Re: Exterior: a rest stop, desert.
They made a sharp contrast in that way. With nothing more than a flick blade and a smart mouth to his name, the only thing that'd ever kept the boy feeling safe was the assurance of his own sovereignty. He felt a little niggle in the back of his head, like maybe he belonged to someone once, in another life, but here in the valley of death and desert he'd always been alone.
And safety was relative, he knew that well enough when he was hitching rides in the cabs of long-haul truckers or hopping trains, sleeping with his head pillowed on his balled-up jacket, suede worn and bare against his cheek. But he could be borrowed, for a price that had nothing to do with dollar amounts in his pocket. For drinking in the touch of hands that desired, drowning in it until his fears were perfume on the wind.
The gaunt hand on the jutting blade of his hipbone, tucking fingers under the waist of his jeans where there were inches to spare, surely that was enough to drag him under. The boy didn't just let himself be pulled in but also pushed, turning his side to press against the booth's seat so that his hips were angled where the man demanded. He couldn't help the sound he made, a wistful breath of a whimper that was lost in the kiss, losing himself in the novelty of the contact and also the throb he felt between his legs.
When the man started to wield him up and out of the booth, something happened. There was a tightness that appeared in the muscles of his shoulders, drawing them up a little towards his ears and making him break from the crush of their mouths. That thing in the back of his head that said maybe he shouldn't, there was a reason, but it kept slipping away like a slick bar of soap in his wet hands.
He stayed like that for a beat, lips parted and a little swollen, but the starved weight of the man's gaze drew him back down, under, pliant to the hook of a hand in his belt loop. Sounding short of breath, he jerked his chin towards the back of the diner. "Bathroom."