Thought the first; they’re lost.

Thought the second; the van smells hot.

Thought the third; can things smell hot?

Mike lays on his back, staring at the ceiling, as they crawl slowly down the dark road, Joe peering out of the windows to see if there are any sign posts whilst Dave sits beside him with an A to Z under his nose barking directions that Joe doesn’t follow.

Chester sits beside him holding a lighter under a bottle cap, cooking smack. When the van hits a pot hole Chester snaps his head up and glares at Joe in the rear view mirror. “Drive like a normal person, you fucking idiot.” Joe meets his eyes and bares his teeth, goes to say something but Dave’s hand on his thigh shuts him up.

From where he lies, Mike tilts his head to watch Brad press a cotton ball into the bottle cap, leaving it until it has absorbed all of the drug. He digs around in his bag for a syringe, tearing open the packet with his teeth. Mike loves watching them shoot up, the way their emotions change the second the needle punctures the vein.

He sits up and watches Brad’s eyes flutter closed as Chester finds a good vein, pushes the needle into it. The minute the syringe is empty Mike snatches it from Chester’s hand and draws from the cotton wool, clumsily rolling up Chester’s shirt sleeve. By now Chester’s veins have mostly collapsed, but eventually Mike manages to find a soft one and kisses him roughly as the needle goes in.

Brad slumps back and rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he mutters, crawling into his bunk, “fuck you guys.”

Chester kisses Mike desperately, clinging to him as the drug takes hold. This is always way more intimate just after Chester shoots up, neither of them are sure why. After a moment Chester pulls away and smiles, digs his wallet out of his pocket. “I have a present for you.”

Acid. A little tab of acid. Mike sticks out his tongue and Chester puts it on the tip gently, grins when Mike closes his mouth. The pair of them squash into Chester’s bunk and fuck until they’re both sweaty and exhausted and by the time they’ve both come the van has stopped.

Chester pokes his head out into the aisle. “What’s going on, fuckheads?”

They’ve broken down, Joe says. No, Dave says, they’re out of gas. They want to know, who volunteers to hike to the gas station and get some?

Mike squeezes his eyes closed and watches the colours dance behind his eye lids. There’s a noise, somewhere. It’s coming from his hand. He tries to bring it up to his face but it’s as heavy as concrete and, besides, he couldn’t open his eyes if he wanted to – someone glued them closed.

Someone touches his face and Mike opens his eyes, stares up at Chester’s blank face. “We have to go get gas,” he mutters.

And Mike smiles lazily. “Okay,” he says.

***

The walk to the gas station is done mostly in silence, their hands laced together as they walk side by side. There’s no other traffic around. Why would there be? It’s three in the morning in the middle of nowhere. For all they know there might not be a gas station for miles, but they keep walking anyway.

“Brad is an asshole,” Chester says, out of the blue.

Mike stops walking, startled, suddenly, by the wind rustling the dry grass at the side of the road. It sounds like whispering, hushed voices late at night somewhere in the back of the van. One of the voices whispers don’t tell Mike and the other says you’re an asshole.

An insect chirps and it sounds like someone creeping towards his bunk, a tab of acid in hand.

And Chester is saying, Brad is an asshole.

“Why?” Mike asks.

“What?”

“Why is Brad an asshole?”

Chester turns to look at him, confused. His eyebrows knit together and he gets a tiny line in between them that Mike wants to lick, kiss, run his fingers over until it smooths away.

“Who said he was an asshole?”

Mike looks at the grass. “I don’t remember. I...I feel like my...what acid did you give me?”

Chester smiles, and it might not be sinister but Mike isn’t sure. “Come on,” Chester says, stepping toward him and taking his hand, “we have a way to go.”

Yes, Mike thinks, he’s right. We have a long way to walk. But he also wonders when the fuck Chester grew claws.

***

They see a sign for a gas station with bullet holes in it and they stop to stare at it for a long time. Chester is coming down, and he is impatient, but Mike can’t tear his eyes away from the sign. Someone slowed their card down enough to take aim and pull the trigger. Or maybe they were on foot. Maybe they’re in the grass, whispering stories of infidelity and he knows, then, that he can’t trust Chester.

He bends down and picks up a rock, weighing it in his hand.

“C’mon, Mike, let’s fucking go.”

“No,” Mike says, gritting his teeth. “Did you fuck Brad?”

Chester doesn’t say anything but his face turns to stone. “Maybe we should just head back, call triple A in the morning,” he suggests eventually and turns away to walk back the way they came.

“I know, I know, I know...” Mike says to the rock in his hand. “I know you did. So don’t lie to me. I heard everything.”

Chester has his wallet in his hand, pulls out another tab of acid and presses it to his tongue, grabs Mike by the hair and kisses him deeply, the tab melting in their mouths. But it hurts. Because, shit, maybe Mike loved him.

He raises the rock and brings it down on the back of Chester’s head, knocking him to the ground. He smashes the rock into his mouth, his nose, caves his cheek bones in. Doesn’t stop until his arm aches and all that is left of Chester’s face is a bloody pulp and his leg stops twitching.

There’s blood on his shirt.

He drops the rock and pulls off his shirt, the night wind cool on his skin, and starts the long walk back to the van.