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Bill is in line at Home Depot, the bastard in front of him keeps fucking snapping at his wife instead of focusing on moving up in line. Christ, people are the fucking worst. Bill hates having to leave his town, but the small hardware store doesn’t have the kind of lumber he needs for the table he’s building.
“We aren’t going, Maureen and that’s it,” the fucker hisses in front of him, his poor wife sighing and looking down, expression wilting.
Fuck it. It’s not just leaving his town, it’s leaving his goddamn house. It’s having to interact in fucking society where the rules are stupid and people are bastards.
When he finally reaches the cashier, he hurries through the process, handing over a wad of cash and then pushing out of the store quickly. He had parked at the far end of the lot, away from other cars and fucking people. Hurriedly, he arranges the wood, using some bungee cords to hastily tie everything down, and then he’s on his way back home.
Bill takes the long way, eager to avoid the stupid fucking drivers on the highway. A few miles out, bumping along a quiet road, a cord in the trunk pops loose and he pulls over to deal with it.
He leaves the truck, only noticing once he steps out that there’s a car just peeking out from behind the bend of a small country road. There is someone there, standing next to his car, looking at it with a lost expression.
Bill fumbles with the cord in his trunk, pulling it tight across the wood, trying to ignore the man who is now looking at him openly. He risks a glance, eyes flickering to the practical Honda, stomach turning when he notices a simple blue bumper sticker with a yellow equal sign on it. He looks away quickly. He knows what that means.
“Hey,” the man says, walking closer. “Um, do you have a cell phone?”
Bill finally looks at him, wishing he hadn’t immediately. He’s handsome, clean shaven, pretty blue eyes, broad shoulders, crisp button down shirt. He doesn’t even need the faggy bumper sticker, Bill knows he’s queer. What the fuck is he doing here?
“No,” he says sharply, shifting restlessly on his feet.
“Oh,” the man looks down, shoulders slumping.
Walk away and get in the truck. He should.
He doesn’t.
“What’s wrong?” Bill asks.
The man looks up, eyes hopeful.
“I have a flat tire,” he says glumly, gesturing behind him.
“You got a spare?” Bill grunts. What the fuck.
“I— yes actually. I’ve just never. I’ve never changed a tire before,” he says the last part standing a little straighter, like he’s afraid Bill is going to make fun of him.
He should. Who can’t change a fucking tire?
“Get it out then,” Bill says, going to his truck for a tool box. What the fuck are you doing, Bill?
“Really? Oh my god, thank you so much. My name is Frank by the way.”
Like I give a fuck.
Bill goes over to the car, assessing the situation. Shouldn’t take long. Not like it’s really fucking up his day more than Home Depot. It’s easy as fuck. The man, Frank, is hovering at his shoulder uselessly as Bill works efficiently, very conscious of the eyes on him.
Bill can feel the temperature of the day cooling as time slips by. Eventually, Bill straightens up, wiping some grease on the leg of his jeans.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Frank says sincerely, eyebrows drawn together, expression open.
It makes Bill drop his gaze.
“I only have fifty bucks in cash right now,” Frank says awkwardly.
Bill waves him off, shrugging his shoulders, leaning slightly away.
“There’s really nothing I can give you?”
Bill feels his cheeks heating, mortified that his mind instantly skips to touching the other man, slipping his hand under his shirt, pressing his body against Frank’s. He would be warm, his skin soft. He had noticed immediately how well manicured his fingernails were, palms devoid of calluses.
“No,” he says quickly.
“Okay,” Frank says doubtfully. “Here’s my number in case you make it to Baltimore. I can buy you dinner or something.”
Bill looks up, surprised.
There’s something on Frank’s face, an expression he can’t read. It makes him squirm. Makes him wish he was braver. The sun is starting to hang low, peeking out from behind the thicket of trees lining the road. Frank’s car is a little out of the way, shielded from view, not that there were any cars on the road. Frank still hasn’t dropped his gaze, making sweat bead on Bill’s forehead as he waits stupidly. For what, he’s not sure.
Suddenly, Frank sticks his hand out, a parting gesture. Bill sighs internally, back on familiar ground. He grips Frank’s hand, ready to give it a quick shake. But instead, the other man tugs him gently closer. Bill gasps, shocked, looking up slightly at Frank, frozen.
“I don’t think I’m reading this wrong,” he says quietly, dropping Bill’s numb fingers to gently touch his cheek.
Bill can feel his breath coming quickly, shaking as he watches Frank move closer as if through water. His eyes are open when their lips touch, heart going rabbit fast. Frank pulls back before he even gets a real taste of him, soft fingers touching his neck gently.
He starts to move away, but stops when Bill shoots his hand out and grips the front of his shirt hard. Unable to speak, but damned if he’s going to let him go.
Frank moves back in, sighing softly against Bill’s mouth, nudging his lips open as he kisses him sweetly for a few moments. Bill screws his eyes closed, trying to savor the perfect moment: the soft sounds of their mouths, the feel of Frank’s solid body under his hands. When Frank pulls back this time, Bill is chasing him clumsily with his lips, pecking him inexpertly.
“Do you want to get in the car?”
Bill nods his head. Yes, he wants that very badly.
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