuart would moan, and growl, and writhe, his back would stretch into a perfect arc, and he'd cry out like he'd never come before, his eyes would squeeze shut, his voice would catch...

It was an irony Vince was utterly incapable of appreciating. He'd never shagged Stuart, not once, but now he knew even this side of his friend better than anyone. Nobody was a greater advocate than Vince for the theory that Hell was life on earth.

Could have a wank, he supposed. Should do. He'd never sleep as he was. And Stuart slept like a man who'd passed many a night with strange men in his flat: once he settled down, you'd think he was dead unless you watched the rise and fall of his chest very carefully. He woke instantly, but only when he was ready or something was wrong.

Squeaky bedsprings and muffled moans were probably so much white noise to him, the bastard.

Still.

What if Stuart caught him?

It'd be humiliating, that. Somehow, doing it like that, in secret, it was like hiding out and doing it, or hiding out and dressing in his grandmother's fine washables. Doing it in secret gave it a veneer of shame that might've been thrilling for some, but not for Vince, who preferred not to apologize for liking the odd wank. Not that he'd ever been called upon to do so.

He wasn't about to wank off with Stuart right there, though. No chance.

Vince cast a resentful look in Stuart's direction. He was so sleek, so lovely, so fantastic, and he shivered and squirmed, moaning extravagantly, as if it wasn't enough to torment Vince in every waking moment, as if he had to do it in his sleep as well if he wanted to live a full life.

Hell on fucking earth.

He could go to Stuart now, he could climb in bed with him, roll him over and fuck him, and Stuart would let him. He'd laugh at Vince-- he always laughed at Vince-- but he wouldn't say no. He'd take it, and like it, and make a memory for Vince that he'd never forget, and not just because he never forgot anything.

Then there'd be another lonely filling station attendant, or a bu