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Randy should have never told Jess that he’d turned twenty-one because she’d turned a complete one-eighty and ceased all of the rampant bullying that she and Chris had been shoving onto Randy since he’d joined the team and forced him into joining their monthly drinking session. No question of refusal, as Chris had clamped his hands down onto Randy’s shoulders and muttered something about him needing to come so that they could bring him into the world of adulthood. Which sounded far too close to the threats he generally dished out for it to inspire any sort of excitement in him, but he relented either way. He toed into his shoes as he inspected himself in the mirror and deemed the outfit he’d picked from his limited supply of mother-bought clothing to be boring enough that he could get away unscathed from the evening, nothing too flashy or strange.
It didn’t help that Benson had heard the conversation in the restaurant, shuffling over to lean on his mop and nonchalantly murmur that he’d come too. If it was for Randy’s birthday, then he’d definitely come.
The booth that Jess had all but pushed Randy into was sticky and perhaps once made of fake leather, but now it was so worn away that Randy daren’t touch his hands to the material for fear that it would come away on his skin. The lights were dim and the bar smelled a little bit like something sweet and sour, aged drinks and sweat that stuck around for too long.
“First time?” Donnie asked and Randy reared back, unsure of how to answer.
“H–huh?” He blinked, willing his face to not go red, even though it probably wasn’t visible underneath the odd, alien glow of the roaming lights that hung from ugly metal straps in the ceiling.
“Drinking, I mean. You don’t seem like the kind of kid to be underage drinking.” Donnie grinned as Jess and Chris closed in around Randy, pinning him into the booth as Benson was used as the lackey for drinks, swearing under his breath as he brought over a tray full of shots that glowed luridly on the dirty cork coasters underneath them. Slopping haphazardly onto the tray.
That was where it all went bad. The shots were good. Light pink and tasty, like a medicine your mother would ply you with when you were sick in second grade. Sweet slop that went down easy and turned all of Randy’s coworkers from terrifying monsters into his bestest friends in the whole world. Even Jess and Chris didn’t seem so bad after a couple of hours once he was a handful of shots in and sucking down multiple cocktails that went straight onto a tab that supposedly Hardy had at the place but didn’t know was being abused by his employees when he wasn’t there.
Randy hadn’t even noticed that his shoulders were bouncing around until Jess pointed it out to him.
“You need to dance. Look, your—fucking—your shoulders are all shimmy-y. You need to dance. Take Benson with you; he looks like he could show you a good time up there.”
There being, of course, the bar’s dingy dance floor that had a smattering of drunken revellers, some of whom clung to each other. Grinding awkwardly under the flash of the disco lights that looked like something straight out of the 1970s.
“I don’t think so,” Randy said, shaking his head so hard the world turned blurry. “I’m not good at stuff like that. I’m gangly.” But Chris had already moved out of the way and was hauling Randy to his feet, an arm extended to grab Benson too but he was too fast and too sober to let Chris ever manhandle him.
“Motherfucker.” Benson was up in a moment, the word mumbled without any intent to follow it through with anything cruel or violent, but the frown that downcast his face was evident as the rest of the party made their displeasure at the idea of Randy being snubbed clear. So, still frowning, Benson said through gritted teeth, “Fuck. Well, since it’s your birthday. Come on. Just once.”
Clearly, he was dreaming. His brain unable to draw any other conclusion as Benson took the gentleman’s route and placed both of his hands onto Randy’s hips, which is where they stayed as Randy fumbled about his shoulders and neck, trying to figure out where to put his, as he hadn’t assumed that they would be dancing with each other. Not in the way the other people around them were, with their blown pupils and sweaty backs.
“You’re going to feel like shit tomorrow,” Benson said, his thumbs on Randy’s hip bones. “Hope you’re ready to learn what a hangover feels like.”
“Bwuh?” Randy said, eloquently, then almost tipped over as somebody bumped into him from behind, causing Benson to sweat at them and pull Randy in closer to his chest. The smell of Benson’s skin made his eyes water. Or his mouth; he wasn’t sure, but it made all the hairs on his body stand up. Over four hundred days of staring holes into the back of Benson’s head at work, wishing that he’d ditch that mop and stalk over to where Randy was cowering, welled up inside of his throat as his eyes made contact with Benson’s for the first time. He looked at him like he was observing something undiscovered and gross but interesting all the same. It made Randy feel slimy and, weirdly, horny.
“You need to move.” Benson’s moustache twitched as he spoke, an eyebrow raising up. “You’re standing very fucking still, man.”
“Sorry.” Randy’s arms slipped further around Benson’s neck and tried to hang on to what little dignity he felt. “I’m trying. I feel stupid.”
“It’s okay.” Suddenly, Benson’s voice was soft. “Move with me. Press close.”
The last sentence made Randy’s mouth open, but he managed to stop the tremendously embarrassing noise that got about seventy percent of the way up his throat from leaving him. Instead, he allowed Benson to rock him to the music, some shitty club anthem that sounded like nothing but noise and drumbeat but was at least easy to gyrate his hips to as one of Benson’s hands made the decision to slip from his hips and onto the small of Randy’s back. Pressing flat against it, and Randy was vaguely aware through the fuzz of the drinks that it would come away wet if he were to move it again, as his back was soaking wet with sweat. He’d have to throw his clothes into the washer immediately once he was home. His mother thought he was at a friend’s house right now. Which was a terrible lie, as he didn’t even have friends.
“Sorry that I’m so wet,” Randy shouted over the music, keenly aware that it had grown in volume now that more people had slipped from their seats and joined in the mass of people. Even Chris and Jess were off to their side, Chris with his back to Jess’ front as she looked small and silly comparatively.
Benson’s eyes smiled even if his mouth didn’t. “Wet? Right. Sure.” His hands pushed up the back of Randy’s t-shirt as the music began to sound better and better, urging Randy’s body to move without his brain even telling it to, writhing against Benson’s front as he bobbed gently to the sounds, amused and unsure of how to handle a drunken Randy.
“Sweat, I mean. I’m sweating. Aren’t you sweating?” Benson had the longest eyelashes that Randy had ever seen on another man and he leered in closer to get a better look at them, his arms untangling from around Benson’s neck to hang limply off them on either side, parallel.
“You’re drunk,” Benson stated, finally smiling. “You okay?”
“Uhuh.” Randy nodded, trying to keep his tongue inside of his mouth as he tucked his face into the crook of Benson’s neck and almost staggered off to the side, only staying in the middle of the dancefloor as Benson’s hands held onto him tightly and kept him there. But didn’t keep him from continuing their swing as Randy’s body squirmed against Benson’s, not the most talented of dancers, but getting into the groove of how he’d seen other people do it. Close. Tight. Dirty. Something to be ashamed of tomorrow when they worked their closing shift together.
“You want to stop?” Benson asked.
“No.” Randy’s mouth was wet with spittle as he spoke into Benson’s neck, smelling him with a huge, audible inhale. “No, I don’t want to stop.”
Benson had the patience of a saint. Barely batting an eyelid as Randy’s hands roamed over his shoulder blades, then his back, then down to his ass, where they hovered for a moment before Benson laughed deep and low, then nodded quietly. The taste of those milky pink shots was beginning to repeat on Randy as he let Benson laugh at him without a single care in the world. The touch of his hands was exhilarating and maybe he had a crush on him. Maybe it was world-ending and fraught and childish, but it was just a crush. One that he’d been stroking for all of those four hundred-ish days, up until that very moment where Benson had been kind enough to indulge him, even if he didn’t like him back.
“I’ve never said that.” Two of Benson’s fingers turned Randy back to look at him, still looking like this was the most fun he’d had in a while, even if his face barely let that on.
“What?” Randy’s hips stopped grinding onto Benson’s thigh.
“I never said that I don’t like you.” Benson’s thumb joined the fingers, pinching Randy’s cheeks and holding him in his gaze as his face went a striking pink colour and his body almost sobered up there and then.
“Did I say that out loud?”
Benson didn’t respond verbally; he just nodded and cocked his head, still studying Randy.
“I—uh—well—”
“You’re a real fucking freak,” Benson said, his lips pulling up to show just a hint of teeth that were just nicotine-stained enough that it made Randy’s knees go weak. He wanted to taste stale smoke in Benson’s mouth. He wanted to learn how a packet of cigarettes felt in his hand as Benson breathed hot into his space, clogging up his airways and making him regret the fact he’d ever had a crush on somebody far too old and far too mean for him.
Except, he wasn’t mean. He was quiet and tough, but not mean. His hands soft on Randy’s hips again as he led them both back into a rhythm that matched the slower music that the middle-aged wannabe DJ had slipped on.
“You’re a strange kid, Randy.” He sounded amused as he said it. Affectionate and tired, but willing to indulge whatever the fuck it was that Randy was trying to garner from him by rubbing himself up against Benson in public like he was in heat.
“Sorry,” Randy replied, the very ends of Benson’s moustache tickling his upper lip as he tried to not let his breathing betray the fact he very well may have passed out at any second, given the way that Benson’s eyes darted between Randy’s lips and the very centre of his eyes.
“It was a compliment, actually.”