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"This is so stupid," Tyler says under his breath. "So dumb."
It’s already too late. Marek is stripping off, hopping on one foot while he shimmies out of the remaining jean leg. He kicked his shoes off a couple of minutes ago and nudged them under the car for safekeeping. Like anyone’s going to steal an old pair of Vans with holes worn into the heels and tattered laces with cracking aglets. Marek wears the same pair whenever they’re travelling. A token of luck or something, maybe. Tyler doesn’t believe in luck, but he does believe that Marek is more stable when he thinks some universal force is on his side.
"It’s stupid," Tyler repeats under the hope it will change Marek’s mind. "We’re gonna get caught."
Marek dumps the jeans over the side mirror. His belt clanks against the glass. He’s down to his faded overwashed boxers, the tacky Ren and Stimpy number Tyler got him for his birthday, snug on Marek's thighs now he's been hitting the gym on a regular basis. They’re being booked regularly; there’s an appearance to upkeep. The fact neither of them can afford a gym membership on their own is beside the point—they share everything else, so it makes sense to share custody of a key fob.
"We’re not gonna get caught," Marek says breezily. "Trust me."
"Last time I trusted you, we did get caught."
Marek shrugs, makes a half-assed attempt to fold his shirt, then gives up and drapes it over the jeans inside-out. "That’s on you. You drew the pentagram in chalk. Backwards."
Marek makes no move to take off his socks. Then he screws the lid off a bottle of water and upends it down the front of his boxers. Tyler watches on, aghast.
No point in asking. Marek won't enlighten him.
He thumps a fist on the hood. "Don’t get off topic. This is so goddamn stupid, Mare."
"You sound like a broken record."
"I'm trying to make you listen," Tyler says, exasperated. To make himself feel better, he tacks on, "Moron."
"We need to eat," Marek points out, "and we’re broke as shit. We're there for two whole days. If you have any better ideas, now’s the time to speak up."
Tyler falls silent.
He does not have any better ideas.
His morals are flexible depending on the way a situation might require them to bend. He'll just die before he admits it. On the other hand, Marek will crow all day long about his lack of a conscience except where a family of ducks crossing the road are concerned. Then he becomes an avian crossing guard, flying out of the car to zealously direct cars and foot traffic.
Stealing was Marek’s suggestion. Introduced as a joke, followed up by a minute of silence as Marek assessed the risk to reward ratio, then revisited when Marek slammed on the brakes and stared at Tyler, who clung to his seatbelt like grim death with eyes like saucers and a skittering pulse.
We should do it for real, Marek said, eyes bright. I've got an idea.
Tyler doesn't like it but they're out of any other options.
It's mostly Marek's fault, so he'll be wearing all of the risk. Tyler can accept a quarter of the blame if he has to.
Before they left this morning, Marek complained often and loudly of being hungry within earshot of his mom. She took pity on them and allowed them to use her credit card at the store where they stocked up on a three-day supply of food. It should have lasted that long except Tyler was starving by the time they got back to the car and the candy corn was calling his name.
So did the Fritos. And the chocolate cake that ended up smeared across Marek’s lips and chin. Tyler kissed and licked it off him like it was his last meal and he was a dying man, and shame only took hold when they realized they’d devoured a third of the food stash before they even left the parking lot. Back at the house, Marek stole half a loaf of white bread from the freezer and a travel-sized peanut butter jar from the pantry for good measure.
When they pulled out of the driveway, there was still enough food to get them through the Indianapolis trip, even as they munched on double stacked peanut butter sandwiches. Then they argued about changing the radio station. Marek won. Tyler sulked. He crawled into the back and comforted himself with a family-sized pack of peanut M&Ms.
In retaliation, Marek polished off two bags of honey soy chicken chips. Tyler used a finger to scrape the remaining peanut butter from the jar in a fit of petulance, then scarfed the last three pieces of bread, plain and stale. He dusted the crumbs off his lap and threw the empty ziploc out the window like it was a personal triumph, and not the direct action that now has them up shit creek without food until Ian pays them after the show.
If he pays them at all.
Ian considers exposure and the occasional free lodging to be adequate payment. And there was the time he gave them an Applebee’s gift card with $4.37 left on it as compensation and ignored their bewildered faces and Marek’s feeble attempt at a protest that fizzled out as soon as Ian turned his back.
Being so green, they can’t haggle. They have no negotiating power whatsoever. So they take what’s offered—even if it doesn’t cover gas, even if it’s just a free ride to another show that hinges on Ian’s equally stingy cousin agreeing to it.
Marek’s solution to the self-inflicted no-food hiccup is to lift what they need from a gas station. They’re not locals, they’re not on the radar of any cops. Nobody knows them. They’re essentially anonymous, and that is the bedrock of Marek’s scheme. He is confident that his plan is a) a stroke of genius and b) guaranteed to work.
Now, seeing Marek near-naked on a public street in the middle of the night, Tyler is less than convinced.
"I don’t have any other ideas," he admits. "But I still think this is really fucking stupid."
"This is why you leave the plotting to me," Marek says. He steps close and raises a hand to Tyler’s cheek. "It’s gonna be fine, baby. Trust me."
Tyler blows out a breath. "Yeah, alright. I’m gonna need five minutes. At least."
"You got it." Marek grins. "Run quick. I’ll be right behind you."
Tyler knows that’s an absolute truth for them, but not in the way Marek means. One of them is always a step behind the other, following like a shelter dog with abandonment issues—without question, without doubt, certain of only one thing: following means they’re being taken home. That’s less a place for Tyler and more an abstract concept that Marek himself represents.
He draws in a breath and takes one look at Marek before he jogs away. They stashed the car near an underpass; the traffic roaring above is soothing as it muffles the sound of Tyler’s steps. He’s flagging after a few minutes and stops to catch his breath against a phone booth with one shattered glass panel. His fractured reflection appears wired. The guilt’s practically written on his face. If a cop popped up, he’d snap and beg to be arrested before he’s even done anything illegal.
Aware that Marek is faster than him, he pushes on. The quarter-mile from the car feels marathon-length, and the adrenaline is only exhausting him. He doesn’t feel like he could fight off a cougar, just like he could be an easy victim to it.
The gas station billboard comes into view. $3.30 a gallon. No fucking wonder they’re broke, doing these cross-country jaunts. At least they don’t have to cross state lines just to build rings and set up rows of folding chairs anymore.
Tyler doesn’t miss the skulking around, trying to stay out of the way of the veterans. The dirty looks from the more seasoned wrestlers who have been booked in Japan, Mexico, across the entire US. Main events, spotlights, speaker systems that don’t crackle or cut out completely. Venues booked to capacity instead of a few dozen spectators on Saturday night with nothing better to do watching Marek grapple him to the mat while Tyler fights every urge to kiss him then and there.
Tyler does miss that, being obscure, unknown. They're being noticed now by agents and bookers, starting to build a name for themselves.
At the entrance of the gas station, he slows to a walk. His breathing is heavier but he hasn’t worked up a sweat. He's a nervous sweater. Once he has to start acting or lying, he'll be dripping.
There’s no cars in the bays. Through the filthy glass Tyler can see the cashier arranging pieces of a miniature puzzle, a lollipop stick hanging out the side of his mouth. His attention is elsewhere.
Tyler drags his hood up as he nears the automatic doors. A chime sounds as he walks through them. He glances at the cashier, who doesn’t even look up even as he calls out a flat, cursory greeting, then swears as a puzzle piece clatters to the floor and he crouches behind the counter.
Tyler doesn’t bother to correct him over the fact it’s now the morning, not evening. He furtively uses the reflections in the drink fridges to check for other patrons.
Nobody. It’s just him and the cashier.
He takes his time feigning interest in the variety of soda bottles, ice cream pints, frozen pastries. His reflection stares at him, mouth downturned. One eyebrow is furrowed and his eyes dart about like a fish avoiding a lure.
Marek should be waltzing in any second. Tyler fidgets. Between them, he’s the abysmal liar. He can omit things. Maybe dance around a hard truth without identifying it. But he can’t act to save his life, not yet.
That’s where both of them are stuck at present. Danny says their character work is shit, even if they’re leaps and bounds above their peers in terms of physical ability. He praises Marek for having some control over his expressions and the way he can inflect. Tyler tries not to bristle when Danny tells him he has the facial range of a praying mantis and Marek stifles laughter from the other corner of the ring, then begs for forgiveness later when they're changing into street clothes.
He's a jackass, but he's right, Marek says, slamming the locker with eyes so warm and sympathetic it makes Tyler nauseous. You can be really stiff. You need to loosen up.
Danny wants them to practice in the mirror and on each other. Roleplay–and often–is his shrewd advice. Marek’s given him pointers before since he’s the ex-theater kid between them but Tyler is still inflexible and unbelievable in his promos. He’d rather take spine-bending back bumps five hours a day, seven days a week than suffer through another one of Marek’s lessons in vocal nuances that allegedly lend credence to storytelling.
Marek’s plan calls for an act but not the type Tyler thinks he can pull off. The guilt is already radiating off him in waves like the microwave he forgot to turn off last week that resulted in burnt string cheese and melted plastic casing.
The cashier makes a frustrated sound, throwing his hands up.
Tyler pretends to be intrigued by the label on the back of a soup tin. He holds it close to his face and scans the words without absorbing anything. It may as well be printed in Lithuanian.
In his periphery, there’s movement outside the doors. Loud, off-key singing to a tune that nobody’s thought about since the late eighties.
A shock of dark hair, the flash of pale skin. Familiar, magnetic energy that Tyler’s entire being is drawn to. He’d know it in his sleep—and he does, considering that Marek has to peel Tyler off his back every time they share a bed. He gravitates to Marek like the tide to the moon’s pull, inexorable.
He can’t see anything yet, but he can picture Marek swaggering through the doors, feigning a stumble. Pushing his hair back off his face with both hands. Predictably, there’s a slurred oops, sorry! as unseen items clatter to the floor.
Tyler grins. He slinks through the aisle toward the front of the store, the tin still in hand. He stands on tiptoe to see over the top of the shelves. Marek’s swaying toward the wide-eyed cashier, a hand aloft with the fallen puzzle piece. He’s completely unclothed besides his boxers and the mismatched socks, which leave nothing to the imagination even if Tyler didn’t know every secret they hide.
Marek’s a quick study in drunken behavior. He and Tyler have witnessed Danny stumbling around the gym every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night for over a year, cursing at inanimate objects that get in his way and subjecting them to extended diatribes about his wife’s addiction to wet specimen taxidermy as they wipe down the turnbuckle pads or inspect the ropes for slack or fraying.
Marek is drawing on everything he's learned from Danny. Tyler bites down a laugh as Marek flops across the counter, groaning like an elephant seal that’s just woken up from an afternoon nap.
"Hey, man," Marek says. Tyler can only see the back of his head, his unwashed hair grimy in the fluorescent light. "Can I use your shitter?"
The cashier sputters. "Um, that’s for customers only, sir."
Marek whines, "But I really have to go. Otherwise I’m gonna piss all over the floor. I already wet my pants once tonight. As you can see."
A flourish of a hand, gesturing at the body Tyler hasn’t mapped thoroughly enough with his tongue yet. Marek’s scapula draws back with the movement. Tyler wants to crawl under it, shelter there.
"Uh," the cashier says, nonplussed. "Sorry, but the restroom is only for—"
"Customers," Marek drawls. "Yes, yes. All right, man. You leave me with no choice."
Tyler snorts. He creeps back to the canned section but he keeps an ear turned to the conversation.
"Sir, what are you doing?"
Tyler hears a whisper of fabric.
"Taking a piss, what does it look like?"
A yip of panic. "I have to sell those newspapers tomorrow! Sir!"
"You can stop calling me sir. I’m not your daddy."
Tyler can’t help it—he wheezes out a laugh. He presses his hand to his mouth, but the sound is swallowed by Daft Punk pulsing from the speakers and the cashier’s stammering protests.
"Relax," Marek says loftily. "I’m just pulling your leg. But I really do need to go. Pleeease?"
Drawn out, whiny. Eerily similar to Tyler’s own voice.
"For the last time, I can’t let you. It’s against company policy unless you purchase something." The cashier is aghast. "Now what are you doing?!"
"Taking a shit. Never seen a man do it before, huh? I’ll show you."
Tyler slides the tin back on the shelf harder than he means to, distracted. It clanks against another. He moves into the next aisle. Between gaps in the display, he can see Marek crouching with fingers in the waistband of his boxers, poised to shove them down.
He’s had ample practice at improvising. Marek excels at it, a natural born agent of chaos and impulsivity. But this—a haphazardly thrown together plan to steal from a gas station that hinges on Marek acting as a hammered decoy—is a level beyond cutting an unscripted promo that Danny’s left up to them. That gave them a terrifying but intoxicating amount of choice and control over their words, and they harnessed it effectively enough that Danny took the training wheels off thereafter and let them have free rein for shows instead of forcing them to submit to a script.
Their ruse depends on Marek’s believability. And it’s there, an Oscar-winning performance if Tyler’s ever seen one, though he has no concept of what that really means. All he knows is Marek's acting chops are impressive.
Marek sways and rocks on his feet like an unsteady sailor at the helm of a ship. Tyler saw him take a swig of Midori earlier, too. That green tinged tongue poking out the side of his mouth combined with the overpowering stench of alcohol.
Tyler’s even buying into it. Marek does look and sound like a drunken nuisance who’s pledged himself to a nudist cult.
"Sir, I’m going to have to call 911 if you insist on removing your underwear," the cashier blurts.
Marek straightens. He peels off one of his socks and loops it around a hand. "Hey, whatcha doing there?"
"Huh?"
Marek points. "There. That. The shit taking up half the bench space."
Tyler lowers himself a bit to see. Marek is standing in front of the counter, reaching for the half-completed puzzle under the pretence of curiosity.
The cashier’s picked up the landline receiver but his thumb hovers over the keypad, torn between calling for cops and unloading on a seemingly engaged listener about the art he’s painstakingly put together over the course of a shift.
"It’s a limited edition Star Wars."
"So I see. Revenge of the Sith? Good taste, my man."
The cashier places the receiver back on the cradle. "Yeah, how’d you know?"
Tyler snorts. Marek’s a walking pop culture repository even if he hadn’t dragged Tyler to see the movie twice. Something about Natalie Portman and her mesmerizing little tits.
"I’m a fan," Marek says, grinning. "How long did that take, anyway?"
"I started at nine, so like… four hours?"
"Cool. How many pieces?"
"About five hundred."
Marek whistles. "Sick."
"Yeah." The cashier pauses. "What’s with the sock?"
"This?" Marek hops on one leg, socked hand assuming the pose of a cobra. "Well, truthfully…it’s a distraction."
"From what?" The cashier’s mortification ramps up again as Marek unwinds the sock and tugs at the mouth, holding it wide between his hands.
"This."
Before the cashier can react, Marek has scooped two handfuls of the unused puzzle pieces into the waiting sock. He knots it shut, winks, and bolts for the door. The cashier shouts in alarm and comically looks between the phone and Marek’s form—now halfway across the fueling area with the sock flung over his shoulder like gonzo Santa, his unhinged laughter echoing through the canopy.
Tyler claps a hand over his mouth to stifle his own shriek of laughter as the cashier abandons his post, grabs a rolled up newspaper and takes off after Marek. He almost collides with the closing automatic doors, waits awkwardly for them to open again, and races into the night.
Tyler is alone in the store.
"Shit," he mutters.
Marek was right.
His plans have a way of working themselves out even if they're full of glaring holes a grown man could fall through. Women just fall into his lap even when he doesn't want their attention. They marvel and coo over the shape of his mouth and his eyes so, like, green. He's a natural hit, a born flirt.
When they were still in school, Marek's grades were above average. He barely stayed conscious in class while Tyler was up past midnight trying to memorize the most basic of geometry concepts and spectacularly failing a quiz the next day to the confusion of the teacher who proclaimed him to be bright in his report cards.
Tyler gives Marek a lead time of two minutes. In the interim, he flies through each aisle with his hoodie three quarters of the way unzipped, one hand sealing the hem against his hips. He grabs anything he can see that makes sense—tinned spaghetti, five protein bars, a bag of beef jerky, a family sized tin of baked beans, a pair of lukewarm hot dogs that have likely been on the heated rack since yesterday. After a moment of consideration, he swipes a few Twix bars from the front counter display and shoves them in his jeans. He zips back up and exits the store.
It's disorienting outside between the adrenaline and the unfamiliarity with his surroundings. He pauses to centre himself.
No sign of Marek or the clerk. No lights, no sirens, no fleet of lit up cop cars.
Just Marek somewhere ahead. He'll be leaning against the car, nonchalant, smug, waiting for Tyler with that shit-eating grin and I told you so.
Tyler jogs down the street, slow and awkward, burdened by his cache. He's only carrying maybe three pounds of stolen food but it feels heavier than it has any right to. More like a bag of limestone.
He works his way back to the car, keeping his eyes ahead of him. He cuts through streets that run just parallel enough to the route he took earlier that he isn't chancing being seen by any possible eye witnesses. Still, he tugs his hood down more over his face to shield it.
At the last set of lights, Tyler waits for the crossing to turn green.
That's what innocent people do. No jaywalking.
A can slips out the bottom of his hoodie as he crosses. It clangs across the asphalt and the sound may as well be a shrill car alarm the way it pierces his ears, makes his heart pound. He crouches to retrieve the can and then books it the rest of the way, keeping a low profile be damned. He wants to get the fuck out of here.
The tobacco shop on the corner is his finish line. Relief eclipses the anxiety as he steps in front of the window. The Corsica is halfway down the street. He's never been so glad to see the rust bucket, weather-worn and well past its last lap. Marek is laying over the hood, chin propped in a hand, still close to naked.
Tyler calls out his name.
Marek's head turns. He grins and waves Tyler over frantically. "C'mon, c'mon, let's get out of here."
Tyler sprints the rest of the way, cans rattling. He collapses across the hood of the car. The engine’s still hot underneath, warming his forehead and his palms. He sees Marek nearing him through the tousle of hair hanging across his face. Tyler slowly loosens his grip on the jacket hem and the pilfered stock tumbles out onto the road. Marek crows with triumphant laughter.
"Good shit."
"Thanks," Tyler says drily. "It's gonna have to last us. Not doing that again."
Marek's already bent down to collect everything that fell out of Tyler's clothes. "Well, we shouldn't have to. If we can make this last till we get home, anyway." He raises an eyebrow. "A little help?"
Tyler sighs, gets down beside him. Marek unlocks the car and they dump the food in the backseat.
Tyler casts an eye over him. "You could have warned me," he says. "Maybe next time tell me you plan on getting naked in public."
"Aw." Marek's fingers brush back hair from Tyler's forehead. "Should I get dressed?"
The physiologically-motivated answer to that is an empathic no and Tyler has to correct the movement of his head to nod vigorously. Marek leans into him, a press of his body against Tyler's.
Marek's gaze snaps down. Tyler's reaction is too slow when he covers the front of his jeans with a hand, ashen-faced.
"You liked it," Marek accuses. He grins. "Didn't you?"
"No," Tyler mutters. The tips of his ears burn, concealed by his hair.
"Yeah. Okay, baby," Marek says, and it could sound condescending coming from anyone else. But from him there's an affectionate underscoring that makes Tyler's chest ache.
And well, yeah, he liked it. He liked watching his mostly-naked boyfriend saunter around a gas station and fuck with a hapless clerk. The same way that he likes the idea of being caught, cuffed and thrown into the back of a cop car with Marek, the possibility of landing in a tangle of legs and torsos without the use of hands to righten themselves. Lots to like.
Tyler shoves him aside. Marek laughs, staggering back. "Just get dressed, asshole. We need to make like a tree."
"Make like a tree?" Marek repeats incredulously, struggling to get the foot with a sock still on it in a jean leg. He grunts, forces it through.
"It's a saying."
"No, it's not."
"Make like a tree and branch?"
Marek snorts. "Do you mean make like a banana and split?"
His shirt is back on and it's such a fucking shame.
"Whatever!" Tyler opens the driver side door and slaps the roof emphatically with a flat palm. "We've got the food. C'mon, get in, let's go."
Marek slides into the seat and immediately unwraps a hotdog. He shoves it in his mouth. "It's cold," he groans. He casts a sidelong look over at Tyler, grinning. "Don't eat all the food this time. I don't want to do that again."
"I don't want to watch you pretend to take a dump again," Tyler mutters, starting the car. "Moron."