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Minho spots him while he's pumping gas at the edge of the city. He's got his hoodie pulled up against the misty rain, but even with it Minho can see his soft face, his round cheeks. He looks young. Probably a student. Probably has a lot of friends, attentive parents. He's probably looking for a ride to the airport.
It's probably a terrible idea to pick him up.
Minho goes inside the little station when his tank is full to get his change. He wanders the aisles and picks up a few snacks and a couple of drinks, grabs a cheap lighter from the rack. Can never have too many.
When he steps out the guy is still there, thumb out to the passing cars. A truck goes by, half blinding the kid with its lights in his face, and Minho stops at his door. He's pretty, the kid. Just Minho's type. It would be so stupid to pick him up here.
Minho gets in and puts his bag on the floor, starts the engine. He can give the kid a ride to the airport.
He pulls up in front of the guy, who looks small despite the bulk of his hoodie. Like a wet rat, or squirrel. Some kind of rodent. He looks easy. Minho's hands tighten around the steering wheel. "Need a ride?"
"Really?" The worried little pout blooms into a wide smile. "Holy shit, thank you." He scrambles in, tucking a backpack on his lap as he shuts the door. "Everyone just kept passing me by. I didn't think I was that scary. Am I scary?"
Minho looks him over. He's not short but he's thin, shivering a little in his wet clothes. His toes tuck toward each other.
"No," Minho says. "Am I?"
There's evidence buried all through the country that says no. No thinking twice about climbing in with him in the middle of nowhere. No warning bells until Minho's about to snuff them out.
Minho almost wants this one to say yes. Why not? He's not keeping him. He's not going to learn the taste of his blood or the pitch of his screams.
The guy only takes a second to consider him. "Nah."
Minho smiles. "Good." He puts the car in drive and merges back onto the highway.
"To the airport?" Minho asks, switching lanes to pass a truck in front of them. It's only about eight miles out, not far unless you have to walk it. He's already getting over to the right side for the exit when he hears the little "No."
Minho looks over at him. Backpack, no suitcase. It's a nice bag, full enough to hold a couple days' worth of clothes. "Where to, then?" There's a bus station around here somewhere.
The kid's got his head down, picking at a patch on his bag. "Where are you going?"
Someone plucks the piano string that runs down Minho's spine, a single ominous note. "West," he says, harmonizing with the hum inside him.
The kid can't hear it. He turns to Minho, dark eyes hopeful. "Can I come with you?"
Minho swallows. "You got somewhere you're going?"
"Not really."
Minho's heart beats a little faster. Maybe he will keep him. "What's your name?"
Traffic thins as they make their way away from the city, the suburbs, the connecting highways. A little longer and they'll be on the outskirts of civilization proper.
"You're a student, right?" Jisung has that look. Soft, sheltered, studious. "Not going home for the summer?"
Jisung shrugs. The patch he's picking at is curling up at the corner. "Not much home to go to," he says. Minho makes a sympathetic noise. "My mom died last year."
"I'm sorry," Minho says.
"Thanks." There's a little smile from Jisung. "But now it's just my stepdad and my dog. I miss my dog, but not enough to stay with him. So I told him I was staying on campus."
No friends to stay with? Minho swallows back. He'll have time. "I miss my cats," he says instead.
Jisung perks up at that. "You have cats?"
"Two of them." He pulls the photo from his visor and hands it over. "They live with my grandma."
"Aw," Jisung says, appropriately charmed by Minho's little monsters. "Where's she?"
"Out west."
"Is that where you're going?"
"Yeah," Minho says, mostly the truth. He'll get there eventually. See her and the cats and pick up some cash for when he heads back out. He points to the picture. "Soonie's on the left there, and Doongie on the right."
"Soonie, Doongie," Jisung repeats to himself. He's holding the photo by the edges, careful not to smudge it with fingerprints. "Oh. Soft and gentle?"
"That's right," Minho says, a little blossom of warmth in his chest.
"They're so cute. I bet they miss you." Jisung looks once more at their faces and passes the photo back. "I don't have a picture of my dog."
"What's his name?" Minho asks as he tucks it back into place.
"Bbama. He's just a tiny white fluffball." Jisung smiles, but it's sad. "He's almost nine. I hope Ron takes care of him."
If Jisung's got ID on him, it wouldn't be so hard to check. Give it a month or two, drive by the house. "I'm sure he will," Minho says. Someone will.
"Thanks," Jisung says. He goes quiet for a minute. "You know, I saw this video of a trucker who kept cats."
"Oh yeah?" Minho says, switching lanes to keep them going vaguely southwest.
"Mmhmm." Jisung pushes his backpack down to the ground between his feet. "I think he had three of them? And they would climb all over and sit in the seat next to him." There's an excitement to his voice that makes Minho wish they could have it on a screen right now, to see the way Jisung must light up when he watches. "If you drove a truck you could keep your cats with you."
Minho doesn't mind the sound of that, if he needs to start making money out here. "But then where would you sit?"
"Right here," Jisung grins, patting his thighs, "and they could sit on top of me."
Minho can picture it. Doongie curled in his lap, Soonie stretched on his back legs to watch out the window. "I think they'd like that."
Usually the boys he picks up like to fiddle with his radio, ask if he has any CDs. Jisung keeps his hands in his lap, tucked into his hoodie. Minho turns the heat up a notch. The rain keeps coming.
He thinks Jisung's close to dozing when he hears the growl of his stomach.
"Sorry," Jisung says, crossing his arms over himself as though that will make it go away.
Minho reaches into the backseat for his plastic bag from the gas station. "I picked stuff up when I stopped," he says. "Help yourself."
"Really?" Jisung looks ready to swallow the bag whole. "Oh my god, thank you."
"You're welcome," Minho says easily. He doesn't want to stop again until they get where they're going.
Jisung rummages through, weighing the granola bars and trail mix before settling on the tube of Pringles. "You're not in school, are you," he says as works off the seal. "So what do you do?" He swivels around, as though the answer's going to be in the backseat.
It's not. It's in the trunk.
"Just this," Minho says. Maybe something else, one day. When they stop climbing in before they know his name.
"Mm." Jisung sits back in his seat, eating the crisps three bites at a time. "This is nice."
"Yeah." It is nice. He holds out his hand and Jisung places a stack of chips on it.
"Have you driven through all the states?"
"Most of them." He hasn't been keeping track but yeah, if he can drive to them he probably has.
"That's cool," Jisung says. "I've only been to four. At least that I remember."
"We can make it five tonight," Minho says, turning to smile at him. "I think you'll remember."
Jisung returns the smile, like it's their little secret, this anonymous road trip. Is this his plan? Hitch his rides here and there, make his way home by September? "Which one's your favorite?"
"Hm." Minho looks back to the road. His favorite. Does he have a favorite? "North Carolina's pretty," he says after a moment. There's a body buried deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains that still sings out to him when he drives the parkway.
"Yeah? I've never been."
"Mhmm." He looks over at Jisung. Pretty brown eyes. So pretty. The boy had been pretty too. Jisung would make good company. "Maybe I'll take you."
Jisung smiles. "I'd like that."
The steady drum of his wipers on the windshield usually puts Minho in a meditative state, mind flowing back to the faces that have ducked to his window, the same faces red and wet just hours later. Tonight it's the soundtrack to Jisung's sleep, one heavy breath for every set of swipes. Minho angles his rear view mirror to reflect his face, chin against his shoulder with his neck at an awkward angle, mouth half-open. Soft. So pretty. Even prettier when he cries, probably. Those eyes so big and his lashes clumped with tears.
Minho tries to do the math. How many days until someone reports him missing, until the gas station deletes their security footage. How much battery left on Jisung's phone. How long could he keep him alive.
The flash of copper on his tongue is enough to jolt him awake. He's good for a few more hours.
It's nearing midnight when the pull on his eyelids starts. He turns on the radio, volume low, and scans the channels. There's only two that come in clear, playing old country songs, and a staticky third broadcasting a recorded sermon. His own phone's in two pieces under his seat, but even if he slid the battery in there'd be no signal to pick up. This'll do.
"Jisung," he says softly, a touch to his arm. "I'm going to stop for the night."
He turns into a motel parking lot. Single floor, outside access. Two cars in front and one parked behind, the rooms facing a dumpster and an overgrown, empty plot of land. He backs into a spot. "Wait here," he tells Jisung. Jisung barely stirs.
The night clerk is an older guy reading a newspaper. On the filing cabinet behind him is a screen with a grainy shot of Minho in his baseball cap, next to a sign that reads Smile! You're On Camera. As far as Minho can tell, it's the only one.
"Double room," he says, "out back if you've got one."
The guest log is hand-written, though there's no use in a fake name with his credit card on file.
"You need two keys?" the clerk asks, pulling a set off a hook behind him. His voice rasps. Minho shakes his head. One is all they'll need.
"I got a double room," he tells Jisung, "but you can get your own if you want."
"I don't really have any money," Jisung admits, slinging his backpack over his shoulders.
Minho pauses with the key in hand to give him a proper look, out of the rain and under the lights. Jeans, hoodie, Vans. Like he walked out of class and straight to the gas station. "What were you going to do?"
Jisung shakes his head. "I don't know."
There's something shrunken about him, even though he's almost Minho's height. He unlocks the door. "Come on."
"I'll be out in a few minutes," Minho says. Jisung nods, but by the time Minho has washed up and changed his clothes, Jisung's already tucked into bed and out like a light.
Minho slides into the other, fingers curled around his knife under the pillow while he watches Jisung's sleeping face. Soft. Pretty. On the road with no money, no destination, no contact. Falling asleep across from a stranger. He hasn't known Minho five hours and he'd let him take him anywhere.
He wakes to the sound of Jisung shuffling out of bed. He keeps his eyes mostly closed, watching through his lashes as Jisung pulls a toothbrush from his bag, a change of clothes. Something falls to the ground with a soft thump and he freezes, glances guiltily at Minho. Minho doesn't stir, and Jisung picks up a razor from the floor. He zips up his bag but leaves it at the foot of his bed and closes himself in the bathroom. He doesn't lock it.
Minho waits until the shower starts. He should have fifteen minutes. He goes to Jisung's bag first and pulls a phone from the front pocket. Two outgoing calls three days ago, and nothing since. A few sporadic text threads with friends. The top one tells him to have a good summer, the next one down asks him to come have a beer before he heads home. Jisung said he'd try to make it.
Minho hopes he did.
There's a little X where the service bars should be. Minho pops the battery out and puts the phone back where he found it, then pushes the bag under the bed.
He unplugs the room phone and puts it in the bottom drawer of the musty dresser. Adds in the clock radio, TV remote, pen and notepad, a chipped glass ashtray. The single desk chair he pulls over to the door and wedges it beneath the handle. The shower turns off.
Minho takes a breath and looks over the room. Nothing that will pose a threat. He smooths the covers of Jisung's bed back into place, and then his, before he pulls out his own bag. Tucks his switchblade and his new lighter in his pocket and sets out duct tape and zip ties on the bed.
Jisung makes it about four steps out of the bathroom before he stops. The wedged door's right in front of him, then the barren desk, the neatly made beds. Minho.
He's sitting back against the headboard, one foot on the ground. The knife's in his right hand, resting on his thigh. "Am I scary?"
Jisung looks from his face to the knife and back again. "Are you going to kill me?"
Yes. Yes yes yes. "Come here."
Jisung comes, one foot after another like he's being dragged by a thin, persistent thread, until he's standing just at Minho's side.
"Don't yell," Minho says. Jisung shakes his head.
He loves it when they yell, when they scream and howl and cry until they can't anymore, until they're raw and croaking. Not here, though. There's eyes and ears just down the hall.
"Turn around," he says, and Jisung does, hands behind him without being told.
Minho uses a zip tie first, pulling Jisung's wrists to a centimeter apart. Jisung flinches when he tears into the duct tape, fingers curling as Minho wraps it three times over the plastic tie before layering it halfway up his forearms and back down. Jisung doesn't even try to pull.
He slices the roll away, sets it aside and rubs over the edges, making sure they lay flat. "Look at me."
Jisung turns, but before Minho can get a look at him he's sinking to the ground, head on the mattress by Minho's knee as his breaths come fast and harsh.
Minho takes hold of his hair and turns his head so he can see his face. His chest is heaving, hot breaths hitting Minho's leg. "Jisung," he says, brushing his bangs from his eyes. "Look at me."
Jisung looks up at him as best he can with his cheek pressed to the bed. "Tell me," he wheezes, "tell me what…"
"I have the room for two nights," Minho says, still brushing his bangs back. "We have all day."
Jisung nods, rubbing his face against the bedspread. His frantic breaths start to slow, chest rising and falling at a normal rate.
"Stand up."
Jisung blinks and lifts his head from the bed. He gets one leg under him, pushing himself to his feet with only a little stumble. Minho catches him by the hips. "Good boy," he says. Jisung closes his eyes.
Minho drags his hands along the hem of Jisung's t-shirt, pulling it away from his body and doubling it up in his fist. He slides his knife into the fold, ready to tear his way to Jisung.
"I like this shirt," Jisung says, small and sad, and Minho stops.
He sits back enough to look at it. It's white with some kind of design, maybe the logo of a band he doesn't recognize. "You don't like this body?"
Jisung shrugs and looks down at himself. Minho looks too, the tip of his knife resting on Jisung's belly. His toes are turned in again. It's the only skin Minho can see.
He lets go of the shirt, crumpled but intact. He can leave it for now.
He reaches under the hem to Jisung's jeans instead.
There's no protest as he undoes the button and zipper, barely necessary with the way they hang off Jisung's hips. Minho pulls them down, exposing Jisung's briefs and thighs, and stops again. There in front of him are twin fields of old lines, stacked over and over each other.
He looks up at Jisung.
"I'm sorry," Jisung says.
Minho's throat clicks. "Why?"
"I don't know."
Minho looks at them again. They run at different lengths, shades of pink to stark white, all across the fronts, stopping just where his thighs touch. "Are they anywhere else?" Not on his wrists. Minho would have seen. He got a real close look and feel.
Jisung shakes his head. "On my arm once, but my mom saw." Jisung pauses. "I told her a cat scratched me." There's a lilt to his words, a curl to the corner of his mouth that Minho can't help but mirror.
He rests his hand on Jisung's thigh, runs his thumb over the textured skin, and Jisung inhales softly. "Can you feel this?"
"Yes."
"How does it feel?"
"Good," Jisung sighs. "It's nice."
"Nice?" Jisung nods. Minho bends his thumb to rake his nail along the thickest section. Jisung shivers. "That too?"
"Yeah. It's. The nerves are all. It's like sparks."
He does it again with the blade, dragging it flat across the terrain, and Jisung lets out a sound, knees wobbling.
"Get on the bed," Minho says, and Jisung nearly falls forward, scrambling to kick out of his jeans and crawl on his knees. He's barely to the center before Minho's pushing him down, turning him on his back. He knocks Jisung's legs apart and plants a knee on each of his thighs, holding him open and ripping a pained cry from his mouth.
He barely has to touch the knife to Jisung's skin to feel it split and watch it bloom red. "Nice?" he says, and Jisung whines.
He slaps the flat of the blade down on Jisung's thigh.
"Yes," Jisung chokes out, trying to twist his hips.
Minho lines up his knife with the highest scar and drags it down, letting it catch and pull and cut as it rakes the ridged skin, Jisung's hips bucking and his head tossing as bright new lines appear. "Did it feel nice when you did these?"
"Yes."
Minho digs the tip into an empty patch on Jisung's thigh. "How nice?"
"Not- not-" Jisung's leg vibrates under him. He lifts his head to see the knife inside him. "Oh my god."
Minho smiles. "Not this nice?" Jisung nods and his head falls back to the bed, eyes squeezed shut. "Why?" He wiggles the knife and Jisung keens. "Because it's me?"
"You." Jisung looks at him. "You, it's you, please."
Minho drops forward, inches away, puts his weight behind his hand over Jisung's mouth.
"I could do it like this," he says, cutting into the meat of Jisung's other thigh. "Your femoral artery. Keep going and going until I hit it and let you bleed out."
There's tears in Jisung's eyes as he struggles to breathe, to nod. "Hnnn," he says, the sound that always means please.
"That's how you want it?" Minho pushes his hand higher, blocks the air to Jisung's nose.
He doesn't let them pick. He doesn't let them do anything but try to scream and cry as he carves and burns at them.
"Mmm," Jisung says, chest hiccuping now, tears streaming from his eyes.
Minho slides the blade higher, resting at the edge of Jisung's briefs. "I'll make you like it, Jisungie," he says, scraping the blade along the line of his cock.
Jisung's eyes roll back as he comes, body bowing up as much as it can under Minho's weight. He doesn't make a sound, suspended in air. His eyelids slip shut as he sinks back to the bed.
Minho counts one, two, three, before he pulls his hand away. Jisung's head lists to the side. There's a moment of nothing, not a single movement in the room, and then Jisung's chest swells with a little breath.
Minho watches as the next one comes, and then another, raspy but even. He wants to burn Jisung's fingertips, tear out his nails. He wants to strip him naked and lick him clean.
He pushes Jisung's hair from his sweaty forehead. "Jisung," he says. "Jisung. Where were you going?"
A few more breaths pass before the answer comes. "Nowhere," Jisung whispers hoarsely. "Anywhere."
He doesn't say anything else, doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes. His legs are still bleeding, dark trickles to the ugly comforter. They'll stop soon enough if Minho lets them.
Finally he sits back. He wipes his knife on his sweatpants, rolls Jisung over to his side. Jisung buries a little noise in the mattress but he stays limp as Minho moves him around.
The duct tape is thick, sticky, hard to cut through. Minho manages after a few tries, avoiding any nicks as he cuts it away. The zip tie is easier.
"Jisung," he says. He tucks a hand under Jisung's head to help him to a sitting position. "Come on, get up."
There's a wet streak by Jisung's mouth, like he was drooling where he lay, but his eyes are open and he only sways a little as Minho gets him upright. "Can you feel your hands?"
Jisung looks at them, opening and closing his fists and touching his fingertips together. There's deep lines at the backs of his wrists and red imprints from the tape, but no broken skin. Bruises are all he'll have. "This one's pins and needles," he roughs out, holding his left hand high.
Minho smiles. "That'll pass," he says. "Come on."
He takes Jisung's other hand and helps him scoot off the bed, catching him when his balance falters. "To the bathroom," he says, holding Jisung's arm. "You've got this."
He starts the shower nice and warm, letting the room fill with steam. "Raise your hands," he tells Jisung, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. There's a spot of blood on one side, but they should be able to get that out.
The briefs are a waste. "I hope you didn't like these," he says as he eases them down Jisung's legs. They're wet with come and stained with blood, the elastic sliced through.
"They're my lucky underwear." The words are flat, but when Minho looks up Jisung's almost smiling. Minho wants to kiss it and make it real.
He's still in his own sleepwear, dark t-shirt and sweatpants. He strips them off before stepping into the tub, checking the temperature before helping Jisung in. Jisung still sucks in a breath when the spray hits him, the water beneath them swirling red.
"I'll wash you up," he tells Jisung, soaping a wash cloth. "Hold my shoulders if you need to."
He half expected Jisung's shirt to be hiding something. Scars, tattoos, who knows what. But his torso's unmarked, only soft and slim.
He's gentle with Jisung's legs. Soaps them well with the lightest touch he can manage. Jisung still hisses, squeezes his shoulders tight at the sting. A few of the cuts that had started to close open up again, and for a minute they're standing in another pink puddle.
Jisung sticks his face under the spray, emerges flushed and alive.
He sits Jisung on the toilet, legs spread wide with Minho between them, his first aid kit open on the floor. Jisung grips the lid, watching Minho's fingers as he dabs a line of antibacterial ointment along each of the fresh cuts. He gasps a little as Minho finds the most painful spots, thighs tensing, but he doesn't move.
None of his bandages are long enough, but he has a few rolls of gauze. He opens one and wraps it around and around Jisung's thigh, securing it with a butterfly clip.
"What am I going to do with you," he says, looking up at Jisung as he opens the second roll.
Jisung just shrugs. "What do you want to do with me?"
He wants to fit his knife between each one of Jisung's ribs. Wants to cook him the perfect steak and watch him savor every bite. Wants to brand his name in his skin. Wants to introduce him to his grandmother.
Minho pushes up higher on his knees, nearly face to face with his hands on Jisung's thighs. Jisung blinks, and Minho kisses him. Once, twice, and then a scrape of his teeth against Jisung's lip. "Come with me."
Jisung looks dazed, sparkles in his eyes as Minho pulls back. "To meet your cats?"
Minho smiles. "Yeah."
"You're expensive," Minho says as he passes over Jisung's food. He wanted two breakfast sandwiches and an order of hash browns, so that's what Minho got him.
"You adopted me," Jisung says. His legs bounce as he tears into the first sandwich. "Now you have to feed me."
"Don't get too comfortable," Minho tells him, sipping at his coffee. "I'll probably kill you at the next stop."
Jisung's eyes are wide and worried for all of a second before he swallows and breaks into an easy grin. "No you won't."
"Put you in a bag and throw you in the river."
"No you won't," Jisung whines, and Minho laughs.
"How do you know?"
Jisung licks a line of grease from his hand. "You like me."
There's a tremor in Minho's chest, a tightness in his throat. An urge to take Jisung's hand and not let go. He smiles back, softer than he intended. "We'll see."